I’ll never forget my first kiss, the first time I got punched in the face or my first blackfin tuna on a jig. During winter 2006, I heard a rumor that Hatteras skipper Scott Warren was catching blackfin tuna on vertical jigs. In those days, few people fished Hatteras in winter, hardly anyone used vertical jigs and big blackfin were an anomaly. A few phone calls later, I was scheduled to fish on Warren’s legendary Big Tahuna.

Windblown and sea-smacked in the cold months, Hatteras is a seasonal ghost town. The tourists have long since left the isolated island off the coast of North Carolina, most of the charter boats are perched on blocks or visiting southern seas, and even the commercial fishing fleet is quiet.

The parking lot at Teach’s Lair Marina was empty that February morning when I pulled in a few hours before dawn. Only one boat was lit up at the dock, diesel engines already rumbling. I struggled to make out the faces of Warren and mate Kenny Koci (who later captained Big Tahuna) wrapped in sweatshirt hoods.

A few minutes later, Big Tahuna‘s anglers for the day piled onto the boat, and we were off through the pre-dawn twilight.

Known as the Graveyard of the Atlantic, Hatteras Inlet is no joke any season of the year. Winter is especially exciting. In addition to howling winds, a strong Gulf Stream current and huge rollers, the days are short and temperatures can be frigid. We started the day layered in fleece and nylon.

The 50-foot sportfisher rolled through the slop without complaint, carrying us to the fishing grounds — a series of seamounts that the locals call “rocks,” 22 miles southeast of Hatteras Inlet. Shortly after we passed over the color change from dirty-green inshore water to the deep-blue Gulf Stream, Warren slowed the boat, and the party emptied out of the comfort of the cabin.

Fishing Vertical Jigs for Blackfins

Big Tahuna motored in circles while the captain watched the fish finder. Six anglers lined the covering boards, 6-foot rods dangling foot-long metal jigs over the side. We waited for the signal to drop the lures as the boat rocked in the choppy seas. A sharp wind drove whitecaps into the side of the boat, dousing those in the cockpit with showers of warm spray on a cold day.

“Try this, six colors!” Warren called from the bridge. Six colors equates the depth at which he marked fish on the sonar to the regular changes in color on our braided lines. I flipped my high-speed conventional reel out of gear and watched the color on the depth-indicator line change six times, knowing that each color measures 30 feet.

I kicked the reel into gear and started jigging. Sticking the rod butt under my left arm, I turned the reel handle as fast as possible while jerking the rod tip. Three jerks into my retrieve, the jig was whacked in a fierce strike.

The slight rod tip bent to the water as line shredded off the spool. I moved the rod butt to my lower gut as the fish made its first run. When the line slowed, I began to retrieve. The fish continued to buck and run while I used every resource to gain line. As I jammed the rod above my groin, my forearm burned, and every run produced grunts and groans as the fish beat my ass.

One by one, the other anglers had hooked fish and now struggled similarly to gain line. In minutes, we were bobbing and weaving through crossed lines and quickstepping to stay standing. Koci raced from angler to angler while Warren called the dance from the bridge.

By the time I spotted the first silver flash of my tuna 10 feet below the boat, the whole bunch were cursing and laughing while slipping and sliding. Koci moved in to gaff my 20-pound blackfin and flip it into a fish box already bloody with spastic tuna.

The protocol was repeated for the next five hours. Make a drop; hook a burly blackfin; fight for your fish; dance, slide, yell and holler. The beefy blackfin were a perfect match for our medium-action jigging gear. The fish box began to fill up amid the fast-and-furious action. Bouncing around the mosh pit had me sweating and peeling off layers.

By the end of the day, the winds calmed and the chop turned to a rolling swell. Warren turned Big Tahuna toward Hatteras, and the crew ­shuffled into the cabin to lick wounds. I sported purple-and-black bruises; every muscle ached, and my hands were hamburger. I felt great.

Blackfin Tuna in the Atlantic Ocean

Blackfin tuna are the smallest member of the genus Thunnus (the true tunas: bluefin, yellowfin, bigeye and others); the world record stands at 49 pounds, 6 ounces, taken off Marathon, Florida, in 2006. The North Carolina state-record blackfin, taken in 2011, weighed 40 pounds, 11 ounces.

They might smaller than other tunas, but they’re prolific and tasty. Each winter, blackfin gather in the warm Gulf Stream water as it swirls over the rocky edge of the Continental Shelf, gorging on huge clouds of baitfish caught in the considerable current.

Also during winter, the cold Labrador Current pushes down the Atlantic coast from the north, colliding with warm, clear Gulf Stream water from the south. Where the two currents meet, the water temperature can differ up to 20 degrees.

On the cold side of the break, the water is dark, dirty green; the warm side appears clear blue. The current and waves are calmer on the cold side. In the stream, the current can run to 4 knots, whipping the sea into a frenzy.

Where the Gulf Stream pushes over offshore rocks and ledges, bait and predators line up to play out the food chain. Amberjack, false albacore (little tunny) and huge sharks mix in the melee, in addition to blackfin tuna. Amberjack and albacore put up a good fight, but they aren’t locally favored for eating. Most are released.

To avoid sharks, tuna anglers need to work fish to the boat quickly. That can be tough to do with a blackfin as they pull and run without mercy. Dally on the retrieve, and a man‑eater will eat the tuna.

Tuna in Changing Conditions

As Hatteras boats explored the winter blackfin bite, they discovered more than one way to skin that cat. Over the past 20 years, blackfin jigging has waxed and waned. Some years, the bite is hot; other years, it’s cold.

Changing conditions also affect how anglers target tuna. Capt. Andy Piland on Good Times, a custom 47 Carolina sport-fisher, has made a science of catching blackfin tuna. His former partner Capt. Tim Hagerich, who now owns Black Pearl Charters, insists: “You have five ways to catch a blackfin, and you’d better be ready to use each.” On any given day, Hatteras skippers might troll ballyhoo, work a greenstick, fly a kite, drop jigs or throw topwaters.

Fishing over the years, I’ve done it all with these captains. Sometimes we fish three or four tactics in one day. Changing tactics allows the crew to stay on the blackfin bite through winter and into spring. As the season progresses, the tuna seem to get more finicky.

Early in winter, blackfin feed deep in the water column, where a vertical jig matches the menu. The best jig bite starts in January and runs through March, when the water is dingier.

Read Next: Tunas of the World — An Illustrated Guide

In early spring, the water over the rocks clears and the fish turn their attention to chasing flying fish, and local skippers switch to trolling baits. While jigging for blackfin tuna has a certain maso­chis­tic appeal, the biggest fish often come to a trolled bait. “We catch blackfin up to 30 pounds trolling, when they won’t bite the jig,” Hagerich says. “The tuna will jump clear out of the water to grab a flying fish 5 feet in the air.” The key to fooling the tuna is getting a bait into the air.

“When it’s rough as hell, we catch blackfin on ballyhoo,” Hagerich says, trolling Sea Witches with medium ballyhoo at 6 knots so the lures leap and splash from wave to wave. When it’s calm, the fish respond to a rubber squid dangling from a greenstick. By late May, the water is clear and warm, and the blackfin become pickier. “The kite works best in the clearest water,” Hagerich explains.

Suspending two rubber flying fish from the kite line is the sneakiest way to fool blackfin. Hagerich cites many days when he spent hours jigging, trolling ballyhoo, and even fishing the greenstick until the crew put up the kite, and trophy blackfin suddenly exploded out of the water.

