A Good Fish Story | Redfish Rumba | Winter Reds 'A good fish story' Catch of Giant Tarpon puts more than memories in '3-hour cruise' by Thomas Brown T&D Staff Writer        For 17 Years Dr. Gary A. Delaney has been taking his family to their Kiawah Island vacation home to enjoy the quiet pleasures of the Lowcountry and South Carolina's coastal waters.        Having never fished the waters that lie so close to the Atlantic Ocean, during the family's last respite in the coastal region Delaney decided to treat himself and his family to an afternoon of fishing on the North Edisto River and Bohicket Creek.        "Dr. Delaney hired me for a three hour charter," said Capt. Rob Bennett, owner of Inshore Charter on Johns Island. "He said he had never caught any fish down here in the 17 years that he's been coming and he wanted me to take him where he might catch a few trout or maybe some bass."         As the charter wound down, nearing the end of the contracted time, the Delaneys had caught more than a half dozen of a variety of pan-sized fish. Thinking that the fishing party would end shortly, Bennett offered Delaney's son Michael the opportunity to cast for some tarpon, a game fish that sometimes approaches the coastal waters foraging for food.        Not considering the possibility that he might chance upon a tarpon, which are rare in South Carolina waters, Michael agreed to cast the 20 pound test line with a clawless blue crab, the tarpon's favorite food, as bait.        "We were all still fishing," Michael said. "I was talking to Rob when I noticed the balloon that he put on the line had taken off. I knew something had taken the bait."         But neither Michael nor Bennett expected that their catch would be such a prize. As the game fish, searching for the end of it's tether; leapt from the water, the guide and the fisherman realized that, indeed, it was a prize.         "We pulled the anchor and just let the fish pull us wherever he wanted to go," Michael said. "That's all you can do with a fish that size. You have to let him exhaust himself before you even think about trying to get him into the boat."        Allowing the creature to go his way, the boat tagged along on the sole power of the fish's fury and fright. Viewing scenery that might have been missed if they were traveling on their own power; the charter group clocked the progress of Michael's prey.        "When the fish took the line, we were a couple of miles from the ocean," Michael said. "It pulled eight miles from the ocean. It seemed like it would never get tired."         Two hours and fifteen minutes later, the fight was finally beginning to drain from the game fish. As his body and his fury weakened, Michael began to reel him in.        "I didn't know I could feel back pain like that," Michael said. "I felt like an old man. That was the longest fight I've ever had, on sea or land. I felt like I had been drug by a horse."        Aided by Bennett, Michael pulled his prize onto the boat. It weighed in at 132 pounds, was more than 6 feet long and 36 inches around. It was only 22 pounds under the record for a tarpon caught in South Carolina's waters.        "Everybody was very proud of Michael," Bennett said. "He handled it great and didn't give up even though he was tired. I'm glad I was part of that experience."        Although he had fished in the open sea, Michael had never experienced the thrill of bagging a catch in this league before.        "I had caught an 8 or 10 pound Mahi Mahi in the Gulf Stream," Michael said. "But nothing even close to this. We're going to mount it and put it on the wall at the beach house. It'll make a good fish story." REDFISH RUMBA South Carolina's Dancing Drum? You Had To Be There. Rick Sennett        If this sounds like a fish story, that's probably because it is. But not that kind of fish story. It was fishing like I'd never seen, or even knew existed. Anyhow, I'm going to take you out dancing with red fish.        It was mid-July, and ISFA marketing muckety-muck Rocky Conte and I were heading to discuss the South Carolina Governor's Cup and State Citation program. Naturally, we stopped at every marina and tackle shop along the way, partly to hawk the magazine (hey, a guy's got to make a living), but mainly because like that, talking fish and making friends.        As luck would have it, we met our guide for this adventure, quite by accident during one of these impromptu visits. Captain Rob Bennett, who runs Low Country Charters, told us the tale of fishing for upside-down reds, in a couple of inches of water, grass and mud. Not exactly saltwater fishing as I'd known it. The fish were the same saltwater drum that are the state fish of my home fishing grounds in North Carolina, except these creatures were in South Carolina, displaying a side of their personality (and, come to think of it, their anatomy) that most fisherman don't know much about.        As he told us of this odd spectacle, he also informed us and that this very night "a perfect 6:1 tide", would occur, and if we were any kind of fisherman at all, we owed it to ourselves to find out what red fishing was all about.        Not being the sort of fellas to turn down either a challenge of an adventure, we rearranged our schedule and made the half-hour drive south to Johns Island. By 5:30 PM or so, we were behind Rob's house, walking toward a dock running 450 into Bohicket Creek. The local tides are the area's answer to the Bay of Fundy, averaging more than 6 feet, and requiring long piers to handle the rise and fall of the water.        Rob's a regular type of guy who works a normal job to feed his family, and runs charters to feed his soul. A dedicated naturalist, his enthusiasm for what he does is infectious. It's hard not to have a good time with a guide who cares deeply for the local environment, knows its secret places, respects its quarry, and loves his work. His quarry, on this day, would be red fish, also known as red drum, spot tailed bass, or -- as we were about to learn why -- tailers.        