MAR 9, 2025 | BY TIM HOMA
I felt a bead of sweat slide down my forehead and soak into my eyebrow. The sun lifted above the horizon as a blue heron protested my existence and took flight. I twitched my rod tip three times to retrieve my Yo-Zuri Hydro Pencil when my eyebrow released a cascade of sweat into my right eye.
Simultaneously, a greenhead fly landed on my neck. I swatted at my neck, stopping the retrieve, and squinted my eye. The pause proved intriguing. A speckled trout broke the surface and ate; welcome to the Pamlico Sound.
The Draw of the Pamlico
The Pamlico Sound is the largest estuarine lagoon (sound) on the East Coast, extending 80 miles long and 15-20 miles wide from mainland North Carolina to the barrier islands of the Outer Banks. Fed from the Neuse and Pamlico Rivers to the West and the Atlantic Ocean to the East, the sound teems with critters.
On paper, miles of flats covered in submerged aquatic vegetation, shoals, current-flowing channels, and oyster reefs make the Pamlico Sound an angler's wet dream. On Google Earth, it’s a nightmare. Everywhere looks awesome, and the maps don’t do justice to the vastness of this special place. I get it; a mile is a mile is a mile, but everything there is so much further than it appears.
I’ve fished it twice before. The rawness and beauty were undeniable each time. It doesn’t give a shit about wind or weather forecasts. And the bugs, if they want you gone, you’ll be gone. The crystal clear water over the pristine grass flats was advantageous and distracting. Sight casting opportunities meet “Oh look, a baby sea turtle” – it felt like fishing in an aquarium.
The sense of escape was intoxicating. Fish were caught each time, but with a draw to push further, I had sights on a new access point, a different location, and hopes of a true Pamlico Sound gator trout.
We Ride at Dawn, Well Before Dawn. Let’s Get There at Dawn
The decision to go is always last minute, and going alone is never fun. Forecasts are not gospel on the Pamlico, so paying attention to weather patterns is key. After identifying a favorable trend, mainly with minimal chance of thunderstorms and winds under 15 mph, our strike mission took shape.
Ryan and I were joined on this trip by Wes Armentrout @wesley_pipesssss. Born and bred in coastal Virginia, Wes’ enthusiasm for fishing can only be unmatched by his penchant for targeting big speckled trout. A sales rep slinging industrial supplies during the day, Wes spends any chance he can get off the clock chasing fish. Co-founder of Run The Marsh @run_the_marsh_va, a group that lives by the motto, “Fish more, sleep less,” we knew Wes would be down for an adventure.
With reliable reports of large specks being caught the days prior, it was hard to keep expectations in check.
“I’ve been wanting to fish some pot holes for a while, stoked we are making it happen,” said Wes via text the night before departure.
Loaded up with our trusty paddle vessels, fueled with coffee for Ryan and me and a Celcius for Wes, we hit the road in the wee hours of the morning.
There’s something about these early drives that I look forward to. Despite minimal sleep in most cases, I have no issues waking up, and my alertness is impeccable. It's the randomness of conversation, the inevitable burnt tongue from coffee, game planning, and the feeling that doing something different will be rewarded that make it addicting.
Buggy Admiration
We arrived at our destination as the glow from first light illuminated our surroundings. Launching in the dark at new places always proves challenging, so we took advantage of our timing.
The humidity felt thick enough to grab, and the bugs seemed like they'd been waiting for our arrival. Ryan’s bald head proved a worthy surface for the mosquitos. We quickly unloaded and staged our gear to launch.
“I’m already drenched in sweat,” Ryan said as he ran fly line through the guides on his rod.
Wes tied on a Rapala Skitter V and a Z-Man Scented Jerk ShadZ in between swatting at his arms and neck.
I stood staring at Pamlico Sound. It was oil-slick, calm, and full of life. Groups of baitfish broke up the water's surface every 50 yards or so in almost every direction. Pelicans flew offshore, and herons and cranes stalked the shorelines.
My admiration was cut short. “I’m going to get goings so I can try and shake these bugs,” I said as I stepped on my kayak and launched. Wes followed suit, and Ryan shortly after. The fly guys are always last.
Redfish, Bluefish, 1 Fish, 2 Fish
Ryan headed out to a marsh point while Wes and I spread out over an area we identified on Google Earth as a grass flat. Our focus was distracted by the sounds of surface eats and splashes through the various bait pods.
Along with my Yo-Zuri Hyrdo Pencil, I rigged my favorite grass flats weapons, a Texas Customs Double D and a Down South Lures Super Model, on a ⅛ ounce Texas Customs Jig Head. The Pamlico Sound is known for big fish, so I wanted to use lures with larger profiles to attract a big bite. Anxious to take advantage of the remaining low light and to cover ground, I started throwing the Yo-Zuri, and well, I'm addicted to topwaters.
It didn’t take long to get on the board. On my fifth cast, while fending off an assault from a greenhead, I landed an 18-inch speckled trout. Moments later, I heard Wes’ excitement as a fish swiped at but missed his lure multiple times. The water around us was alive.
I looked back to Ryan, who was flinging a gurgler, and his fly rod was bowed up. He called over to me, “I had blowups on four casts in a row. I think they could be redfish.”
