the spring thaw

Spring is on the horizon, which doesn't mean a whole heck of a lot here in the South Carolina Lowcountry, but having been born a Yankee, I suppose there's some sort of biological clock inside of me that tells me that when the days get longer, I need to shed my winter fat, wash the truck, shave my beard and set my mind to catching trout.
The funny thing is that in these parts, a lot of the fish that were high up in the marsh creeks all winter are heading out to the deeper polls now in search of food and more comfortable water. That's tough to bear after spending 29 years of my life waiting for the spring thaw.
When I was a fisherman in New York state, I spent "the dark months" tying flies, polishing rods, cleaning reels and scanning any fly fishing magazine and catalog I could get my hands on. A few desperate days, when the sun poked out and maybe warmed a February day into the mid 30s, I might even head to the river with a light rod just to say I fished.
But this yearly metamorphosis was a good thing, despite it being two or three months too long. If you fish all year long, there's no time to really meditate on those intrinsics that make you reevaluate your technique, let alone tie flies. In essence, it's like putting the fields to rest over the winter. In the spring, the soil is again ready for planting.
It's a natural process; the divine Order of Things.
But not here in the South. No, we can grow a tomato year-round if we wanted to. And we can wake up on any given Saturday, assuming there's no gale or worse, hitch up the kayak, rig up the rods, kiss the wife and kid and head to the nearest creek, river, marsh, flat or what have you. Fish might be skinnier, but not always.
There needs to be downtime. I've realized this after somehow procuring back-to-back bouts with influenza that pretty much took me out of the rat race for a good part of January. I don't like being sick as much as the next guy, but it seems as if it's nature's way of telling you to chill out, lie down, catch up on your reading and let the leaves pile up in the yard (I'd use snow/driveway, but, again, the South...).
Winter is a time to recharge the batteries and rededicate yourself to The Cause, whatever it may be,
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, so in that line of thought, I'm downright excited about the next day on the river. I've got it all planned: I've yet to coil some new weight-forward line on my 9-foot, 8-weight fly rod, I've got a box full of saltwater flies — some bought, some tied — and the kayak's under the side porch just waiting to be strapped onto the Blazer.
I'll automatically rise just before the silver hue bleeds into the cool nighttime horizon, grab a tankard of hot, back coffee and a buttery biscuit, chuck my gear sack in the back of the truck, zip on the musty Carhartt and begin the slow trek off to Harbor River.
I'll have listened to the waning minutes of the all-night blues station, then pull the truck off the roadside just beyond the bridge tender's parking lot, and off-load the old, grey roto-molded kayak.
There will be a few brown live oak leaves following a stray bead of bilge water, and for a moment in the early morning light, I'll wonder if they are scurrying palmetto bugs and that if I don't get them out now, I'll find one inside my waders just when the fish rise or some other sensitive time.
I'll strap the rod to the kayak, throw on the life vest, store my gear, tug on my gloves, then pull the boat through the spartina grass, down to the plough mud and oyster river bank.
Even for the cool weather, the unmistakable scent of grass, salt, mud and shellfish will permeate the air, seep into my clothes and even my skin if I'm lucky enough to be out here more than a couple of hours.
I'll slide the boat half into the water, then squeeze into the seat, grab the paddle and slice through the horizon reflected on the calm slack tide.
I've seen downhill skiers who, moments before their runs, close their eyes and envision themselves hurling down the giant slalom course, anticipating the turns, feeling the connection to the mountain.
I've not done this on the river (could you imagine if another fisherman came up on me? Not to mention an alligator...) but maybe in some strange way, I have. All winter long, that is.
I didn't fish a lot this winter, or any winter, because of that innate drive to hibernate. That, and it's cld out, even for South Carolina. I don't relish waking up to a 25-degree morning to get into a cold creek. I've done it, but on the coast, the wind can put a knot in your leader before you even make a cast.
I'm soft, I realize this, but I just chose to think it's my downtime.