Rob outfitted us with tackle, and we headed toward the North Ediston River. He took us out in his Pro Sports flats boats, which he's already replaced with a 15 foot Boston Whaler. Both sport an 8 inch draft for navigating the backwaters where Rob knows the magic is hiding.         After a half-hour ride, all the while soaking in the breathtaking scenery, we neared our goal, an acre of grassland and mud flat among the tidal estuaries nestled behind the Sea Islands that run all the way from Cape Romain to Savannah. Rob told us that once the tide came in at 7:00 PM, we would have an hour and a half or get into and out of our fishing hole, unless we were prepared to volunteer to mud portage a half ton of flats boat, (which we most emphatically weren't.)        We arrived a little ahead of the tide. Rob killed the engine and broke out an 18 foot push pole. We wouldn't really need a full 8 inches of water to get started fishing. Rob could muscle us through a certain amount of mud and grass before the fast-flooding waters gave access to the center of the marsh. Despite the scenery, what Rocky and I really wanted, after hearing the unlikely sounding stories was to see the red fish.         Sometimes, a fisherman can get to thinking that he knows about fish. Usually, such thoughts are rewarded, not with fish, but with another critter altogether-crow-served up in a nice healthy portion. Last month, in this very magazine, we told you all about catching drum (reds) as they waited obligingly in the ocean surf. Unfortunately the southern reds apparently aren't reading our publication, since the obviously had no clue as to how to act.        In the first place, they were congregating in not-yet flooded mudflats. The wet grasslands were uneven, with a high perimeter surrounding a couple of deeper spots in the center that filled up mysteriously, as we searched for a path wet enough to accommodate our boat. The reds had the advantage on us, what with their shallower draft, though they had the disadvantage of not being air breathers. But they are fighters, and they got themselves to the fishing hole before it was even a fishing hole. What attracted them was fiddler crabs who were improvident enough to assume that they could chill out topside till the tide came in. The more the ambitious reds scooted up on the grass flats with the fist inch of tide water and commenced feasting on straggling fiddlers.        Unfortunately, we needed a bit more water than the fish did, so for a while we were stranded onlookers in the crystalline silence of the primordial wetland, as savage fish and primitive crustaceans danced an accent dance.        There is an unwritten law among the local guides -- the first one onto the fishing hole wins. The next guy has to move to completely out of site. So, as Rob impatiently poled his way around the grass flats looking for some way to put us on the reds, the July evening became very quiet, quiet enough that we could hear the crunching sound of red fish enjoying a crab feast. Now I've been a salt water fisherman for some time, but this was like nothing I'd ever experienced. Who would have thought you could sit in a swamp and listen to fish eat dinner? It turns out that when you are around red fish, there is an awful lot to hear and see.         As the tide came in, Rob taught us to spot the drum by looking at the blades of grass a straight ahead. The fish would push right through, 3 or 4 blades would spread into a V-shape and then close rightback up as the fish moved on. Mind you, this isn't an inch or two of your back yard Bermuda grass we're talking about. This two feet of Spartina marsh grass, and the fish that fight their way through the tangle average 25 inches - 37 inches long and weigh from 5 to 15 pounds.         As the flats boat slides through the marsh, you see the dorsal fins of the reds slicing the water. Then the bury their heads down in a crab borough and all you see is a few inches of their tail. The water is maybe 6 inches deep, but the fish are buried another foot or so into the mud, leaving a view of the upside down fish for the uninitiated gawker. Sometimes the reds get so involved in digging out the crabs that they actually tumble over, flipping over onto their backs. Acrobatic fish break dancing on a July evening. It's a dancehall and a three ring circus, and somewhere in the haze and excitement you remember that you are supposed to be listening to your captain.        What he's saying is, that if we hope to catch any of these canny reds, we'd better listen very carefully. Rob said he would put us on to dozens of reds, and if we followed his instructions, we'd bring a couple of lovely specimens to the boat. He told us that he would be very precise in his instructions --"Cast 30 yards at 2 o'clock, and keep quiet because these fish are skittish this time of year"-- so we had to trust him.        What the captain sees is very different from the fisherman's view, so trust is the only option. Rob sat on a platform above the engine, with a good view down into the water. We were a foot of three lower, where the evening sun turns the water's surface to a white glare. So, while Rocky and I were acting like tourist, staring at some fish 20 yards away at 4 o'clock that probably already had a mouth full of crab dinner, Rob was telling us to cast for a hungry fish he was polling toward. I thought maybe he said 2 o'clock somewhere.        Rob tells us that the red is an opportunistic feeder, and all you have to do is place your cast a few feet past his head and pull your lure right by him. The red will give up on another boring, elusive crab for your tasty looking and convenient lure. What you'll get if you follow his directions, is the thrill of a 36 inch fish, running like blazes through 12 inches of water for 75 feet.         