Runnin' and Gunnin' the Texas Coast Baitfish Migration
Sharks, skipjack, spills, and thrills on South Padre Island
By Ben Christensen, Old Republic Journal
You may have been expecting a “fishing high flows in the Texas Hill Country” sort of dispatch this morning, but I’m unpredictable, even to myself. I got to Old Republic Ranch about 10:30 pm Tuesday night and fished the baitfish migration off the beach north of South Padre Island Wednesday morning.
Hill Country rivers can be fished right now, even if they’re a little blown out. But this baitfish migration has been calling my name in the worst way. I haven’t fished a summer migration since I was a poor conventional sap with a spinning rod. Because I’ve been fly fishing fresh- and saltwater for years, I figured it was about time for some beach run-and-gun. Therefore, I write this in my ranch house from the long, narrow table I threw together before the clients arrived for a group dove hunt one year.
As I write this, I am listening to Charley Crockett, my favorite still-living cowboy singer. Crockett is from San Benito/Los Fresnos. I thought it was novel this evening as I drove to Bass Pro Shops in Harlingen and realized as I was passing through San Benito on my shortcut there that I was listening to Crockett on Apple Music, recalling his San Benito ties. (If you haven’t checked out Crockett’s music yet, you’re missing out).
I’d be lying if I said I hated going to Bass Pro. The Harlingen “fly shop” section is derelict and sad, certainly. If you are a fly angler, you must patronize only local fly shops. Thing is, there is not a fly shop that serves the lower Laguna Madre. Bass Pro in Harlingen is all we have. But they have the saltwater fly selection I require.
When I got back from picking up my flies—2/0 J-Rea’s Cuda Killers in chartreuse, 2/0 Ehlers’ Bottle Rockets in white and copper, and 4/0 Bunker Bait in olive/white and chartreuse—I drove through the pasture on a whim and jumped a nilgai cow, unmistakably huge and red compared to a white-tailed doe. My rifle was in a case on the backseat of the truck, and I stopped the truck, put it in park, unzipped the case, pulled the rifle out and charged a round into the chamber. Although this felt like an eternity, as I turned around, she was only then slipping into the thorn scrub about 40 yards away. I drove around helplessly trying to bring her up again, but I imagine she bedded down as survival demanded. It would have been fantastic to harvest some nilgai meat on this trip. I may get some yet.
Old Republic Ranch Wednesday evening. Photo by Ben Christensen
The shark cruised by to look at me about five minutes after I fell off my inflatable kayak into the cool, sandy green Gulf waters. It was about five or six feet long. The thing about sharks is you always know you’re looking at a shark, even when it’s just a dark mass moving through the water. Sharks know when they’re looking at losers—and losers like me can feel that cold side-eye even from 10 or so yards away.
But instead of feeling like I was in a bad neighborhood, it was like seeing a cardinal when you’re out deer hunting. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but cardinals and deer are never far apart. And sharks and other more fly-friendly pelagic apex predators hang together.
I was right past the “UFO” (an old oil platform lifeboat) that marks the nude beach, a few miles north of Cameron County Beach Access #6. Four-wheel-drive is mandatory for the sugar sand beach driving, so I am thankful for the War Elephant, my 2014 Ram 2500 heavy-duty diesel four-wheel-drive pickup. I am also thankful there were no nude sunbathers out. They are invariably unappealing in their leather skin, and they look like they’re wearing white swimwear—until you realize they’re not. The effect, frankly, is more shocking than watching a large-ish shark cruise by your inflatable kayak 150 yards from the beach.
But I digress. Before I saw the blacktip shark, I was standing on my inflatable kayak. It is not a cheap yellow inflatable, but one of those high-end jobs with the same material fly fishing rafts are made of. I was filming the beach, the color changes, grabbed a quick selfie as the video on my iPhone rolled, and then a wave tumped me into the drink. I managed to maintain grip on my iPhone and my fly rod—a TFO Mangrove 8-weight—and climbed back into the kayak as the phone kept recording video. It was great. I laughed and shut off the recording, and promptly put the wipe-out on Instagram this afternoon. If you don’t follow me on IG @pearlsnapflyfishing, you can follow me if you like and watch the video on my Story. Total fail.
A still from my submerged fly reel and rod, complete with bubbles. Photo by Ben Christensen
I caught two remarkably similar skipjack—about 18 inches—on a 2/0 epoxy-head rain minnow with a blue tinsel tail and a greenish head.
I caught one out past the third sandbar and one up in the surf very close to the beach. Catching skipjack on a fly rod reminds me of that crass joke where the punch line is about riding a moped. Ridiculous but fun. Skipjack are a heck of a lot of fun. Sure, I wanted schoolie tarpon or a fat bull redfish. But I didn’t get skunked. And I have more flies for tomorrow’s dawn attack.
We’ll see y’all out there. -Ben
