We got along splendidly.

The tide was nearing its ebb, siphoning dry a long stretch of sand and seagrass which bisects Sarasota Bay at about its midpoint. Rather than stay on the move, as we did in Tampa Bay, Page suggested anchoring up and wading. And waiting.

“See those white holes?” he said, gesturing to the north. “There’s a long trough of slightly deeper water; when the tide gets real low, the reds will push up this line—following the mullet—and move into the holes. All we have to do is sit here and wait for them.”

We weren’t scouting for tailers, and at the same time we weren’t soaking bait. There was just enough motivation for an accurate cast to keep us interested. In its own way, fishing potholes is mentally relaxing; you pick out a likely looking spot, fire your jig, then hop it through the danger zone. When a jig stops suddenly—which it did several times for us—and you realize it’s not hung on seagrass, there’s a satisfaction that wells up under your collar.

Page produced the biggest fish, a giant melon of a red, with vivid copper scales that reflected the afternoon sunlight. The water was clear, and it was surprising, in a way, that there were pods of such bright fish tunneling unseen through turtlegrass just a few yards from our boat.

Had we stayed on the pushpole, we may have spotted one or two, but it was apparent that here was another case where staying put was the key. Effectively boxed out of other parts of the bay, the fish were clearly moving with the tide, heading for that forage-rich slough of deeper water.

FS