As the fish got closer, we could see it was not a redfish but a bluefish–somewhere, Dr. Suess chuckled. Bluefish are a contentious subject among anglers. Known tackle destroyers and bait stealers, they can prove to be more of a nuisance than coveted targeted species. But, once they reach the 20-inch mark or so, their appetite for drag-pulling can make even the eggiest angler smile.
At that moment, there was a definite sigh of disappointment from Ryan and me. Whenever I think of the Pamlico Sound, bluefish seem to escape my mind. Thankfully, Ryan’s fish released itself next to the canoe, and given it was a smaller size, we moved on.
In the distance we saw a big splash at Wes’ lure and then his rod bent over, followed by the nose of his kayak swinging around toward the fish. We paddled toward the point and kept an eye on him.
“Aw, man!” shouted Wes. “It’s a bluefish. I thought it was a huge trout,” a perfect example of why people can get frustrated with bluefish.
Many trout anglers have a story of being duped by a feisty bluefish. Despite the brief letdown, Wes landed the mid-20-inch fish, thanked it for a fun fight, and sent it on its way.
Murky Water and Ground to Cover
Collectively, we decided to venture on and investigate a couple of areas we’d marked on Google Earth. With the sun high enough to shine across the sound, it became evident that our mission to fish potholes in the grass would be difficult–the water was uncharacteristically murky. Seeing the edges of potholes is key to knowing when to stop your lure and entice a fish that might be lurking in the grass.
A welcomed breeze provided a brief break from the September heat and kept the bugs at bay. It also assisted Wes and me as we drifted the flat. In sections, we could make out the coloration of a pothole, and we’d stop and pick it apart as best as we could. Ryan meandered along the scalloped marsh shoreline and explored any cuts or small pools.
For several hours, we spread out, hunted, and sweated. Small speckled trout, bluefish, and a couple of small redfish provided short-lived entertainment. Ryan stumbled upon a small pack of sheepshead and almost enticed one to eat his shrimp fly, but then they vanished without a trace.
I texted Ryan and Wes to let them know I would beach my kayak and take a break on a sandy point in front of us. On my approach, I kept blind casting. I noticed a current seam directly off the point I intended to use as a resting spot. The closer I got, the more I could see a massive grass patch make way for sand and a noticeable depth change. I launched my Down South Super Model toward the seam, bounced it twice off the bottom, and then felt dead weight. I set the hook and landed North Carolina’s most controversial fish, a nice southern flounder.
Due to recreational anglers' supposed overharvesting of flounder in 2023, the state of North Carolina closed the recreational fishery with the exception of a four-day season on consecutive weekends in September 2024. Now, I shan't voice my opinion on another state's affairs, but that was the law of the land.
Sandy Point Relief
Before casting again, I beached my kayak and walked straight into the water on the backside of the point. I could feel the water soothe each of my toes and caress my feet as it filled my lightweight boots. The sense of relief that consumed my body cannot be understated, like that of a born-again Christian. Wes and Ryan beached their craft and immediately slid into the water like travelers stranded in a desert.
“This is the best thing I’ve done all day,” I said, enjoying a half-melted protein bar waist-deep in the Pamlico Sound spa.
Ryan concurred, “This is heaven.”
Wes said nothing, took his shirt off, and submerged himself underwater.
Refreshed but unwilling to leave the coolness of the water, I started making casts at the point where I caught the flounder. Wes cast on the backside, and Ryan did a little further down. I landed a small speckled trout and immediately got another bite.
“Oh, man, I just got whacked,” said Wes.
Ryan and I kept casting until we heard Wes’ drag scream.
“I’ve got my trout drag set, but this is a nice fish,” Wes said enthusiastically.
The three of us watched intently as a nice flounder surfaced. We erupted in laughter.
“Another endangered species,” I joked.
What ensued over the next 45 minutes, we didn’t see coming. In that one spot, we caught five flounder, a couple of speckled trout, fun-sized bluefish, and an under slot redfish. Wes had the hot hand with his Z-Man Scented Jerk Shadz in pearl color, receiving bites on almost every cast.
A moment of pure comedy ensued trying to land Wes’ biggest flounder, a 23-inch, almost four-pound fish. I scrambled to grab the most accessible net on the shoreline.
"Be careful. It has a small hole," Ryan warned.
With such a wide fish, I had zero doubts about the net until I watched it swim right through the hole and take off, causing Wes to panic.
"It's hooked good; just keep the tension," I said as I returned to the shoreline for another net.
Looking back towards Wes, I saw the faulty net halfway down his rod.
"How the heck did that happen?" I laughed.
After what felt like 50 attempts, I got the fish into a secure net and ended one of the more stupid and hilarious fishing moments I'd ever experienced.
Pamlico Sound Reflection
Back at the launch, there was little time for relief and recap as the bugs execute their final assault on us. We loaded up my truck in record timing, got the air conditioning flowing, and left the mosquitos for the French Canadians who pulled up to bird watch.
The murky water and absence of large trout left a desire to return the next chance we could get, but the day was not a bust by far. Being able to fish in an area that seems to go on forever without a house or building in sight never gets old, and the sense of solitude relatively close to home fuels the drive for adventure. Plus, the flounder blitz was pretty fun.
"I can't believe I caught my biggest flounder," Wes remarked.
Ryan chuckled, "You should've just pulled it up to the sand."
A silence fell over the truck, signaling something neither Wes nor I had even considered during the failed flounder netting fiasco. Next time, we'll be prepared.
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