Battling a Monster Blackfin Tuna

Excited by the prospect of a near-world-record-size blackfin, I enthusiastically jumped aboard Good Times. Riding in the bridge, my teeth clenched tight and hands gripped the hardtop as Piland navigated the boat through the shallow shoals and crashing breakers of Hatteras Inlet.

Like professional guides, weekend warriors can’t pick their days, so I found myself rolling and pitching an hour and a half to the fishing grounds. Choppy, windswept rollers are tough on fishermen, but tuna treat rough water like an amusement park as they leap out of the water, chasing flying fish through the air.

Seconds after Piland slowed the boat, Hagerich deployed a dozen rods pulling Sea Witches with ballyhoo. In minutes, chunky blackfin began exploding on the baits. Piland continued to troll as line after line went down. Before he pulled back the throttles, most of the rods were bent over and bucking.

While the anglers cranked in big blackfin, Hagerich worked to keep the lines straight, gaffing fish and rigging baits. When I spotted tuna skying out of the water 10 yards off the stern, Hagerich grabbed a hefty spinning rod and shoved it into my hands. “Cast!” he ordered.

I launched the popper off the stern, somehow managing to clear the lines, outriggers, teasers and halyards. The 8-inch popper splashed down in the middle of the tuna air show. I pulled the rod and cranked the handle. The plug chugged, throwing a cup of water. I cranked; the lure popped again. On the third turn of the handle, a burly tuna flew out of the water to descend on the plug.

Excited, I hauled back on the rod — and yanked the plug out of the tuna’s mouth. “You got to let him take it,” Piland said, laughing from the bow. Feeling the pressure of 16 eyes watching my moves, I chugged the plug again, and the fish attacked.

This time, I slowed and dropped the rod tip to the fish. The line came tight, but I gave the fish a breathless pause before lifting the rod and putting on the pressure. The blackfin responded with another blistering run, jabbing the rod butt into my armpit and forcing me to cross the deck until my thighs slammed into the covering board.

The rest of the crew cleared the trolling lines, leaving me to battle a big blackfin tuna. As Hagerich shouted orders, Piland worked to keep the boat straight and my line in the clear. I put on the pressure, wedging the rod butt into my groin and stretching my forearms for maximum power to winch the stubborn fish from the depths. I got my first good look at the beefy tuna at the same time the fish had its first good look at me. My muscles had redlined, but the tuna found more fight in the tank; it turned and rushed for the darkness, line again disappearing from the reel.

Eventually, with the silver-and-black missile boatside, Hagerich reached out with the gaff, and swung a 25-pound blackfin tuna over the gunwale and into the fish box. My arms were like Jell-O and pudding filled my legs as the tuna continued to kick its tail like a jackhammer until the lid was closed. Piland quickly pushed the throttles forward, and Hagerich deployed the rigs.

No rest for the weary, but there’s no better way to stay warm in winter off Hatteras than pulling on blackfin tuna.

About the Author
Ric Burnley is an angler, editor, author and teacher who lives in Virginia Beach, Virginia. When he isn’t fishing or writing, he’s in the classroom teaching at-risk teenagers that the pen is mightier than the sword.

The post Catch Big Blackfin Tuna Off Hatteras appeared first on Sport Fishing Mag.

What does a lingcod eat? Anything it wants. These deep-water reef predators rule the bad neighborhoods where they live, feeding on octopus, sand dabs, rockfish and anything else they can fit in their cavernous, toothy maws. They readily attack prey seemingly too large to swallow, a reason they are often caught by anglers as “hitchhikers” literally lock-jawed onto hooked rockfish as they’re reeled toward the surface.

Savvy Southern California anglers know this and appeal to the lingcod’s ravenous appetite and aggressive nature by tossing super-size swimbaits. The technique has developed somewhat of a cult following: Small groups of swimbait aficionados gather in the bow of partyboats to “chuck the rubber,” while the majority of the passengers deploy dropper-loop rigs with 1-pound weights meant to carry live or cut baits into depths that can reach 300 feet or more. The fall season is probably the best time of the year to target big lingcod in this way. As temperatures cool, lings move into shallower waters and feed aggressively. Smart anglers venture out on skiffs and party boats to meet them, swimbait outfits in hand.

Make no mistake, plenty of anglers catch lingcod on live mackerel, live sardines or even whole or stripped squid fished on “shrimp fly” rigs. Large lings are sometimes taken this way in between reeling up vermillion, chucklehead or any of a wide variety of rockfish species. But if you want to catch lingcod almost exclusively—and the largest ones on the boat—switch to big swimbaits. I say “almost exclusively,” because truly large rockfish of 5 pounds and up sometimes jump on these soft-plastic lures, as well, adding variety and quality to the equation.

California Swimbait Fishing

What do I mean by a big swim bait? Lure companies like Kustom Kraft, Candy Bar and Savage Gear have developed specialized lures for this technique, with beefy, sturdy plastic bodies boasting large paddle tails for maximum action and vibration. Up to 10 inches long, these tails pair with heavy, wedge-shaped leadheads sporting 7/0 to 10/0 hooks. Depending on the depth of the structure being fished, leadheads can range from 4 to 16 ounces. Some lures, like those from Savage Gear, feature molded leadheads designed for use with specific integrated tails.

Working a lure that must be retrieved can be a challenge when fishing craggy, rocky structure in waters up to 300 feet deep. Swim the lure as close to the bottom as possible for as long as possible. Partyboat anglers should stay clear of other anglers fishing bait rigs straight up and down. The technique involves casting your lure from the bow or downwind corner of the stern. Toss it as far as possible and let it sink quickly to the bottom, then work the swimbait with a steady, medium-speed retrieve for about 15 to 20 turns of the reel handle. If you don’t get bit, freespool back to the bottom and repeat. As the boat drifts over and eventually away from your line, you will have to recast and begin the process again.

If the boat drifts too quickly, you might have to use a more vertical presentation. In those situations, I just wind quickly for about seven to 10 cranks, drop back and repeat. It takes some dedication to do this, but the reward is worth the effort. At times, however, conditions just won’t allow for working a swimbait. When this happens, I switch to my second-favorite lingcod lure, which is a heavy metal jig. Fish these lures vertically and bounce them just off the bottom. To create a large target worthy of attracting the attention of big lingcod, I replace the usual treble hooks with a large single siwash hook, onto which I thread a 6-inch plastic or Berkeley Gulp! grub.

Best Techniques for Swimbait Fishing

New anglers trying to master the swimbait method must resist the natural impulse to set the hook. Lingcod often grab the lure by the tail and hold on, and if you swing the rod, you pull the lure out of its mouth (often ripping the tail off in the process). Instead, just keep turning the reel handle at the same speed until the rod loads up and the fish is solidly hooked.

If the fish lets go or comes off after a few head shakes, immediately drop the lure down a few seconds and start reeling. Lingcod hate to let any meal—even a fake one—get away. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sealed the deal after two or three re-bites. Lings are also very competitive, and it’s not uncommon to have one or more free-swimming lingcod accompany a hooked fish on its way to the surface, ready to pounce on the lure should it become dislodged.

To increase the number of solid hookups, I often rig my swimbaits with a simple trap-hook system. I loop an Owner 5/0 Assist Hook over the tip of the main hook and cinch it tight at the hook’s bend. Depending on the length of the swimbait, this provides a large trailing hook near the tail of the lure. I’ve caught plenty of big lingcod on the trap hook alone.

