DEC 4, 2024 | BY TIM HOMA
What is Discovering New Waters?
Discovering New Waters is a metaphor. It’s about a new approach in familiar territory or gaining insight from a new face. It’s also quite literal–exploring new areas, getting out of your element, and having fun.
Beginning at the end of August, we set out on four trips targeting our favorite species: speckled trout, red drum, and cobia. One trip focused on new tactics in familiar waters, two were in unchartered territory, and another was familiar adjacent. We hope you enjoy!
Episode 1: Cobia
SETTING THE TABLE
Early mornings and fishing are synonymous–unless you’re cobia fishing. A predominantly sight-casting fishery in the Mid-Atlantic, anglers pursuing big browns can rest easy knowing the nightcap glass of bourbon won't seek its revenge when first light creeps over the horizon.
The act of casting to a fish you can see and influencing its instinct to eat is one of the sickest fishing experiences; in my humble opinion, sight casting to a cobia takes the cake. It's the culmination of uncertainty and addiction-breeding dopamine spikes all wrapped up in one moment, but you never know when that moment will show.
To set the stage, the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay is the northernmost migratory point for cobia. Sure, you can find them further north, but most of the biomass occupies the mouth of the bay and the Atlantic Ocean off of Virginia during the summer and early fall. It's a vast playing field. You have to cover water. You have to be ready. It can happen quickly or take hours.
Water temperature, water depth, structure, turtles, rays, and bait pods can all make a difference, or they won’t. No matter how often I go cobia fishing, no day is the same. Every time, the doubt of being able to spot one creeps in, and the anticipation of the fish’s demeanor builds anxiety. The only constant is the shot of adrenaline when the unmistakable sight of a cobia on the surface hits you. Your moment is here. Take the shot.
What happens after the cast is between you and the fish. Did you blow the cast? Did the fish swim right at you? Did you serve the fish its favorite meal? If they want what you served, you’ll know quickly. Watching a cobia react to the action you impart on an artificial lure and then eat is hair-raising.
Towards the end of summer, the cobia prepare for their migration south. During their exit, you have improved odds of running into packs of fish instead of singles, like during the peak of summer. They also tend to stage on structure this time of year. Luckily, at the mouth of the bay sits a 17-mile-long piece of a structure called the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, a proverbial fish magnet. This is where our story takes place.
THE DAY OF DAYS
I left the house with a bucket, a backpack full of artificial lures, a spinning rod, and an enthusiastic yet reserved attitude and entered the car of Lars Blomdahl (@lars_blom10). Lars, a Virginia Beach local, stylish surfer, territory sales rep, and seasoned, humble cobia slayer appeared apprehensive.
“I need to stop and get a couple of eels before we push off,” he said. “I’m really hoping we can net some bunker though.”
Ryan, also in the car, and I acknowledged the plan. We started loading our gear onto the boat when we arrived at the marina while Lars procured our slimy slithering friends.
When it comes to cobia fishing, there are essentials and “would-be-nice-to-haves.” The essentials include a boat, eels, bucktails, polarized sunglasses, and a net. The “would-be-nice-to-haves” are a boat with a tower, a casting net for live bunker or spot, and favor of the fish gods. For most, the essentials are enough to make a memorable day of cobia fishing.
Our cobia chariot for the day was a 1986 19-foot Boston Whaler Outrage, a seaworthy vessel with a penchant for piscatorial pursuit. No tower is needed for this fishy craft; a rope and sturdy cooler do just fine when hunting down cobia on the bridge pilings—or at least that's what my pigeon brain felt at ease with.
Eliminating miles of open water and deciding to stick by the bridge alleviated feelings of uncertainty and fostered unfounded confidence in something I’d never done before, like boldly approaching a charcuterie board for the first time in your 30s just to avoid a conversation at a wedding. Turns out it's just delicious meats and cheeses, but I digress.
We left the dock, staring down a potential four-hour window of fishing time. It was hot. A southerly breeze was forecasted to increase by the hour, and there was a chance of thunderstorms later in the day. The cumulonimbus clouds in the distance looked to make good on the threat—all symptoms of a favorable cobia day.
As we motored down a highly trafficked waterway headed toward the inlet, we observed all of the chaotic behaviors you’d expect to see at the peak of summer: front-loaded pontoon boats struggling against the current, jet skis operating by their own rules, and an assortment of boats, bikinis, tattoos, flags, bronzer, and weathered skin—just another day of people enjoying time on the water. Amidst the epic people-watching, Lars confirmed the cast net was not on the boat.
“Dang, I thought we left it on here. I’d feel better if we had some live bunker,” he said.
I responded, “All good. I’ve got some twitchbaits that look like bunkers.”
“Those will have to do,” laughed Lars.
While we navigated the mayhem, we discussed the elephant in the room— the “day of days” reports from the prior afternoon. We each knew people who had been on the water the day before and either saw things they'd never seen before or were too late to the bridge because almost every piling had a boat on it.
There were reports of multiple over 50-pound fish landed, and boats saw 30-60 fish stacked on a single group of pilings, with a couple of people claiming to see 100 fish, at times. Regardless of the reports, one thing was sure: the fish were on the move, and we were either right on time or too late.
PICTURE PERFECT
Lars eased onto the throttle as we exited the no wake zone and entered the bay. The sun was bright and the sky in our immediate path was cloud free. We could see pelicans in the distance and groups of gulls loitering over the surface. A mile or so out of the inlet the water color was impeccable. A perfect greenish blue mix and exceptionally clear. Not as deep blue as offshore water but absolutely ideal for spotting cobia. My confidence grew, salami and blueberry goat cheese? Don’t mind if I do.
