Snapper fishing for the civilized.

“Weather forecast says 2 to 3,” Irby reassured everybody as we hit a severe chop coming out of the pass.

“This must be the tide hitting the waves,” the optimistic Mary Ann offered sweetly.

We passed an anchored shrimp boat that we would become better acquainted with the next time we saw it, the chop got worse, and well away from land I was surprised to still see the tidal effect. We also seemed to be hitting some decent sized swells as we banged on out at half speed. At about 20 miles Irby stopped to discuss the situation.

“Do we go back or keep going?”

“The farther we go, the more of this we have to come back through,” a movie star pointed out, checking her mirror. “And it’ll be a lot worse the other way.”

“Let’s go for it,” said Gilligan, just wanting to tie into some big groupers.

It got steadily worse and started looking like an angry Atlantic Ocean. “You know, Irby,” the professor said, “A favorable weather forecast makes you dangerous.”

“You’re right,” the captain agreed. “It corrupted my judgment, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” the professor said with enthusiasm, hanging on to the Bimini top as we slammed down into a sharp trough. “Your faith in the weatherman overwhelmed what you could see with your own two eyes.”

The GPS finally started beeping, Irby threw her into neutral and we tossed and rolled and dropped baits with 6-ounce weights, Gilligan with the only pinfish as we hadn’t bothered to catch more. Over goes his rod and up comes a 22-inch red grouper with Irby hootin’ and hollerin’. We caught all lizardfish after that on pilchards and I started getting queazy trying to thread 25-pound mono into a banged up hole on an 8-ounce egg sinker.

I got a holier sinker, got rigged, dropped and focused on the horizon for awhile as we skated on 6-foot swells.

Fishing was too hard with this Gilligan guy staggering around crashing into everybody so Irby aimed the Puketopia back the way we’d just come. “Anybody want raincoats? It’s gonna be wet.”

Tarpon roll like crazy up top, but most of the feeding--and hookups--are near the bottom.

Nobody opted for raingear so we were immediately soaked as Irby and I enjoyed the flavor of small doses of Gulf of Mexico. About when my hand felt welded to the Bimini frame, we sighted the shrimp boat. As we drew near, it motored up and came at us on an intercept course.

“What next?” Irby said in disbelief. As he took evasive action, we saw the captain beckoning us.

“Hey, it’s the skipper,” Gilligan yelled and they all waved.

Turned out a crewmember had to return to the mainland due to a family emergency. We pulled alongside and took him on board.­­

We dropped off the shrimper and boated to exquisite Cabbage Key for lunch. There I did something I never thought I’d do—pay seven dollars for a cheeseburger. But hey—at least it was in Paradise.

Back into the pass we caught the slack tide, only a couple other boats out there. Like sitting on a 30-foot-deep lake full of snappers and groupers. Everybody but the movie star dropped baits with an ounce of weight, I opted for yellow and white tube jig on a 1⁄16-ounce head with an egg sinker. The jig got hit first and wound up out-catching bait for snappers, including the biggest one. But Gilligan was the grouper man and he hauled up two keeper red ones. Otherwise small groupers and nice mangrove snapper were constantly swinging over the side.

“Isn’t this great!?” Irby beamed.

FS