It's one of the reasons that when Bob called to ask if I wanted to head out to Pritchards Island to fish for spot tails on a late February day, I jumped at the chance.
Plying the Machette Flats off St. Helena Island onto Skull Creek, through some of the most wonderful Sea Island marshes, the little 40 horsepower Mercury didn't move fast enough to blow the foam off my coffee, but it was enough to put some color in our cheeks and make me glad that I wore my bib waders.
I wanted to stop long the way, as trout were rising near the muddy banks. But that's not what we were fishing for. Besides, the tide was ebbing, which meant there'd be a chance that even the little 15-foot Carolina Skiff would get hung up, and, despite a flask full of Maker's Mark, neither of us wanted to sit in plough mud six hours waiting for the next rising tide, drunk or not.
We reached Pritchards Island, which can only be done so by boat or a very good swimmer and is maintained by the University of South Carolina Beaufort's environmental conservation program. On it is an observatory and old bunkhouse that you can sleep in should the mood strike.
We dropped the hook high on the island's easternmost beach so that when the tide came back in, the boat wouldn't be under water.
We trekked a quarter mile across the sand and dunes, stopping once to rescue a seagull who had managed to entangle her leg in some carelessly discarded fishing line and hooked herself on an old dock piling.
It took two of us to release her — one to put a fish rag over her wings, the other to snip the line. She flew away unscathed, and we felt as if the karmatic turn might deserve another in the way of some sizable spottails.
We waded into the water, past the first sandbar and cast between the next two. A good north wind was blowing, but once the sun was gaining strength on the horizon, it was clear that the temperature might climb into the 60s. Bob landed a nice spot tail on cut mullet on his surf rod and moments later, it was my turn. The difference was that instead of using a beefy 10-foot rod with a 3-ounce weight, I was using a once-piece 7-footer with a rubber jig in my hopes to get a few baitfish to cut up. The pole bent hard when he struck and I let the drag pick up a bit of the run.
Spottails go by a few different names. Among them are redfish, channel bass, red drums or simply spots. The Latin name, if we want to be stuffy, is the Sciaenops ocellatus. On the Sea Islands, we call them spot tails because of the big black spot right there on their tails. They range normally to about 12 pounds, but it isn't unusual to hear a local joe landing a 30-pounder. They're good fighters as well.
Spots are good fighters, too — especially in the surf. It's not uncommon for a spot to take a rest deep, then come up, dive and start running, and usually with some vigor.
I actually don't remember laughing so hard while catching a fish as I did that morning. I thought I might as well have fun as I was sure he'd break my line before I could get him over the sandbar, but the line held, the fish grew tired and I reeled in a decent spot — about 24 inches.
Primarily a fly fisherman, I love the feeling of playing a fish rather than simply hauling it in on a crane. However, catch-and-release fishers will tell you that it's probably worse for the fish, limiting its chances of a good recover tiring it nearly to death.
Keepers, though, are different, and so are big fish that just happen to hit your bait when you were trying to catch something considerably smaller.
Rescuing the seagull proved to yield some good results. We had a string of spots that were exactly what we set out for and even got some fresh air.
When the tide was good and on the rise again, Bob and I packed the gear in the boat, now bouncing in the breakers. He hit the start button, but nothing happened. Turns out someone forgot to turn off the battery, and it was dead. And no amount of pull-starting was doing the trick.
We were stranded, like the seagull, with the cold February wind coming as the sun waned. And we were tired from a full day in the surf.
As the boat bobbed and I grew pale, I thought of the bunkhouses in the woods and spending the night, but that wouldn't help start the battery even the next morning, and, besides, I wanted my own bed. So we dialed up the local marine rescue squadron, which just so happened to be engaging in a retirement ceremony the next island down. They sent out a couple of the sober members and they towed us back to the boat ramp, Coast Guard helicopter circling above, just in case the winter surf got a little out of hand.
Our rescue wasn't all that white-knuckled, but it did take several passes before we could gain hold of the towrope. The surf had swelled to about a 3- to 4-foot chop, and that's dicey in a 15-foot boat with no motor.
So much for karma.

That night I thought how deceptive the winter water could be. Smooth as glass one minute, but with a tide change, a whole new bag of tricks.
I remember thinking that there's a price to pay when playing the odds of fishing in a remote place in an unpredictable time of year.
It's been a while since I've been out that far in the winter, but I wouldn't pass up another jaunt. Winter fishing on the South Carolina coast means a lot of species are hunkering down in the creeks, around the oyster rakes and near the sea grass banks. They're feeding less, but feeding nonetheless. Pulling a fish from the surf certainly has its merits, but so, too, does pulling them from the marsh on a fly rod.
I think about that a lot in this winter downtown, which really isn't downtime for many a fisherman born and bred here.
For me, though, well, I'll take a break, study my gear, maybe surf eBay for that deal on a bamboo fly rod or an old reel. Maybe not.
And maybe I'll get the gear ready for a Saturday kayak spin.
Just in case.