Maintain a slow and steady retrieve when fighting a big ling. They usually make a strong run toward structure once hooked, and after that, it’s usually heavy weight with just enough head shaking to rattle your nerves. If you keep steady pressure, lings usually stay fairly calm until they get near the boat.

Swimbait tails come in a wide variety of colors, and I’ve seen them all work. Shades of red and brown certainly match the natural coloration of juvenile rockfish.

Capt. Mike Nickerson, of the popular Channel Islands-based sport boat Pacific Dawn, likes a custom-poured tail he calls Blue Bass, the common name for the ubiquitous blue rockfish that populate these reefs. At the same time, I’ve caught plenty on gaudy colors like glow in the dark, chartreuse, pink-and-white striped and pearl white. I don’t think color is all that important as long as you work the lure effectively in the strike zone and maximize bites when they happen.

Swimbait Fishing Tackle for Lingcod

It takes a specific style of rod and reel to effectively fish these heavy lures. Relatively stiff, fast-action graphite-composite jig rods of 8 to 8 1/2 feet work best for lobbing lures that might weigh up to a pound. Conventional reels can be either star or lever drag, as long as they hold 300 to 400 yards of 65-pound braided line.

Using straight braid with only a few feet of 40-pound test monofilament or fluorocarbon leader allows lures to sink quickly and keep you in direct touch with the lure and your fish. The short length of leader (joined with a back-to-back uni-knot) provides some added shock absorption and makes it easier to break off if you snag the bottom.

The post Catch California’s Lingcod with Swimbaits appeared first on Sport Fishing Mag.

When you think of musky fishing, chances are the northern portions of Maine don’t immediately come to mind. A decade ago, the same could have been said for Kevin McKay, owner and operator of Maine Fishing Adventures, one of the premier musky guide services in the Pine Tree State. After hearing rumblings of muskies making their way into the St. John River, which marks the border between Maine and Quebec, McKay and his son made the trip and quickly realized that the rumors were true, northern Maine is plumb full of muskies.

The Popularity of Musky Fishing 

Musky (short for muskellunge) are the ultimate freshwater predators — big, tough and downright elusive. Known as the fish of 10,000 casts, they’re infamous for being hard to catch thanks to their ghost-like behavior and tendency to only feed in specific windows. In fact, many anglers measure a successful musky trip not by what they catch but by how many fish they even see, as these apex predators are known to follow moving baits all the way to the boat. 

The stronghold of the musky (sometimes spelled muskie) has long been associated with the Great Lakes, upper Midwest, southern Ontario, and parts of Quebec. Most freshwater anglers have fished or heard about legendary fisheries including Lake of the Woods, Lake St. Clair, Eagle Lake, and the St. Lawrence River. Other targetable populations can be found as far south as the Appalachians.

How Musky Fishing Got Started in Maine

In the 1960s, the Quebec government introduced muskies into Lac-Frontière in the hopes of creating a quality population for province anglers. Over time, these fish began to move downstream into the Maine section of the St. John River, gorging on trout populations and slowly infiltrating the entire system. 

As the musky population grew, so did angler interest, culminating in events like the Fort Kent International Muskie Derby, which draws enthusiasts from both sides of the border each August. However, not everyone was thrilled. Some anglers still have concerns. Many Maine anglers view muskies as a threat to the trout and salmon populations that have long defined the state as a premier fishing destination. With no season or bag limits, many fish are killed in an effort to protect native fish species. 

According to Kevin McKay, these fish are not going anywhere and are only going to get bigger, “Musky fishing in Maine has the potential to produce fish of over 50 inches,” he says. In addition to the main flowage of the St. John River, other areas of note throughout the watershed are Glazier Lake, Baker Lake, Beau Lake, and the Allagash River. 

How to Fish for Muskies in Maine

As mentioned above, muskies are predatory fish that grow in excess of 60 pounds, with the bulk of their diet made up of large baitfish such as suckers, chubs, panfish, and ciscoes. This means anglers need to focus on baits such as bladed bucktails, big profiled topwaters, oversized crankbaits, plastic-bodied jerk baits, and other reaction-style baits. 

To handle these heavy bait options, anglers should use appropriate rod and reel systems. I recommend heavy casting tackle with rods over 8 feet in length and foregrips long enough to provide plenty of leverage during casting. Rod power and action is up to  angler preference and technique. But for baits that require a lot of extra action, some rod options come standard with a pistol-style lower grip. 

For reels, classic round styles or beefed-up low-profile models are worthy options. However, gear ratios in the 5:1 to 6:1 are mandatory to keep big baits moving. Additionally, many anglers opt to use braided line down to heavy-duty fluorocarbon or even steel leaders in dirty water environments. 

Muskies are known to hold on or near a wide variety of cover with top picks being edges of weed beds, current breaks, wood and offshore rocky structures. Primetime to fish muskies includes cooler water periods of spring and fall, with midsummer heat often correlating to extended periods of lockjaw. 

Fly Fishing for Muskies

For McKay, the musky has increasingly become a favorite species to target via the fly rod, so much so that it led to a documentary detailing the added difficulty and reward fly fishing for muskies can bring to even the most seasoned angler. 

For fly anglers, the same principles apply, bigger is better. Kevin and his clients utilize 10- to 12-weight fly rods with extended fighting butts. Additionally, a heavy 400- to 500-grain line is needed to make powerful and accurate casts. Large articulated streamers in the 6-inch range are commonplace for flies. 

The post Maine: A New Musky Hotspot appeared first on Sport Fishing Mag.

It should be noted that however long the catch took (from hookup to grabbing the leader at the boat), all of these records were approved only after the IGFA ascertained that no angling rules were broken in the capture of a fish.

Often with the application form in the record folder are letters from the angler, crew and witnesses offering additional information or testimony. That’s particularly true when catches are outlandishly quick. But most of those are made by anglers out to set records, with a crew well-prepared to act quickly and decisively once a potential-record fish is hooked. However, some “instant catches” are more serendipitous than calculated, as was the case with the two‑minute world-record tuna.

Monster Yellowfin Tuna Caught in 120 Seconds

The very thought of battling — especially stand-up from a dead boat — a 388.5-pound yellowfin tuna is enough to make most bodies ache. But for Curt Wiesenhutter on April 1 (no fooling), 1977, there wasn’t time enough to experience any pain, nor much strain.

Landing a yellowfin approaching 400 pounds would be a formidable task in even an optimal situation. But on a drifting San Diego-based long-range boat (Royal Polaris, in this case), among dozens of lines in the water around a rail high above the water, where an angler can’t easily follow a fish around the boat on his own, you might figure landing such a behemoth would be impossible.

Whether the catch was “sporting” is subjective, but the IGFA — after months of investigating and correspondence with the angler, captain (the late, legendary Bill Poole) and others — determined that the fish was landed without breaking any rules; it became the all-tackle world record at that time, and it’s still the men’s 80-pound record today.

Here’s how it went down. Wiesenhutter was soaking a live caballito (scad — a Pacific goggle-eye) off the port side of the 115-foot long-range boat when he was bit and then, as they say in California, bendo. In a letter to the IGFA, the angler explains, “The fish took 40 to 60 yards of line, then turned back at the boat.” It circled near the boat and darted under it, coming up on the other side.

