On the Line

Misery Loves Company

By Mike Conner, Editor-in-Chief

A bad day of fishing can be more impressionable than a good one. After a bad day, you torment yourself over what went wrong, and what you could have done differently. On days that you flat out clobber 'em, you just chalk it up to your skill, don't you? Admit it.

And while you're at it, also admit that you get a twisted kind of satisfaction when your fellow anglers blank out on the days when you do. I will right here and now.

A few days ago, I fished my home water on the Indian River Lagoon, and hit at least 10 spots where I fully expected to find seatrout, pompano and a few redfish. After 7 hours of hard fishing and no distractions (I fished alone) well, I won't mention my tally, okay?

I went home at 4 p.m. with my tail between my legs. Just two nights before this trip, I had a banner night of fishing flies and soft plastics around bridges and dock lights. So what happened in 36 hours? I mean, come on! Two strikes in 7 hours, and shallows devoid of any life forms at all?

That night, a friend in Miami called to say he saw zero bonefish in 6 hours on Biscayne Bay that very day. ZERO! And this guy is an expert on the Bay. And a local guide buddy said his fishing for pompano, snook and flounder absolutely stunk, during the same hours, just south of where I fished.

Okay, I was feeling better now. Their collective failures and misery was salve for my wounded ego.

Just out of curiosity, I emailed a guide friend in Texas. "Redfishing on the flats was tough, today," he wrote back. "Didn't see squat until late in the day, and then only a couple."

Alright, something universal was afoot. Looked at a facebook post from a guy who I talk to occasionally in North Florida, and alas, he was floored that he failed to catch a mackerel in the surf that afternoon. They had been thick the previous day.

One more call--to a commercial hook-and-line surf fisherman in town. One pompano, 4 rods, 8 hours. Wow.

With just a little sunlight left, I grabbed a baitcasting rod from my garage rack and headed for my neighborhood pond. My wife said, "Haven't had enough, sport?" as I headed out the door. The pond's usually good for a few bass at dusk.

You know the rest of this story. I didn't get a sniff, even after casting well past dark as the moon rose.

But who cares? It wasn't me. I felt fine. Because misery loves company.