Sunday, April 29, 2001

Allyns Bight a windless respite

ROCKPORT - Locate the word Allyns near Bight on a Coastal Bend fishing map and you're halfway to wind-protected and productive springtime waters.
   This is not a guarantee, but rather valuable insight during a hard southeast or east-southeast breeze, which should prevail for the next several weeks.
   It's unclear as to why this particular bight - which is a curve in a river or coastline, or a bay formed by that curve - carries the name Allyn. But I do know Samuel B. Allyn was a ship captain from Boston, who was half owner of San Jose Island with Tobias J. Wood, sometime around the turn of the century. Allyn sold his half in 1912, according to local historians. Perhaps the Allyn family cabin was located near this stretch of shoreline.
   But my hunch is that you all aren't nearly as interested in the history angle of Allyns Bight as the angling histrionics.
   The day's drama began unexpectedly as Don Schultz idled between a group of tiny islands on the backside of San Jose Island. Five feeding whooping cranes ambled undisturbed by our presence.
   The cluster of small islands at the opening of Allyns Bight loosely forms its western border. It runs as far south as the ranch house of Perry Bass, the island's current owner.
   Rockport's only husband-and-wife fishing guides had been among the anglers finding refuge from April winds in Allyns Bight. On a map, the spot is virtually a straight shot across Aransas Bay from Cove Harbor Marina. But depending on the kind of boat you run, this route can be dangerous and uncomfortable in choppy conditions. The easiest alternative route is from Port Aransas, north through the Lydia Ann Channel and along Mud Island.
   We didn't take that course. Don Schultz followed a path I'd have trouble retracing alone. From Cove Harbor, he skirted Talley Island (around the voluntary no-prop zone) into Estes Flats. Then he used Traylor Island as a windbreak, eventually exiting Redfish Bay into Aransas Bay through Morris and Cummings Cut near California Hole.
   Then we followed the southern shoreline of Mud Island eastward toward San Jose Island, motored through Blind Pass near the ranch house and on to Allyns Bight.
   It's about a 20- 30-minute commute, which deposited us in calm, clear, baitfish-filled waters.
   Finding the right spot
   Our plan was to pit three angling methods against each other: live shrimp, topwater plugs and soft plastics. But during our first wade, none of us could decide who should use which method first.
   So we each walked topwater plugs on the slightly rippled surface. Blowups were frequent, but not enthusiastic, in contrast to recent reports.
   The cove that makes up the middle of Allyns Bight features a bottom scattered with shell, a little too deep for most waders, but great for drifting.
   We wanted to wade though, so we stuck to into Estes Flats. Then he used Traylor Island as a windbreak, eventually exiting Redfish Bay into Aransas Bay through Morris and Cummings Cut near California Hole.
   Then we followed the southern shoreline of Mud Island eastward toward San Jose Island, motored through Blind Pass near the ranch house and on to Allyns Bight.
   It's about a 20- 30-minute commute, which deposited us in calm, clear, baitfish-filled waters.
   Finding the right spot
   Our plan was to pit three angling methods against each other: live shrimp, topwater plugs and soft plastics. But during our first wade, none of us could decide who should use which method first.
   So we each walked topwater plugs on the slightly rippled surface. Blowups were frequent, but not enthusiastic, in contrast to recent reports.
   The cove that makes up the middle of Allyns Bight features a bottom scattered with shell, a little too deep for most waders, but great for drifting.
   We wanted to wade though, so we stuck to shorelines. We also wanted to cover a lot of water. So we left in search of fishier waters within Allyns Bight.
   A short ride from the San Jose shore brought us to waters filled with surface slicks, which we hoped were the result of feeding trout. In my ignorance, I used to refer to these shiny spots as trout slicks until I encountered a school of gafftop under one. Since then, I've discovered that redfish, or even a baited crab trap, also can create these floating oily patches.
   Anyway, numerous slicks near small islands, sandbars and oyster reefs greeted us. Again, we stepped into water that was thigh- to waist-deep.
   A fishier reef
   But this time, I had at the end of my line a plum Bass Assassin with a white tail. They don't come that way. Someone - named Allen, ironically - had dipped the tail in white dye for extra flash.
   Don stayed with a Producer topwater plug because he'd found some success with it earlier. Petra had switched to live shrimp under an Alameda Rattling Float. She was the last one out of the boat and the first to catch a fish, and another and another.
   Before I felt my first bump, she had strung three trout in the two- to three-pound range, which we intended to have for lunch at Kline's Cafe. Don plugged away, a reluctant witness to his wife's angling prowess.
   I was too far from the boat to switch baits. So I waded past Petra to an exposed oyster reef that looked fishy to me. Guts paralleled both sides of the curved reef. I was throwing against the reef's east bank when my luck changed.
   Most of my fishing partners attempt to guess what's hooked before they know. I'm no different. But at the same time, my mind's eye pictures a well-hooked trout, even when it's fairly obvious a redfish is on the other end.
   If you don't already know, redfish have more fight than their speckled cousins. As a tradeoff, though, trout put on a better show. And it's no secret that big trout are more coveted by many anglers because of the greater challenge in keeping one hooked on light tackle during an above-water head-shaking tantrum.
   My fish never surfaced. But between hookset and release were 10 minutes of bail-emptying runs and pure 10-pound-test sport. Indeed, it was a redfish that measured about 29 or 30 inches.
   Petra caught at least two trout while I was occupied.
   The best lure
   I continued north to another reef, part of which was barely submerged. Standing atop its crest in ankle-deep water, I tossed that same Bass Assassin into the deepest shell I could reach. Judging by how quickly my jighead snagged on shell, the water depth was a foot or less.
   The irregular bottom and incoming tide produced obvious surface ripples, an ideal combination for predators preying on baitfish caught in the current. I cast toward an airborne mullet and began a rapid bouncing retrieve.
   I felt neither strike nor resistance. In fact, I couldn't feel my lure at all. But I noticed my line drifting, as if with the current.
   I quickly reeled in the slack and set the hook, still unsure whether a fish was there.
   That mystery was solved in spectacular fashion. Don, who was 100 yards away, later told me he could plainly see the splashy air show from where he stood. I'm not sure whether that's a tribute to Don's eyesight or the fish's aerobatics. It was 24 inches long.
   By the time I waded the perimeter of the reef, Petra had added another two-pound trout, a 23-inch redfish and had released a bunch of smaller trout.
   We spent the rest of the morning working the protected waters between Mud Island Point, marked by a shrimp boat wreck, and Long Reef. We, or rather Don, caught fish at each stop, mostly on soft plastics and a few on topwater lures.
   So had we proven anything? You decide.
   Most of you could have predicted that we would catch more fish on live shrimp. And you'd be right. Somewhat of a surprise through, Petra also caught more big fish on live shrimp than did Don and I on lures.
   But there were waters where live shrimp produced no strikes, while soft plastics and topwater plugs did.
   And don't forget the biggest fish were caught on soft plastics.
   Topwater plugs and slow-sinking lures could steal this distinction soon. But by then, croaker will share that spotlight.