His friend, Larry Ward, fishing in the starboard corner 30 feet across from the port side, said he looked over the rail and saw the huge tuna for whatever reason “laying on its side, splashing” water as high as the rails. Ward yelled that it looked like a record fish. By then, Poole was on deck and had gaffed the fish, but many more hands were required to bring it up the boat’s high sides, so three more crew/anglers (including Wiesenhutter, who apparently had set down his rod in free-spool), stuck the fish with gaffs, and eventually the group had the monster on the deck.

On August 30, 1977, IGFA president Elwood K. Harry wrote to Wiesenhutter to say his catch “now holds the all-tackle and men’s 80-pound-line-class world record.” That did little to quell the raging (within the angling world, particularly in Southern California) controversy surrounding the catch. San Diego fishing writer Chuck Garrison reported that Wiesenhutter acknowledged, “I have very mixed emotions about [this record].” But a record it remains.

Tarpon: A Tale of Two Records — one of Minutes and one of Hours

Angler Thane Morgan is proof that every fish, and the circumstances at the time, determines how a light-line battle will go down. The one fairly reliable prospect of such battles is that they will defy expectations, and often ruin the most carefully laid plans. Morgan’s battles with two current tarpon records, in 2011 and 2013, couldn’t have been more different. The Amarillo, Texas, angler never expected to land one record fish in just three minutes nor to fight one slightly smaller for six hours. Fishing with his friend Capt. Dustin Huff — son of famed Florida Keys guide Steve Huff — Morgan was determined to set a new IGFA fly-rod record for tarpon on 4-pound tippet and did, with a 119-pounder.

“We’d probably hooked a hundred on 4 that we never landed,” Morgan says. That changed on October 13, 2013, near Marathon in the Keys, when the angler put a mullet fly in the path of yet another big tarpon. At the sting of the hook, it “went crazy, jumping,” says Morgan. No big surprise there, but the pair was surprised when the tarpon “basically belly-flopped and came down stunned.”

They quickly ran up on the fish and put a gaff in it. At that, the tarpon took off, and took Huff with it, pulling him over the side and dragging him behind, Morgan says. Huff wasn’t about to let go. In about three minutes from when the fish was hooked, it was in the boat. (Morgan had, of course, paid for the tag necessary to boat a tarpon because he was explicitly fishing for a world record.)

Two years earlier, fishing with Huff, Morgan boated an 88-pounder on 4-pound that overtested, so it became a 6-pound world record. However, that fish required not minutes to land, but hours — 18 in total. At about 4 p.m., in outer Florida Bay, Morgan hooked a large tarpon on 4-pound line. Sometime late in the day, they discovered the gaff point had been rolled. So while Morgan fought the fish, Huff ran the boat while trying desperately to sharpen the gaff point using the only thing they had — a little fish-hook file.

Even with a good gaff, a big tarpon is hard to stick. In this case, “We probably hit it 12 times through the course of the night,” says Morgan. Three times during the night, the tarpon laid up on bottom in the Man O’ War Channel. On 4-pound tippet, it became an immovable object, Morgan says.

Finally, at noon the next day, 15 miles from where it was hooked, the pair subdued the fish. The bad news for Morgan: The line overtested. The good news: Breaking at 5.2 pounds put it into the 6-pound-tippet category, breaking Stu Apte’s existing world record for that class, so it became a world record after all.

Seven Hours Fighting a Bigeye Tuna

In 1986, legendary angler Stewart Campbell and Capt. Bark Garnsey ventured to Africa’s Ivory Coast to fish for blue marlin. At that time, they didn’t have a boat, so “we just kind of borrowed a guy’s boat. But the price was that he came with us.” The boat, its setup and its tackle weren’t really conducive to pitch-baiting, as they preferred, so they just trolled small lures on his outriggers, says Garnsey, on 30-pound line. With marlin in mind, they hooked a triple — of bigeye tuna.

They purposely broke off one in hopes of managing the double, but of course, the big fish wishboned the pair of anglers — Campbell and the boat owner. In order to follow the boat owner’s fish, Garnsey says, “we put Stewart on a French guy’s boat.”

Fortunately, the seas were calm, but it was still a tricky transition, with Campbell holding the rod under his arm as he climbed aboard and Garnsey yelling at the crew, who were trying to be helpful, not to grab the rod. Eventually, Campbell climbed back onto the original boat after the owner ended up losing his tuna, and finished the fight from there.

“When we finally got the fish in the boat,” Garnsey says, “it was almost dark. That was the first bigeye I’d seen at that time.

“I asked Pete Gray, who was with us, what he figured the world record for a bigeye on 30-pound might be. We ended up calling the marlin club in Abidjan and found it was around 240 pounds.” That made their 329-pounder the line-class record, as it remains to this day.

How did Campbell hold up over the course of that tough seven-hour battle? “He was bionic,” says Garnsey, noting that he later saw Campbell through much longer fights, including an estimated 750 blue on 16-pound line. Ultimately, that fish came up in the darkness under the boat and jumped, breaking off right there. That, Garnsey says, was a real heartbreaker.

The One-Minute Marlin

How does an angler come to land a 226.5-pound marlin in a minute? One instance happened this way. Saundra McMurray, at that time of Fort Lauderdale, Florida, was fishing out of Los Sueños Resort off Costa Rica on February 19, 2002, on the 63-foot American Custom Stephanie Lee. Aboard were Capt. Tony Carrizosa and three mates. McMurray was loaded for bear — with the equivalent of a high-quality peashooter, her Shimano TLD 20 filled with 6-pound line. Obviously, McMurray and her crew were out to break a world record.

Around 1 p.m., the stripe came up on the right-short teaser. “I picked up the [pitch-bait] rod and pitched back a mackerel rigged with a circle hook,” writes the angler in her letter to then-IGFA president Mike Leech to explain the circumstances. The fish whacked the bait, then circled and came back to hit it again. “I let him run, then locked up the reel. As soon as he knew the fish was hooked, Tony threw the boat in reverse, and I wound as fast as I could as the boat was flying backward toward the fish.” The marlin was “windshield-wipering” (thrusting its head side to side above the water) as the boat came back to it, says mate Barry Gottlieb.

In seconds, McMurray had wound the leader to the rod tip, and one of the mates grabbed the leader, yelling, “Caught fish!” By IGFA rules, of course, that was so. Two other mates, already standing by, immediately put gaffs into the fish, and Carrizosa, who had rushed down into the cockpit, added a third gaff. The fish was caught and now boated. Hard to imagine? The IGFA didn’t have to imagine any part of it: The angler provided video that showed the whole very fast and furious moment.

Sharks, Blues and Permit Fishing World Records

The five catches described above by no means represent all of the exceptionally brief or extended battles with record game fish. Here’s the short version of a few others.

BLUE SHARK CATCH, 7 HOURS

After spotting two big bronze whaler sharks lurking in the burley (chum) trail, Dave Kahlenberg, of Rotorua, New Zealand, drifted a bait back to them. He was fishing 8-pound line mono on a Tiagra 12, hoping to beat the 130-pound line-class record. The shark took; the angler set and then held on as the fish made a screaming 100-yard run. Then began the long battle. After several grueling hours, the fish cleared the water in a number of surprisingly high leaps. But it wasn’t until more than seven hours had elapsed, 12 or so miles from where they’d hooked up and far into the night, that Kahlenberg and his mate finally managed to get the shark on the swim platform. The record catch on 8-pound line in December 2010 weighed in at more than 400 pounds.

