We couldn’t have done any better,” I told my son Kyle, raising my voice above the pitch of the diesel engine on his 28-foot boat. However, I should not have said it because within a few miles I would have to eat those words. We were returning from an early summer Bahamas fishing trip, heading for Hillsboro Inlet and home.

Skipjack tunas are very abundant in summer on this side of the Gulf Stream.

It had been a super couple of days. We’d visited a lodge on the west end of Grand Bahama Island, an area reminiscent of old Florida, where fish are plentiful, anglers scarce, people friendly and prices reasonable. We’d battled cobia, grouper, snappers—including gray, yellowtail, mutton and silk. Also, we caught cero mackerel, barracudas, sharks, triggerfish and so many other species that I lost count.

Suddenly Kyle cut back on the throttle and began backtracking to a floating board that he had just spotted atop a wave nearby. He eased us up to what looked like a small, wooden pallet. What I saw below looked almost surreal as at least 75 to 100 bright green-and-golden bodies circled. Lit up and ready for action, they swam about beneath the structure, contrasting vividly against the rich blue waters of the Gulf Stream.

Our action was far from over. Here beneath our boat was a new battle, a new challenge! We wasted little time grabbing light tackle and casting jigs and cutbait to those willing takers. Our baits had barely settled into the water when pandemonium broke loose. We hooked one dolphin after another and brought them aboard. It got so hectic with fish jumping about on the boat that Kyle opened the hatch to the fishbox on the bow and nudged some fish into the box with his foot. During the excitement, he warned me:

“Don’t step back, Dad, the fishbox is open!” However, I got so carried away during the frenzy that I took a step backward after a wave struck our bow. Off balance, I fell into the fish box and suddenly found myself flopping around amidst a half-dozen flipping mahi-mahi.

Bloody (mostly fish, fortunately) and slimy, but unbowed, I climbed out of the well, continued fighting my fish, got it aboard and was soon casting to other hungry dolphin that darted in to compete for my bait. It was a great and unexpected climax to the trip and I vowed to return.

One year later, I headed back. This time, we were even better prepared. We brought along a friend, Kinzy Jones, a skilled offshore angler, like Kyle, who could help catch fish and gaff. We brought an electric reel for some deep-drop action, and also planned to do some trolling, anchoring, chumming and freelining live bait for yellowtail snapper and other species. Also, drift fishing was on our agenda.

Unlike the last year’s smooth crossing, the seas kicked up unexpectedly to five or six feet and pounded us all the way down to the Bahama Bank, where we found our first calm water. Furthermore, we hit two unavoidable storms on the way down and got drenched. I felt secure knowing that Kyle had an inflatable life raft aboard, along with an EPIRB and other safety gear. The fact that my son is a commercial airline pilot—a good navigator who reads instruments well—adds to that sense of security.