“Are you kidding me?” Lars questioned. “Where’s the cast net?”
Between us and our path to the bridge were miles of bunker pods. Thousands of fish stacked to the surface in uniform circles. The water conditions allowed us to see all the way to the bottom revealing signs of small bluefish harassment.
“Where’s the cobia net?” Ryan asked. “They’re so thick we could probably just net some.”
It was at that moment Lars realized we didn’t have a net either.
“Oh my gosh, we don’t have a net either. What are we doing guys?” he laughed.
As Lars’ confidence waned, Ryan and I felt more confident than ever.
“We’re definitely going to find some fish now,” I said.
A majority of my cobia fishing experience has been with Ryan, and all of our successful days were a proverbial shitshow. From attempting to land keeper cobia with trout nets or no nets at all to battling tangled trolling lines to find a pack of cobia off the bow, as far as we were concerned, the more unprepared we were, the better.
Understanding that cobia will resist an artificial lure more often than a live bait, we needed to try and catch a couple bunker. I tied on a Spanish mackerel jig with an oversized treble hook and launched a cast past the school. Every sweep of my jig made the school spray the surface.
“There's one,” I called out as I snagged one on its side.
Lars responded, “No way!”
He filled a bucket and put an aerator in to serve as our makeshift live well. I repeated the process until we had three lively participants.
Ryan was mesmerized by the seemingly endless amount of swirling pods.
“There’s just so many,” he said. “I’m shocked we haven’t seen any cobia in these pods.”
About a mile from the bridge, I re-tied on my Yo-Zuri Hydro Twitchbait. Ryan added a five-inch Diezel Minnowz to his bucktail, and Lars encouraged our bunker to keep partying.
“Look at that turtle at 1 o’clock,” I pointed out as the unmistakable sight of a massive loggerhead turtle on the surface.
“On it,” responded Lars.
The turtle sat in the middle of three bunker pods. Ryan and I grabbed our rods, expecting cobia to be with this behemoth marine reptile. Nothing. We made a few casts and let our lines get down for good measure, but there was no sign of cobia.
“Can’t believe there wasn’t any there,” said Ryan.
RUNNIN' THE POLES
Before we entered the cobia dome, Lars prepped a bunker, and Ryan and I positioned the cooler on the bow. We secured a rope for Ryan to hold in case we encountered some chop.
“Hopefully, we see them stacked like yesterday,” said Lars. “But, if they aren’t on the surface, you’ll have to look three to four feet down.”
“Good thing they are the same color as the pilings in the shade,” I joked.
Lars responded, “Yup, and the light will cause the brown of the piling to pop out and fool you, but until we see one, if you think you see any, call it out so we can make sure.”
Ryan took his place on his perch, I stood on the gunnels, and Lars eased the Outrage along the pilings, the sun at our backs illuminated the water perfectly. Our first lap concluded mildly uneventfully, save for one second look at a set of pilings, thanks to what we thought were a group of sheepshead. A sight we probably wouldn’t have found had we’d been looking for them. Onward!
We moved bridge spans and repeated the dance, but nothing. Scattered clouds began to pass through, and the wind made its presence known. We encountered other eager anglers on our laps, some privy to friendly communication, others experts at cold shoulders and dead stares. The ones who smiled indicated our results were the same.
After a third lap the wind went slack and the clouds cleared, so we decided to head to open water for a peek. By the time we ran a few miles and positioned ourselves to work back towards the bridge, the wind picked up with vengeance.
“Of course,” said Lars “And now the clouds are gone over the bridge.”
We patrolled a channel edge for a few minutes, but the chop made it feel like we were boating on an earthquake. Hoping the bridge would provide a reprieve from the turbulent surface, we headed back. Increasing cloud cover and a darkened sky to the west indicated that our efforts may be about to expire.
Lars executed another lap, along with several other boats. No one stopped and made casts. The wind increased, and so did the wave height. It became difficult for Lars to keep the 19-foot boat positioned safe enough from the pilings. The persistent bouncing of the bow made the cooler perch akin to a mechanical bull. With storm clouds growing at our backs, our fate was sealed.
SHOULD'VE BEEN HERE YESTERDAY
On the run back in we passed the pods of bunker that greeted us earlier in the day and the three of us laughed.
“That was pretty insane seeing all of those bait balls,” Ryan said.
Lars responded, “I can’t believe we didn’t see a single cobia.”
“I thought for sure once we realized we didn’t have a net it was going to be on,” I added.
Dejection aside, we felt a noticeable temperature drop as we entered the no-wake zone, validating the correct decision to leave. We meandered through the inlet, which was less lively due to the looming bad weather. Our timing was perfect. Right as Lars pulled into the boat slip, rain started to fall. We made quick work of offloading and hosing down our gear, then hopped in Lars’ car to head home.
“Cobia fishing is crazy,” Ryan said.
I chimed in, “One would’ve been nice. Where did they all go?”
“I just wanted y'all to see them stacked on the poles,” responded Lars.
Ryan commented, “I’d rather not see them then see them and have them not eat.”
“Should’ve been here yesterday,” I smirked.
Ryan and Lars laughed.
As awesome as it would’ve been to have a day of days like the day before or even a fraction of it, all three of us know that's how cobia fishing goes. It is day-to-day and sometimes hour-by-hour, but it is never guaranteed.
Managing expectations and being in the moment are crucial to understanding that type of fishing because, as those of you know, they’ll pop up when you least expect it. Being on the water and semi-prepared is half the battle. Our redemption on the poles will have to wait until next year.
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