Crash, crash, crash! We're talking seriously deranged fish here.

Mine was an easy day to remember, on a hot and sweltering Labor Day weekend in 1989. The following report was written only days after that chance encounter, an event that practically left me with a thousand-yard stare for a few hours after:  

Despite encouragement from nearby friends over the VHF radio, my boat crew still did not believe. The surf was choppy and our 23-foot SeaCraft heeled back and forth. The kids were cranky and tired, in fact we all were. I stared glumly at the whitecaps, disgusted at the lack of action with four baited rods set out. The sun crept lower, the end of a hot and humid day, and everyone dozed but me. And then it happened

My eyes narrowed for a moment at an aberration in the wave chop -- there were 30 tarpon rolling like porpoises, about 40 yards astern, coming our way.  In retrospect, with so many tarpon rolling, there may have been a great many more hidden in the murky 12-foot water. Maybe hundreds.

I grabbed Amy's foot and tugged. 

Hey, Hey! Get up, quick! You won't believe this!

Shouts of nighttime tarpon anglers could be heard on VHF Channel 9. Local anglers amused themselves by listening in.

Earlier, still operating on blind faith, I had slyly set up a 10-foot surf rod with large spinning reel, something that would fling a Magnum Rapala a country mile with almost no possibility of a backlash under duress. 

As the tarpon school rolled by at 30 yards, gulping air, I wound up that long rod and dropped the plug right in their path, cranking the big handle with gusto. The pure greed of those fish was shocking, after watching how finicky they can be in other climes, other regions. Several of them charged the plug and followed it to the boat---and the sight of four or five porpoise-sized tarpon competing over a foot-long plug is absolutely unnerving. 

The lead fish, estimated at 130 pounds, inhaled the plug at 10 feet and exploded as high as my head, twisting and writhing in midair and in slow motion, it seemed to our panicked minds. I bellowed something about getting the kids into the cabin of our boat, before the monster could land in the cockpit and destroy everything. Both kids dove into the v-birth cabin, our almost 2-year- old scuttling along a little faster than usual. Kids can be quick to recognize danger. 

That particular tarpon jumped five times in rapid succession around the stern, at point-blank range -- crash, crash, crash. The last three jumps were on a broken line. We're talking about a seriously deranged fish here, jumping in our face, huge and yellow-silver, and I was almost glad to see him go. 

In the next few minutes we hooked five more. A broken line sent a 5-ounce lead weight whizzing past my head. Sullivan's family, anchored nearby, were almost certainly appalled at my language and frantic messages over the radio, as schools of 6-foot tarpon passed us by a point-blank range. About the only civil thing I yelled in the radio was, "There they go over there -- GET 'em!"

To our credit, Amy and I settled down, landed and tagged a double-header 5- and 6-foot fish subdued on (what was then) standard 40-pound kingfish tackle. Additional tarpon followed our live mullet right to the boat, batting them around, and we finally lost our last bait...

It was near dark by now, but the 10-foot spinning rod was still bent double in the rod holder. Earlier, I'd attached another leader with an orange Rapala, rigged with only a big 16/0 circle hook that was copper-wired to the eye of that big plug. Tom Gibson, holder of various world and Texas-state record tarpon, had given me that lure in 1982. That Rapala lasted exactly one cast. Several different tarpon actually mouthed the plug before another huge one grabbed on and streaked away to the left, bending the long rod into the water and hooking himself, jumping with a mighty splash. The plug detached itself and flew high as it was designed to do, but the circle hook dug deep into bone and cartilage. (Thus, the copper wire). 

On 20-pound line we'd taken turns on that stalemated fish, then would set the long rod in a holder while attending to other business. Trying to pull a huge tarpon with a 10-foot rod and a spinning reel felt hopeless. But after an hour, that tarpon was still sulking almost 200 yards away, the long rod bent far over the water.  It was pitch dark with the new moon, the youngest kid was crying pitifully for dinner, and we had no flashlight. Amy picked up the bent rod again, gave it a pull, and crack -- we were cleaned out. She'd pulled on the bare knot in the darkness, with no wraps left on the spool....   

Fly-fishing for flats fish is the pinnacle of tarpon angling.

Since that time, many tarpon have met their match under my gaff. They were lip-gaffed, of course, and only some of the time, and always released after we spent a few minutes reviving them. Two years after that encounter, we moved to that very same coastal town, and tarpon figured to some degree in our decision to move there. Somehow I managed to jump a 100-pounder on the same weekend we moved in, while furniture was still waiting to be moved upstairs.   

By the time we landed that 100^th tarpon a few years later, I was running the bay and marsh there at night without effort, any flashlights, or even a moon. Our friends in other boats, lacking night vision, used Q-Beam lights to find their way back after dark. Almost all of our photos were taken at night, at least in my boat. The evening bite meant a long battle with some 6-foot, silver adversary, and darkness always fell before we could subdue the fish.   

Our tarpon-hunter friends from far away would stay for a week during the prime tides, sometimes camping in our living room. They stayed for good reason: they declared our local spot had a higher hook-up rate than favorite tarpon haunts in Louisiana, South Padre Island and Mexico. In their 19-foot Hydra-Sports they fished a rigorous schedule: They made the dawn patrol, returned at noon for a huge jalapeno cheeseburger and nap, then back out for the sunset bite, which might last until 10 p.m. Their shouts could be heard on VHF Channel 9, and the locals with scanners no doubt amused themselves listening in. It was a small town. 

Jimmy Crouch's fishing trailer became Tarpon Central. The wide front porch was used to repair shattered leaders and tackle, or re-spool the reels with fresh line. Several boats were parked in the yard at mid-day, exhausted anglers dozing inside or on the porch. Each year, they arrived with a wooden crate with 100 pounds of frozen mehaden, brought in from East Texas. The contents were kept on ice, slowly deteriorating as the days passed. If nothing else, the "pogeys" could be used for chum when they became too mushy to hold a hook. 

Cast nets hung on the porch railing, drying after each netting session at some island sandbar or marshy inlet. The live mullet, especially the silvers (we called them blacktails) were highly prized when tarpon were near. As were live menhaden, on which we seemed to have a monopoly. Local anglers never seemed to notice them popping on the surface. 

Our tackle was simple enough -- a 16/0 circle hook attached to 200-pound mono leader, with just enough weight to keep it on bottom in the current. The 40-pound line allowed for some finesse, since any tarpon could break it. Yet, that same tackle usually allowed us to remain at anchor, gradually working a hooked fish back to the boat, while continuing to fish other lines. Multiple hookups were common. 

The evening bite meant a long battle with some 6-foot, silver adversary, and darkness always fell before we could subdue the fish.

After seven years we'd had enough there.  Tarpon numbers on the central Texas coast seemed to be dropping, anyway. We now live in Florida, where tarpon are still thick in places, though the boat crowds can sometimes match them. Different techniques are used for catching them here, of course. Hooking one on the clear flats with a fly rod is the ultimate. It's a whole new coastal world to explore. But that is something we will always pursue. 

Joe Richard is a Gainesville, Florida, writer and photographer who owns Seafavorites.com, a stock photo web site of outdoor photography.