BIGEYE TUNA CATCH, 57 SECONDS

“I remember that fish coming in on the left long,” says Capt. Jason Pipe of that June day in 2008 off La Gomera, Canary Islands. “That fish” would go on to be the men’s 6-pound-test world record once the 357-pound blue marlin was weighed in. Angler Gary Carter put a pitch bait in front of the fish, and it was hooked. The marlin jumped, coming straight up, then began thrashing as Pipe thrust the 37 Bertram Bocinegro in full back-down mode. The blue came out again, “and mate Jason Brice took his gaff shot and nailed her in midair, right in the arse!” Pipe recalls. Mayhem ensued, but eventually the fish was subdued. Pipe recalls the time from hookup to the mate grabbing the leader as exactly 57 seconds.

PERMIT FISHING CATCH, FIVE HOURS

Fishing for a world record was about the furthest thing from the thoughts of Tom Sebestyen, of Deerfield Beach, Florida. In fact, he was just fishing for live baits with sabikis off Fort Lauderdale. When a couple of big, fast-moving fish went around his boat, Sebestyen grabbed a spinning rod that had on it the little yellow bucktail jig he used for blue runners. He tipped it with a piece of shrimp and cast in front of the fish. He saw the shape follow the jig down, then came tight on it, and instantly it was ripping drag, so Sebestyen and his pal Mike followed — and followed. Sebestyen says he kept a light drag and just persisted. During the dogged fight, Mike cast out liveys and caught a couple of nice kings. At 10 p.m., roughly five hours after the hookup, the pair landed the all-tackle world-record permit of 56 pounds, 2 ounces (since defeated, but the catch remains the men’s 20-pound-class record).

The post Fishing’s Shortest and Longest World-Record Battles appeared first on Sport Fishing Mag.

I eyed a spot at the southwestern tip of the Cameron, Louisiana, jetties and made a cast. My lipless crankbait hit the water.

As the lure sank, I began my normal seven-count before making the first pull. I stopped at three. It felt as if the lure had hit a rock and got stuck, so I set the hook — just in case.

The rod immediately doubled over, the drag screamed, and for the next 15 minutes, a super-sized redfish put my muscles and tackle to the test.

Catching redfish is fun. Catching big redfish is really fun. And one of the best ways to do that in early fall is with crankbaits at jetties.

Gearing Up for Fishing Crankbaits

Endless varieties of crankbaits flood the market, especially for bass fishing, but the most effective crankbaits for redfish are lipless.

As the name implies, these lures feature no protruding lip, a characteristic that allows this kind of bait to be fished at specific depths. Lipless versions can be more versatile because the angler essentially controls the fishing depth.

Rat-L-Trap has long led the industry, but my favorite is the Super Pogy by Bomber Saltwater Grade. It comes with a high-pitch rattle that I’ve found effective. Other options include the Nobondo Lipless Crankbait, Nomad Design Madscad and Biospawn Rattle Bot.

Best colors include chrome, white/black, chrome/pink, and bronze. I use a casting reel rigged with a 30-pound green P-line braid tied directly to the lure because I fish in dingy water. In clear water, add a 36-inch fluorocarbon leader if needed.

I like a medium-heavy action, 7 1/2-foot rod but have a particular preference for its composition. I learned about this while fishing over the years with four-time Bassmaster Classic champion and living legend Rick Clunn.

Super-sensitive rods actually work against you when fishing with crankbaits, Clunn told me. A fish actually pushes the lure in pursuit; if you’re fishing a super-sensitive (graphite/composite) rod, you’ll set the hook before the fish actually has the lure.

Clunn collaborated with Wright & McGill a few years back to create the S-Glass Series of rods that incorporate traditional fiberglass technology with a modern flare. I use these rods for crankbaits and have had serious success everywhere from the Mississippi River near Venice, La., to the Cameron jetties.

With glass rods, I have had far more hookups than misses because I can’t feel the bite until the fish takes the lure. You’ll find numerous fiberglass crankbait rods on the market, and they can make a massive difference in the pursuit of redfish.

Location and Technique

Around the jetties, start fishing near the boat cuts [Ed’s note: Texas jetties feature breaks in the rock wall about halfway out that allow small boats through] to take advantage of reds foraging on baitfish moving between the channel and Gulf side of the jetty rocks. “You get shrimp, shad and crabs pushing through, and the reds will move in and feed,” says veteran jetty angler Bill Killian.

Anchor up-current of the cut and work the lure against the flow. “Throw it out toward the cut, let it sink a few seconds, and then reel it in as fast as you can. The pressure of the current will allow the rattles to work really well,” he says.

Also look for jetty reds in the deep holes usually found around the southern tip of the rocks and northward about 50 yards. At these spots, the current wraps around the jetty structure and carves out large holes. Reds congregate around large boulders that have fallen off the main wall into these holes.

Read Next: More Redfish Fishing Tips

Throw out the crankbait, let it sink to the level of the rocks, and rip it. I pull a few feet and then reel a couple of cranks. Repeat that three or four times and recast. The reds usually hit just after the first pull and sometimes on the fall.

While it might sound counterintuitive, if you see dolphins feeding in the area, that’s a fortunate sign.

In my logbook, I’ve noted dolphins feeding in the vicinity every time I’ve caught lots of bull reds. The times we had fewer fish, I saw no dolphins feeding. The presence of dolphins often indicates menhaden, a primary forage species for big reds.

Releasing for the Future

As everything from algae blooms to bycatch in the menhaden fishery puts pressure on redfish populations, catch-and-release becomes increasingly important — particularly for the big, breeding-size reds that inhabit jetty systems.

Scientists say the discard mortality rate for all sizes of redfish averages around 8 percent, though the type of terminal tackle used plays a major role. In general, lures deep-hook fewer fish than J-hooked natural baits.

In fact, one fish Killian caught at a nearshore gas platform off the Sabine Pass, which I tagged for Texas Sea Grant, made a reappearance three weeks later two miles away at the Sabine jetties. As the super fat bull redfish surfaced, Killian netted it. We quickly noticed a tag covered with slime.

I removed the growth, and my heart raced as I realized the tag said Sea Grant.

After examining our data, we realized it was the same fish Killian caught a few weeks before. It taught me firsthand that releasing big fish pays off, and I will carry that and deep respect for these bulls with me for the rest of my life.

The post Fishing Crankbaits for Gulf Jetty Redfish appeared first on Sport Fishing Mag.

An angler on an overnight tuna and swordfish charter out of Narragansett, Rhode Island, caught the largest mahi-mahi the state has ever seen in late August. Fishing with Maridee Charters, angler Karl Mohr, of New York, battled the 37.56-pound, 59-inch dolphinfish to the gaff.

“We were pumped. I’ve never seen one that big,” said AJ Dangelo, who was running the deck for his father, Capt. Andy Dangelo. “It’s not typical to see mahi in our area over 10 pounds. You see a few big ones every year, but nothing that big.”

Juvenile mahi move into the waters off New England with warm Gulf Stream currents in summer. They congregate around “high flyers,” which are tall buoys with radar reflectors to help lobstermen find their pots. The mahi are a popular plan-B target when the tuna fishing is slow.

Doubled Up on Big Mahi

During Mohr’s trip, Capt. Dangelo had taken them about 85 miles offshore to an area known as Fishtails. They were trolling over about 700 feet of water, right on the north edge of Block Canyon.

AJ said Capt. Andy was pushing to see how close he could pull his spread to the buoys when they doubled up on mahi.

