Algae Lines and the Silent Blitz

 

Monday October 21, 2024 – It was one of those days where the universe seemed hell-bent on screwing with me. Saturday had me in a sour mood, hunting for fish like some kind of desperate maniac and coming up empty-handed. The only glimmer of hope came in Portuguese Cove, where a brief blitz yielded a single, miserable fish. But even in failure, you learn—turned out the shad were blooming, and maybe the next morning would offer redemption. Or maybe not. The Forebay had cooled off faster than a dead engine, and my buzz was officially killed.  I tossed the idea to Vaughn and Wayman—why not hit Portuguese Cove on Sunday?   Maybe they’d find something worth catching. Monday rolled around, and I was still tangled up in indecision. Frank had already hit the Forebay, texting me like a madman about fish flopping onto the beaches near the ramps. Vaughn and Wayman?  Yesterday, they had themselves a field day—30 fish, easy, with blitzes popping off like fireworks. Meanwhile, I was still stuck in my head, staring at the road sign for Dinosaur Point, when Frank pinged me again—10 fish in the boat, but no current at the powerhouse. It was a mixed bag, but I bit the bullet and headed for the main lake.

As I backed the boat down the ramp, fish were busting around the dock like it was some kind of cosmic validation for my choice. Two casts, two fish. Boom. But the shore fishermen descended on me like vultures, and I wasn’t in the mood to share, so I left them to their frenzy. I was mobile. I had options.

Portuguese Cove called to me like a siren, so I motored over, only to find a trio of old-timers parked dead center, gear clanking away, oblivious. Birds hovered above us like spectators at a gladiator match, and suddenly, there it was—fish and bait locked in a brutal ballet along the shoreline. Stripers pinning bait to the bank. I swung in behind them, ready to capitalize, when—like some clumsy, half-blind seal—the old-timers gunned there boat straight toward me. The nerve. I launched a cast just as they cozied up to my space, and they managed to land two. How could I even be mad? Three gray-haired geezers who probably couldn’t spot a blitz if it punched them in the face.

The fish scattered, and so did I, trying to lose my geriatric shadow. But they trailed me around like lost puppies. Frustrated, I decided to have a little fun, faking blitzes by casting like a madman at the shore, watching them scurry after me every time. It got old quick, and I left them behind, heading for BOP and the dam, hoping for a miracle. None came. Zero fish. Again.

By noon, I was ready to call it quits. But I remembered my own gospel—never bail before the final hour. The whole day can turn on a dime. So, back to Portuguese Cove I went, determined to salvage something. The boats were gone, but the birds were still hanging around, offering a shred of hope.

I parked myself with some food and a drink, scoping the water with binoculars like a spy on a stakeout. Bait was everywhere, birds diving occasionally, signaling that something was up. But no blitzes. I blind-cast the rocky banks, even though it had been a bust earlier. With no Livescope, I was fishing the old-fashioned way, relying on instinct. Nothing. Then, I spotted it—swirls in the algae a foot off the bank. Stripers, pushing minnows up against the shore but they weren’t breaking the surface,

I made a 20-foot cast to the swirl and BAM! Fish on. It was like flipping a switch. For the next hour, I was pulling stripers out of that algae-covered shoreline like I’d hit the jackpot. The low visibility in the algae kept me hidden, and the fish just kept coming. The strikes right at the edge of the shoreline were quick and brutal, but the fish stayed, trapped in that green muck. It felt like fishing mudlines from a couple of years back, but this time, the mud was algae.

By the time the day was done, I had 18 fish in the boat—only three from the morning. The rest? Sweet, sweet victory in the muck.

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