Resembling three Navy SEALS hell-bent on a beach invasion, we scurried through the darkness and over a walkway that crossed the dunes and led to a noisy surf below. Armed with long rods and sharp hooks, we sloshed along the wet sand as we hustled through the fog and advanced to the surf’s edge.

The author and a blue heron square off over fishing rights to Canaveral Seashore.

We would get first shot at the fish, I thought, because ours was the only vehicle in the parking lot at Playalinda Beach that morning.

This was to be the first half of a combo day—a trip on which we’d spend part of the day fishing the surf, then hop back across the dunes to wade the river. It’s a workable plan in many parts of the state. In a way, you double your chances of catching fish. Usually you can’t go wrong.

Today I was wrong about one thing, however. We weren’t first on the fish. A flock of screaming seagulls had beaten us to the beach, where they dived and skimmed the waves above a school of ravenous bluefish. The birds were seeking an early morning breakfast of baitfish leftovers. Arriving, we plunged our sharp spikes into the sand, marking our positions.

Cacophonous shrieks and exploding bluefish added to the excitement. I was obsessed with getting my line into the water at first light—so eager that I looked down and discovered, much to my dismay, that the fingers on both my hands had, miraculously, transformed into thumbs. Clumsily, I snapped on a 3-ounce pyramid sinker and fumbled at threading a hook through a fingerling mullet. I was going full throttle as I continued to see frantic mullet leaping above the surf as surging blues made phosphorescent streaks up and down the beach. It’s a helpless feeling. The faster I hurried, the clumsier I got. Just getting the bait into the water would mean an immediate hookup.

Finally, I flung my bait just beyond the breakers into a brilliant background of daybreak. Streaking flares lit up the sky, allowing me to see the splash when my lead hit near the school of marauding blues. Quickly, I stuck the rod into the sand spike and reeled in the slack line—just in time. An attacking bluefish slammed my bait, almost jerking my rod from its holder. The battle was on! I glanced to each side and saw that Walt and Dan had both hooked up also. The plan was working—at least the first phase.

Throughout the morning, we continued to chalk up bluefish. When the toothy blues finally moved down the shore, we switched to lighter, 20-pound mono leaders baited with shrimp and began catching whiting.

Before noon, we packed up and headed to nearby Titusville for lunch. After a respite, we would launch the second phase of our combo. The first part had been feast. Hopefully part two would not be famine. Later, we would wade-fish the flats of the Indian River or Mosquito Lagoon. We would decide which during lunch. We would opt for the area that offered the most protection from an afternoon seabreeze.

Since I’m prone to superstition, I ordered a combo lunch at the fast food restaurant: A spicy chicken sandwich, fries and a Coke. (Variety being the spice of life, I also wondered if the spicy chicken would bring variety.)

Some days, the fish are hitting in the surf and also in the river. Would this be one of those days? On the Indian River near Titusville, we waded out from the sheltered shoreline, armed with gold spoons, jerkbaits and jigs.

The late morning and early afternoon sun had warmed the flats, which made wading cool, but not excessively cold. It was an early spring day, which meant the bluefish run in the surf would soon end, but the seasonal seatrout and redfish action was just beginning to come on strong in the river. Before long, Dan, who was wading shallow, began casting a gold spoon and catching redfish.

Meanwhile, Walt was hooking up on large seatrout while twitching jerkbaits in slightly deeper water. I was casting even deeper and jerking a soft-tail jig and catching trout also. For a couple of hours, the action was hot and the fish were large. We kept a few trout for dinner and released the rest, along with all the redfish we caught—seven or eight. A perfect end to a combo day.