“The first one we got to the boat was a nice cow, maybe 15 pounds,” AJ said. “And I told the angler it was a good fish. I didn’t think the other one we had on was a mahi, because it wasn’t coming in like one.”

When AJ gaffed the second fish and brought it over the rail, he knew they had caught something special. The big mahi should replace a record that has stood for nearly 30 years. Although Rhode Island doesn’t officially recognize dolphinfish for state records, it does list a 32-pound, 4-ounce, 58.5-inch mahi caught in 1995 as a “Notable Catch.”

With this fish, AJ thinks he’s found a lucky combination for Meridee. Two years ago, Mohr caught a giant wahoo that would have been a record if they had documented it properly. The big wahoo and the record mahi both came on the same Sterling Tackle spreader bar—same lure, same angler.

Mohr’s wahoo weighed 91 pounds, “with the guts out,” AJ said. Also listed as a “Notable Catch,” the largest Rhode Island wahoo on record was caught in 1998 and weighed 80 pounds.

In case you’re curious about what an overnight trip out of Rhode Island looks like, AJ said they troll for yellowfin and big eye tuna during the day and spend the night swordfishing.

“It’s a blast,” he said. “They look like zombies when they get back to the dock. They’re all delirious. People try to get some sleep here and there, but everyone’s so excited that it’s hard to sleep.”

The post Huge Mahi Tops 30-Year-Old Record appeared first on Sport Fishing Mag.

Normally, harvesting 108 red snapper from the South Atlantic might be enough to earn you some jail time. Not if you have Florida Exempted Fishing Permits (EFPs).

Studies being conducted on Florida’s east coast right now are allowing recreational anglers to catch and keep red snapper, and there’s still plenty of opportunity to put your name in the hat for a chance at an EFP.

Team Buck Rogers Charters out of Jacksonville got their hands on four of these golden tickets known as EFPs, and they are busily cashing them in. With an allowance of 36 red snapper per trip, six lucky anglers likely have sore arms from pumping and reeling.

“We’re piling them up. We’ve got four permits and 36 snapper per trip, and we’re 100 percent so far,” said Capt. Chad Starling. “It’s not hard. We did it in 45 minutes. That’s what happens when it’s been shut down for 14 years.”

Fishing with an Exempted Fishing Permit

EFPs allow the take of out-of-season fish for scientific research. Team Buck Rogers is participating in one of three red snapper and grouper studies being conducted right now by the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission (FWC). With a captain, a mate, six anglers and an FWC representative onboard, they have fished three of these fast-paced meat runs on September 18, 19, 20. Starling is confident they’ll boat their 36 snapper a fourth time on Oct. 1.

“Every fish gets harvested,” Starling said. “I mean, you go out and fish for 45 minutes, keep everything you catch and then come back.”

In a social media post on Sept. 23, Team Buck Rogers said their captains have carpal tunnel syndrome from filleting fish and that they’re running through their Ziplock bags. The anglers get to keep the meat and FWC keeps the carcasses for study.

In a press release, FWC indicated these studies are intended to collaborate with anglers to collect data on red snapper and test ways to reduce red snapper discards. Starling said he hopes they’re looking at the fish from his boats and seeing all sizes and ages of red snapper, which would be evidence of a population that’s healthy enough to allow more regular harvest opportunities.

Since 2011, NOAA has managed South Atlantic red snapper under an intense rebuilding plan with extremely limited federal seasons and bag limits. It has worked well, according to the many captains and recreational anglers who say they are seeing more snapper than ever. Continued strict regulations are a source of building frustration. This summer in the Atlantic from North Carolina through Florida, NOAA—through the South Atlantic Marine Fishery Council—allowed recreational anglers just a single day to harvest one snapper per person.

“Like you, FWC is frustrated with the current state of Atlantic red snapper management,” said Jessica McCawley, director of FWC’s Division of Marine Fisheries Management. “We recognize that people are seeing more red snapper than ever on the water. These particular EFPs try to turn discarded fish into landed catch and improve angler satisfaction by testing different management measures.”

How to Get an Exempted Fishing Permit

The trips Team Buck Rogers Charters takes with its clients are part of a program called FWC Study Fleet. FWC selects five charter captains every three months to participate by fishing Atlantic waters off northern Florida. To get in on one of these trips, private recreational anglers must likely be preferred clients of one of the captains selected.

For private recreational charter captains who want to get involved, eligibility details and enrollment information are available at myfwc.com. For instructions on how to apply watch this video.

There are also two programs that allow private recreational anglers to keep a few red snapper. The FWC Hot Spot Fleet program is for private Florida anglers who fish north of the NASA Vehicle Assembly Building at Cape Canaveral. The SE FL Snapper Grouper Fleet program is for private anglers who fish south of that point.

“For years, FWC has heard that anglers want to directly provide data to improve the management of Atlantic red snapper,” said FWC chairman Rodney Barreto. “This is your opportunity to do so. Your participation is not just desired; it’s essential for these studies to be a success and improve management.”

Up to 200 private anglers will be selected for each fleet every three months by lottery. Each selected angler will be randomly assigned to a group, either experimental or control. There are different requirements for anglers fishing the two groups, and experimental group anglers will be allowed to harvest three snapper per day during official fleet trips.

All three fleet programs have three remaining application periods: Oct. 4-14, Jan. 3-13 and April 4-14.To learn more about these programs go to myfwc.com. For instructions on how to apply watch this video.

The post Harvest South Atlantic Red Snapper Now appeared first on Sport Fishing Mag.

The best Florida saltwater anglers know how to follow the fish. A hotspot one day might be barren the next when fish are on the move. Migratory fish urges set in once autumn arrives, and depending on the Florida species, cooling waters can trigger fish to scatter along the coast, or even offshore. Both resident and highly migratory species are involved. 

The home bodies — such as spotted seatrout, redfish and snook — don’t go far. Popular beach runners such as pompano, Spanish mackerel and bluefish are the long-range travelers that come from northern waters. They follow their preferred water temperatures into Florida when fall arrives. Still, surf casters can tell you these three species are available year-round in Florida waters in limited numbers. 

Water temperature is the main driver for all of the aforementioned fish movement. However, forage availability (which is tied to not only water temperature, but to salinity and habitat changes) also has a bearing on when fish move and where they go. 

When Gamefish Move from Open Waters to Backwaters

Years ago, I learned how seasonal changes affect fish in the Ten Thousand Islands area on Florida’s Gulf Coast. I quickly learned enough of the territory to know the difference between the “inside” and the “outside” waters. Inside was from a line roughly halfway between the open Gulf of Mexico and the mainland creeks that lead deep into the Everglades’ freshwaters. Outside meant from that same point out to the open Gulf. 

My favorite spring and summertime grass flats on the Gulf side became devoid of the specks by late December once cold fronts came through twice a week. I lucked into tight schools of them around oyster bars of the inside bays. Severe January cold snaps forced them into the salty mangrove-lined creeks and rivers of the mainland. 

The same was true about red drum and snook. During September and October, the two species were commonplace around the outside islands and oyster bars on the edge of the Gulf. But when it cooled down, they moved deep into the backcountry. And they did not come out until April, unless winter was mild. Those migrations are very short, but unmistakable.  

Moving from Flats to Offshore Waters

Florida Bay might have the best summertime inshore mangrove snapper fishery in the state, mostly over grass in 5 to 8 feet of water. It peaks in late summer, but by November, most of the fish of legal size move out to deeper water, on both the Gulf and the nearshore Atlantic reefs off the Keys. The void they leave is quickly filled by hordes of Spanish mackerel, cobia and pompano that originate in Panhandle waters. Those fish stay until May, before heading north, and the snapper return. 

