Tracy and John Canada show off the results of an exciting doubleheader on cobia.

Cobia fishermen are obsessed with manta rays. They dream of that telltale wing-tip, wake or dark shape of a migrating ray, knowing a pod of big cobia may be hanging in the shadow. Light tackle and the thrill of the hunt enhance the challenge of sight fishing cobia along the beach.

Unfortunately, on some days, cruising Florida’s Atlantic coastline with eyes peeled for rays is akin to looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. There’s a lot of water out there. Many anglers stay close to the inlets, preferring not to make a long run down the beach.

But what if you knew where the rays were heading?

Not far from St. Augustine and Matanzas inlets are a number of areas where the rays—and the cobia—seem to hang out. These are marked by the transition from white sugar sand to orangish coquina shell—the two main types of beach in this part of Florida. Looking shoreward, you can see the changing beach. There are at least four such zones, which I call brown zones, stretched in about 40 miles of coastline.

On a recent trip, I opted to scout for rays in one of these zones. My daughter-in-law, Tracy Canada, was aboard. She’s one of those people who come by their fishing talents naturally. Her skill for sniffing out cobia belies her mere one season of experience.

From her point-man perch on the bow, Tracy stood rigged and ready. In one hand she grasped a well-used 15-pound spinning rod. Her other hand held the bowline, using it to keep balance.

We ran on plane, skimming quickly over the slick ocean. For a long time, we saw no sign of rays or cobia. Then suddenly, Tracy’s voice stirred her husband John and me from the lull in our scanning chores. “Ray at ten o’clock, about 40 yards away,” she called. I stayed on the helm and John grabbed another rod. Keeping my distance until I could determine the ray’s course, I spun the wheel to take them within casting range.

“I can see three or four fish on top of the ray. It looks like there’s even more underneath,” John said. The big manta ran deep, at least four feet under the surface, making it doubly hard to discern which individual fish to target.

I held position a steady 15 yards off the ray. “Tracy, you’re up,” I offered. “Try to spot the biggest fish. Lead it with your jig and bring it right back in front of its nose.”

She didn’t wait for my advice. She picked a target and fired a cast. She brought the 6-inch shadtail straight to a bruiser cruising two feet beyond the ray’s left wing. Tracy quit reeling and began dancing the lure enticingly. Watching her presentation, I could tell she’d done her homework. The cast and retrieve were flawless. The big fish turned off the port flank, charged and inhaled her lure.

“I’m on,” Tracy yelled excitedly. The big cobe ran straight toward us. Tracy raced to gather in the slack and keep a tight line. Her fish finally felt the hook, turned and ran for cover under the ray. The rod bowed double as she put on the pressure, hoping to stop her cobia before it made its way around the ray. Such antics would surely mean a lost fish.

“Quick John, see if you can get a cast before the ray sounds. Look out for Tracy’s line,” I said in a decibel level better suited for a stock car race. I watched John sail his bait in a tight arc, dropping it two feet off the nose of another cobia.

What’s better than a hookup? A double hookup, of course. For a scant second I considered trying for a triple. Common sense got the best of me, and I put the rod back into the holder. My services were needed at the helm. That was obvious, watching these two attempt to keep their lines apart.

For the next quarter-hour, John and Tracy gained and lost line to these wide-bodied fish. They strained their light spinners to the limit while dancing and maneuvering around my small center console. I kicked the boat in and out of gear, turning port or starboard trying to keep them in the best position for their pump-and-grind style of ocean choreography.

Several minutes later both fish changed strategy. John’s cobia headed for the horizon. Tracy’s fish sounded and went deep, opting for a straight down, tug-of-war slugfest.

Seeing his chance, John shifted into overdrive, muscling his fish in quickly with short strokes of the rod. The cobia came broadside, giving me a clear gaff shot.

Tracy, on the other hand, had her hands full. Her fish was still 45 feet down, right on the bottom, rubbing its head into the sand in an attempt to dislodge her hook.

“I’ve never had one fight like this,” Tracy muttered, taxing her 15-pound gear almost beyond its limits. This fish was a bulldog. She gained two feet of line only to lose three.

John piped up, “Don’t let him rest. If you’re resting, that cobia is resting. Bring it up.”