Once we reached our destination, Tiger Shoals, we raised our little motor and began to paddle eastward. As we moved across the wide grassflat, we startled a couple of seatrout. The water eventually became too shallow to effectively paddle, so I used a makeshift pushpole and moved slowly so as to not create a wake. It’s amazing how even the slightest ripple on the water can alert fish on the flats here. Soon we saw what we were there for: Tailing redfish, bunched up in the back of a bay where no one was fishing.

Sight casting in skinny water.

As we neared casting distance, I took a seat to cast a lower profile and exchanged the pushpole for a paddle. Slowly, I turned the canoe broadside to the fish so we could both make a presentation. I softly set the blade of the paddle on a life jacket, muffling any sound, and picked up my spinning rod, rigged with a 5-inch soft jerkbait on an offset worm hook.

“Don’t rock the boat when you cast,” I cautioned, opening the bail on the reel. My partner had been ready for some time but had waited until I was ready.

“Now.”

Simultaneously, we made our casts, his to the edge of the school nearest the bow of the canoe and mine to the edge nearest the stern. In a matter of seconds, we both had hooked fish. His fish zigged while mine zagged and the canoe turned like a blender with a rock in the pitcher, not sure which way or how fast it was supposed to spin.

Contrast an approach like this with the guy who buzzes the flats looking to “bump up” some fish that he will then pursue. That’s a technique that—thankfully—is fast falling out of favor. More than a few not-so-friendly conversations have been had between an angler who had been quietly fishing a flat and the boater who ran well onto that flat before stopping, spooking fish he had been stalking in the process. I’ve seen a few instances of “water rage” that makes what happens between motorists on Interstate 4 seem subdued. There’s harmony when fishermen come and go quietly and slowly, and more anglers can effectively fish a given area at the same time.

On a larger boat, a trolling motor works well when the water is deep enough, but often the water just gets too shallow. Keep in mind that electrics also broadcast sound and vibrations that can alarm fish. A pushpole is better by far, at least if you’re stalking fish in tailing depths. In deeper water, drifting and fan-casting can be an effective strategy.

The lighter approach has other advantages. Parking is seldom an issue if you’re hauling a little boat on top of or inside your vehicle. In fact, you can drive close to where you will be fishing and launch from the shoreline, not needing to bother with a paved ramp. At first, you might find paddling to be slow and tedious, but you’ll soon realize the benefits of fishing quietly and thoroughly.

Re-examining our approach to Mosquito Lagoon has implications that stretch beyond the prospects for a productive, stress-free day of fishing. State and federal authorities are currently studying Mosquito Lagoon, documenting seagrass beds, oyster reefs and other ecological features—and running numbers related to recreational usage. It’s entirely possible that at some point in the near future, we’ll see plans laid to close certain parts of the Lagoon, not only to skiffs and paddle craft, but to all fishing.

That would be a shame.

Self-regulation by conscientious anglers—something we’re seeing already these days—would largely preclude the need for that kind of bureaucratic tampering.

“The fishery is much better than it was before the net ban [1995],” points out Capt. Mike Hakala, who has 25 years of experience on Mosquito Lagoon. “With good fisheries management—protecting the grasses, limits on fish kept—things might stay the same. If not, the Lagoon has seen its best days.”

Lagoon Management

A complicated mesh of state and federal authorities calls the shots for Mosquito Lagoon, but if you like to fish here, it pays to know who’s in charge of what—and what kinds of decisions they may face in the near future.