Gamefish Head South for the Winter

Pompano — officially Florida pompano — are sensitive to water temperature fluctuations. I chase them both in the surf with bait and surf gear and with fly rods when they enter the Indian River Lagoon. By January, chances are the water temperatures from Hobe Sound north may fall below 63 degrees F, and that triggers them to move south en masse.

Though it’s been on the mild side in recent years, I recall a handful of seasons when the pomps vanished from their normal spots, so I scouted waters as far south as West Palm Beach. The beaches there were swarming with pompano. A 5-degree water temperature difference was the key. 

Biscayne Bay bonefish are a perfect example of a fish on the move. Autumn water temperatures are ideal, so October and November see lots of hungry fish on the flats — both on the mainland and oceanside. But a cold December through February sends them to primarily the Atlantic oceanside flats, or into deeper water such as nearshore patch reefs. 

Inside Tip: Bonefish are known to “huddle up” in schools of hundreds and head south to the Keys to find the warmest water possible. 

Fish Ranges Expanding Due to Climate Change? 

Florida anglers are continually reporting catches of saltwater species farther north of their typical range, and just recently, multiple tarpon were spotted by anglers as far north as Maryland’s northern Chesapeake Bay. An occasional sighting has happened over the years, but this summer’s numbers are impressive. Warming Atlantic waters allow for this, and many biologists and anglers think climate change is the trigger. This is strictly migratory behavior — the tarpon must head back south as winter approaches, or they perish. 

Florida snook are creeping northward into the Florida Big Bend. On the Gulf coast, snook typically ranged to Tarpon Springs, but by 2020 they were encountered in the Suwannee River, 80 miles to the north. Since that time, state wildlife researchers are hearing reports of the popular linesiders in the Florida Panhandle. The term “neo-native” applies to snook, and any fish species native to a particular region, but is expanding to nearby regions because of climate shifts, such as fewer hard freezes in winter. 

Like tarpon, snook can’t withstand prolonged cold weather. In fact, snook typically die in water less than 50 degrees after more than a few days. You have to wonder if any snook in the Florida Panhandle have actually survived a winter? There was a small snook kill in 2018 around Crystal River, where snook were not present years ago. Three nights of freezing weather killed them. 

And it’s no secret that the peacock bass, a tropical fish first released in South Florida canals and lakes to control other invasive species, are now flourishing in waterways as far north as Boynton Beach. The original northern range was northern Palm Beach County, with the epicenter of the population being Dade and Broward counties on the east coast. Gulf side, it was mostly Everglades waters, and Collier and Lee counties. 

Peacock bass do not tolerate water temperatures under 60 degrees, though they have survived cold snaps in some of the deeper canals. Considering a recent string of warm winters, without hard freezes south of Orlando, it’s anyone’s guess how far peacock bass will push north.

The post Temps Trigger Migratory Fish Movements appeared first on Sport Fishing Mag.

That the ocean’s most advanced and highly developed swimming machines are also among the most popular of game fishes with the world’s saltwater angling enthusiasts is hardly a coincidence. As anglers, we have tremendous respect for the spirited fighting qualities of tunas — difficult to release, should we wish to, because they truly will fight their hearts out when hooked. So what is it that makes tunas the über-fish of our oceans? The more we learn about our favorite game fish, the more fascinating they are.

Are Mackerels Tuna? What Are True Tunas?

Tunas are part of the family Scombridae, which also includes mackerels, large and small. But there are tunas, and then there are, well, “true tunas.” Two groups (sometimes known as “tribes”) dominate the tuna clan. One is Thunnini, which is the group considered true tunas, characterized by two separate dorsal fins and a relatively thick body. The 15 species of Thunnini are albacore, bigeye, black skipjack, blackfin, bluefin (three species: Atlantic, Pacific, southern), bullet, frigate, kawakawa, little tunny, longtail, skipjack, slender and yellowfin.

The other tribe is Sardini; these tunas — the dogtooth tuna and several species of smaller true bonitos — are somewhat more mackerel-like (notably with a more elongated body and a row of sharp, conical teeth).

How do Tuna Swim so Fast and Hard?

Sport fishermen know that when they hook a large tuna, they’re in for a long, drawn-out, relentless battle. Nothing characterizes tunas more than their powerful, tireless swimming. In fact, these fish have no choice but to swim endlessly: As explained more thoroughly below, they’re ram ventilators, meaning forward motion is required as they move with mouth open to force water past their gills.

Most fishes, such as groupers, snappers and jacks, can remain motionless and respire by opening and closing their mouths to push water through their gills. Tunas have lost the ability to do that (even if they could, such small pushes of water wouldn’t offer their large gills the tremendous flow they require to supply their systems with oxygen). A suitable motto for tunas, then, is “swim or die.”

How tunas have evolved to move efficiently through the water is reflected in their design, both externally and internally. Of their fusiform body shape (tapering fore and aft), Sport Fishing Fish Facts expert Ben Diggles says, “Their almost-perfect hydrodynamic shape minimizes drag with a very low drag coefficient,” optimizing efficient swimming both at cruise and burst.

And these torpedoes are perfectly streamlined, their larger fins fitting perfectly into grooves so no part of these fins protrudes above the body surface. They lack the convex eyes of most fish; rather, a membrane covering tuna eyes remains flush with their heads, maintaining a surface with minimal drag. Keels and finlets in front of the tail provide stability and help reduce the turbulence in the water ahead of the tail.

Unlike most fishes with broad, flexible tails that bend to scoop water to move a fish forward, tunas derive tremendous thrust with thin, hard, lunate (moon-shaped) tails that beat constantly, capable of 10 to 12 or more beats per second. That relentless thrust accounts for the unstoppable runs that tuna make repeatedly when hooked.

As with other fast-swimming fishes, a primary limitation on top speed for tunas is cavitation, which at high speeds can slow them and even damage fins. (Cavitation is caused when negative pressure forms tiny air bubbles, which then collapse and form shock waves. Cavitation can damage the metal in propellers — and cause lesions in the fins of fish that swim “too fast,” such as tunas.)

Why Is a Tuna’s Meat Red?

While many of the characteristics that account for the tuna’s remarkable swimming ability are visible externally, some of the most astonishing adaptations are internal.

Certainly, that includes their extensive aerobic red muscle. Many fishes are ambush predators, relying on bursts of speed to feed but swimming slowly otherwise. Their bodies are mostly filled with white muscle — glycolytic fibers used in infrequent burst swimming. Tunas employ far more red muscle; their oxidative fibers prove ideal for long-haul, constant swimming without fatigue. Also, red muscle is full of myoglobin, which stores oxygen in the muscle tissues, for use as needed.

With so much red muscle demanding that much more oxygen, tunas’ gills — their organs for respiration, of course — are huge. For example, a tuna has seven to nine times more gill area for its size compared to relatively sedentary trout. And, not surprisingly, you’ve gotta have heart: Moving great amounts of oxygenated blood through their bodies requires tunas to have far larger hearts than most fish. Not only that, but another way tunas have advanced beyond most fishes — which have a constant heart rate — is their ability, like mammals, to vary their heart rate, maximizing efficiency.

Can Tuna Warm Their Bodies?