Or, if you fish like I did, experienced-but-thunderstruck, you could splat your cast right on top of your fish, and BOOM! watch as he stops dancing and searches for a quieter dining spot. It was embarrassing. Here I was, a big-shot fishing executive trying desperately to demonstrate the magnificence of my technique to my guide, and I was so overwhelmed by the sights and sounds happening around me that these fish were in more danger of going deaf from my excited yammering than they were from the hooks--which I was spraying wildly around all points of the compass. My only consolation was that Rocky wasn't doing any better. He was so caught up in the scene that he couldn't keep from commenting on it either.        Which was sort of a shame, it was a place to whisper because of the beauty of the scene. Because of the complete unreality of a seeing a world full of dancing fish. Because, if you were real quiet you could hear the reds croaking, enjoying their meals, maybe, or calling their friends to the feast. Who knows? I've never talked to a fish at mealtime before. And it was a place to whisper because Captain Rob told you in a soft-but-certain tones that if you didn't you'd scare the fish.        Though whispering was in order of the day, I was so awestruck that I couldn't contain my excitement, nor could I concentrate well enough to place my cast in the right spot.        But in the end, it didn't really matter. Rob was disappointed, in a professional sort of way, that in spite of his heroic efforts we didn't haul any reds to the boat. But I've got a different take on the situation. That evening out on the salt water flats was the ultimate in catch-and-release fishing, which is something that I believe in with all my heart. We never set a hook but we caught the image of those dancing, tailing fish in our minds forever. We found unexpected wildlife memories that will last a lifetime.         We also found something else, a new friend. On the way back Rob called his new bride, Leize, whom he insisted that we describe as, "the best looking wife around", and told her he was bringing two strangers home for dinner. Leize didn't bat an eye. She caught some shrimp from casting net off the back porch, steamed them up with sausage and served them with fresh corn on the cob and tomatoes from her daddy's farm. A few cold ones were served as we caught the glow of the setting sun. Rob told us more about how the red season runs from May to October, then fiddlers go dormant in the winter, so the reds head for happier hunting grounds. But, he knows where to find 'em in the winter, and says they aren't so finicky then. If your cast lands in the same country, they'll grab your hook.        As for me, I'm going back to see those fish dance and listen to 'em talk. This time, I'm going to take my own tackle, I'll be quiet as a mouse, and I'll be ready to follow Rob's directions to a "T". I'm not going to give up till I show him, myself and the reds, what I can do with a casting rod in my hands. In the meantime, I have indelible memories to tide me over. LowCountry Outdoors Winter Reds by Captain Rob Bennett        One of the most popular fish to catch in our area is redfish, also known as spottail bass. Some people believe that this is the best time of year to fish for them. For the most part, fishing charters have ended for the season until springtime, and this leaves me some time to do some fishing on my own. Winter is a beautiful time on the river because the ducks have migrated down and there is very little boat traffic to disturb the tranquility. This gives me the opportunity to look for some big reds.        Redfish are highly predictable, and they repeat the same patters year after year. True to their timing, around the first of December they will start to bunch up in big schools on mud flats. Fishing ranging from 5 to 15 pounds, in groups of 10 to 200 fish will hang out in water 1 to 3 feet deep. Anyone with a shallow draft boat and a keen eye can spot these fish when they are on the prowl. The best time to find reds is on the end of the outgoing tide and the beginning of the incoming tide. It helps if the wind is not blowing because of the submarine type wake the fish makes is very visible on a calm day.         Just recently, a buddy and myself treated ourselves to an afternoon of chasing reds. Armed with spinning rods with 10-pound test line, we were prepared to do battle with just about any sized redfish. Fishing for reds is a lot like hunting; you do not do any casting until you have spotted a pod of fish. Generally, one person poles the boat from a platform and looks for fish while the angler in the front of the boat waits for instructions on which direction to cast. As soon as we pulled up on a familiar flat, my buddy jumped on the platform and whispered to me that he immediately had spotted a school of about 20 fish at "two-o-clock." I asked him the distance and he instructed me that in about 10 more yards to make a throw. As he gently poled a little closer to the feeding reds, I sent out a 40-yard cast and gently twitched the gold spoon back towards the boat. With an explosion like someone had thrown dynamite in the water I was into my first red of the day.         The fish Peeled 75-yards off the reel in less than 5 seconds and it took close to 10 minutes to get him to boatside. The fish weighed close to 14 pounds and we released him as soon as we got the hook from his mouth. We caught six more fish that afternoon, alternating on the platform so both of us had a chance to challenge our angling skills. Light tackle is preferred way for us take these fish because it makes catching them much more fun.        Maybe I will see you in the river this winter, so lets wish for some calm windless days.