Sunday, April 15, 2001

East Bay sound and fury

David Sikes/Caller-Times

Galveston-area guide Bobby Elliot unfurled his stringer first and frequently, temporarily humbling Paul Marcaccio and his close-knit band of colleagues.

SAN LEON - I'll never look at brown water the same.
   The Galveston Bay system, with its seven offshoot bays, is a study in contrast to most any Coastal Bend venue. Instead of shallow seagrass beds and green water, they have . . . well . . . they don't have much seagrass and green water.
   But that doesn't mean waters of the mid-coast don't inspire optimism and pride.
   And why not? Galveston-area anglers are adept at finding fish under conditions that we might consider discouraging, to say the least.
   I noticed this attitude almost immediately upon meeting my hosts, Paul Marcaccio and his group of competent guides. My pickup had pushed against a headwind all the way to San Leon, a tiny community at the tip of a peninsula that separates Lower Galveston and Upper Galveston bays. At the end of my journey, I found Marcaccio and Bobby Elliot asleep inside a comfortable waterside trailer they use as a fish camp for clients. "Want some breakfast?" Marcaccio asked. "No thanks," I responded with mock-impatience. "I didn't drive four hours to break bread with you guys. Get up and let's go fishing."
   Have rod, will travel
   I had met the never-shy Marcaccio about a year ago during a Port O'Connor TroutMasters tournament. He handed me a business card and an open-ended invitation to fish with him someday. I hadn't called until two weeks ago, when fishing was dismal in the Coastal Bend.
   I was up front about why I called. I was desperate.
   He said things were different in East Bay, where, for the previous week, he had had no trouble enticing big trout to engulf topwater baits in the soupy brine. And he assured me he could replicate this upon my arrival under most conditions. I bit, even though I suspected his pitch was as much salesmanship as it was confidence. What did I have to lose?
   Into the dirty waters
   Once on his home waters, I was struck by the clamor of commercial fishing activity. Dense mud clouds trailed behind shrimp trawlers while oyster boats circled bamboo stakes, marking reefs, artificial and natural in this unlikely seafood mecca. I tactfully commented on the poor water clarity and asked if the commercial activity was to blame.
   Not really, Marcaccio answered. The brown water, in part, was freshwater from the Trinity River, but mostly the result of a persistent six-day hard north wind, he said.
   Whatever the cause, the effect did not seem conducive to catching fish this day. But I withheld judgment, as much as my guarded optimism would allow.
   Fighting the crowds
   After crossing Galveston Bay, we motored along a cordgrass shoreline that from a distance looked a little like parts of St. Charles Bay. But this was East Bay, known as good trout waters.
   A half-dozen boats and at least twice as many waders scattered along a two-mile stretch of this east-west shoreline sparked a comment from Marcaccio.
   "It's never this crowded. Especially on a weekday," he said. "I guess the word's out."
   He shoved the throttle forward and sped eastward toward idler waters. On the easternmost portion of East Bay's north shore is the Anahuac National Wildlife Refuge. We idled up to the Robinson Ditch/Robinson Bayou section of the Anahuac shoreline.
   The water temperature was 56 degrees, which, for the Coastal Bend, is too cold for topwater action. But Marcaccio didn't seem concerned. Galveston trout are conditioned to start looking skyward for a meal when water temperatures reach the mid-50s, particularly in cloudy conditions we faced, he said.
   Baitfish were present, but not plentiful. I wasn't impressed, because the mullet-rich waters of home hadn't paid off for me during several recent attempts. I probably wouldn't be waist deep in brown water if that weren't true.
   Sound with fury
   For reasons I can't fully explain, muddy-water trout seem to rise most often on darker plugs. Maybe when visibility is low, fish are drawn to the rattle of a lure as much as the vague silhouette of a twitching shadow.
   At the end of their lines were a Night Stalker Top Dog (NS), a Top Dog 54 (black with silver sides) and a Purple Demon Top Dog (PD).
   Marcaccio said these colors had produced most of the fish for them that week. So I clipped off my Top Dog 808 and replaced it with one of those new Night Stalker Red Head Top Dogs (NSRH).
   We lined up perpendicular to the shore and began wading westward. The bottom was semi-firm, with scattered soft spots and scant shell; comfortable to walk. The four of us, which also included Jim Vaughn, had the shoreline covered, from knee-deep waters to depths of 4½ feet.
   I lowered my hand into the water to test its clarity. My fingers disappeared quickly.
   Before I could fully appreciate how discouraging this appeared, my gaze wheeled toward Elliot in time to witness a splashy replay of what had just happened. It was a good trout, well hooked, that measured about 25 inches.
   The sweet sound visited Marcaccio's vicinity next, but it was not to be.
   The next three blowups belonged to me, each followed by the sinking feeling that comes from missing three nice trout. Again, I believe the fish were attacking sound with fury, rather than exacting aim with precision.
   Vaughn, the tallest of our group, found nothing in deeper water.
   For the next two hours, I drew my pleasure - and inspiration - from watching Elliot catch fish.
   Midway into this vicarious exercise, I began switching lures. I had decided to defy convention by tying on a bone/chartreuse Top Dog. I don't know the number. It's new.
   I caught a respectable trout, just over 20 inches. I was vindicated.
   By 3 p.m., we had an impressive mess of fish, none of which measured less than 20 inches.
   The next day, Elliot picked up where he had left off. We were joined by Rocky Handrich, who also skunked Marcaccio and Vaughn by catching fish under their noses.
   Later, we skipped around nearby Trinity Bay, where our day ended with me tripping over a big rock and soaking my clothes with the cool brown water I'd come to appreciate.
   I believe Marcaccio secretly was grateful: My embarrassment had drawn attention away from my fish-less host.