Arguably the most striking and sophisticated adaptation we can’t see — but science has revealed — is the ability of larger true tunas to heat certain areas of their bodies. They do this through what are known as the retia mirabilia (“wonderful net”), an ingenious counter-current vascular heat-exchange system. Basically, parallel veins and arteries exchange blood, allowing tunas to conserve metabolic heat via what is called regional endothermy, warming their red muscle tissue, brain, eyes and viscera well above ambient water temperatures.

This regional endothermy gives them the same metabolic advantage that Homo sapiens and other mammals enjoy. In fact, tunas couldn’t sustain the swim-or-die lifestyle nor be the relentless eating machines they are without that higher metabolic rate, allowing them to swim longer and faster, their brains and eyes to function better in cold water, and their viscera to digest more quickly and efficiently.

Further demonstrating the brilliance of their plumbing, larger tunas can shed excess heat from their bodies during periods of intense feeding (in essence, while doing wind sprints) via their retia mirabilia, which uses blood from gills cooled by ambient water to reduce body heat. This system also undoubtedly comes into play as one factor in the amazing endurance that hooked tunas show to resist their capture.

How Deep do Tuna Swim?

Much of the evolutionary success of tunas derives from their ability to transition from warm to cool waters in a way that most — less advanced, cold-blooded — fishes can’t manage.

Satellite tagging has revealed much about the feeding behavior and movements of large tunas, including their tendency to dive into deep, cold water. Scientists have documented that yellowfin feed at times in waters much deeper than once believed, but the bigeye is a champ in the deep-dive category, often feeding in waters exceeding 1,500 feet — and diving to more than 5,000 feet.

Apparently, these daytime deep divers are taking advantage of what’s known as the deep-scattering layer, a concentration of biomass (plankton and larger organisms) typically settling by day into 1,500 to 2,000 feet of water (which rises to or near the surface nightly). This is the same DSL in which swordfish feed during the day. Perhaps not so surprisingly, daytime swordy anglers have been hooking some large tuna while dropping deep.

The other abyss-loving tuna is the bluefin. What large yellowfin, bigeye and bluefin have in common that enables them to feed at great depths is body mass. Juveniles and smaller species of tuna, lacking that, lose body heat too rapidly to allow them to leave near-surface waters for long.

Heat is lost in the frigid waters at depth, but rewarming occurs when tunas move up into warmer waters — where heating occurs at 100 to 1,000 times the rate that it’s lost. (This may be facilitated with blood bypassing lateral heat exchangers, so blood warmed and oxygenated in the gills by ambient, warmer waters enters the red muscle directly.)

What large tunas have in common that encourages them to feed so deep is simply an abundance of food in these cold but productive waters.

How Far do Tuna Travel?

The same motivation to find more and more food accounts for far-ranging horizontal movements as well as vertical dives into colder waters. So, for example, in the North Atlantic, the world’s largest giant bluefin are caught at the most northerly edges of the species’ range — the Canadian Maritimes — and in the South Pacific, the largest giants come from the most southern part of the southern bluefin’s range — off New Zealand’s South Island. In both instances, only the great body mass of giants provides enough thermal inertia — a small enough ratio of surface area to volume to prevent rapid cooling — so they can take advantage of vast schools of prey.

Large tunas are truly superfish, at the zenith of evolutionary design and success as predators among the ocean’s fishes. Little wonder they’re among the very most popular targets worldwide among saltwater recreational fishermen. The more we as anglers understand these magnificent fish, the more we can appreciate the opportunity to fish for and catch them.

Is Disaster Imminent for Tunas?

Tunas occasionally make it into mainstream news, and when they do, the circumstances (for continued survival of the species) usually sound pretty dire. However, a scientist at the University of Washington, found that just 30 percent of commercial tuna stocks had an abundance below that which would produce maximum sustainable yield.

Recently, Atlantic bluefin tuna have made a noticeable comeback. And anglers are taking advantage of it. In particular, many Northeast area anglers have spent the summer months targeting tuna of all sizes, both inshore and far offshore.“ The abundance of tunas and their relatives has declined from pre-industrial levels, but in general, they are at sustainable levels,” said Maite Pons, Ph.D..

The post Common Questions About Tuna appeared first on Sport Fishing Mag.

It was a slow summer at Hudson Canyon off New York, but we were headed out anyway, because you can’t catch tuna when you’re dry on the dock. We weren’t halfway out when we saw life — a half-dozen whales rolling, and tails rising among what must have been 100 or more tightly packed bottlenose dolphin. Dozens of shearwaters flocked around the ­commotion. Extending outward for 100 square yards, storm petrels dabbed the blue 75-degree surface waters. The sonar screen read 180 feet.

One cast into the mayhem created instant action. As soon as the bail closed, a fish grabbed the lure, and the rod doubled over at an impossible angle. Line easily peeled off the reel against a good 30 pounds of drag. The mate looked over at me with a big smile on his face and said, “Well, I guess we’re not going to the canyon.”

Running way offshore for big pelagics is ingrained. Want to catch tuna? Hit the “deep,” the “edge,” the canyons. And whether you see life or empty ocean, deploy a spread and troll blindly for hours. But in recent years, most of the good fishing has occurred well inshore of the canyons, and trolling isn’t required.

Tuna Feed on Sand Eels

We owe this success to one thing, and one thing alone: sand lances, Ammodytes americanus (known locally as sand eels) — long, slender, 6- to 8-inch ­low-trophic-level fish with a pointy snout.

In past years, when the sand eels have shown up — usually by mid-June — they’ve appeared in extraordinary numbers. Anglers know about it pretty quickly because often the entire list of oceanic predators also find them. Not just those with fins, but those with wings as well. Everything appears to eat sand eels.

To be clear, this bait does not reside in deep water. As the name suggests, sand eels prefer relatively sandy habitat in 40 fathoms or shallower. They also burrow at night into the soft substrate and spend their days feeding on zooplankton. They’re not equipped to frequent deep, high-­pressure water, thus don’t expect to see big ­concentrations at the canyons.

Why do they gather, and why recently have they flooded the 20- to 40-fathom area from Maryland to New York from mid-June to mid-September? Those are more-difficult questions to answer, but it seems likely that the mass migration involves a food source. Adult and larval sand lances feed primarily on copepods (immature crustaceans) and other tiny animals, so they might be focused on a new zooplankton bloom.

Regardless of the reason, the ­sand eels now congregate so thickly that once you’re into them, you often can’t read bottom on your sounder. And it’s clear that when they’re abundant, they attract a host of predators — most important of which are bluefin and yellowfin tuna — that gorge on the smallish baits with reckless abandon.

Where to Find Sand Eels and Tuna

“It’s all about finding life when you make these midshore tuna runs,” says New Jersey charter captain Gene Quigley (shorecatch.com). “I’d say we look for whales more than anything, but there are certainly other indicators.”

Not only do whales and tuna feed on this same prey, but both bluefin and yellowfin tuna often swim directly beneath the whales, possibly slurping up stunned sand eels after a whale has lunge-fed.

“We look for [bottlenose] dolphin too,” Quigley continues. “Not just the rolling ones, but the ones that are clearly smashing sand eels.”

Finding cow-nosed rays in 150 to 200 feet of water in July or August might be one of the best tuna signs. “Man, you run across a school of cow-nosed rays, and you’re a fool not to stop on it,” says New York captain Cory Crochetiere. “Drop a jig under them, and it’s often an immediate hookup.”

On a clear, calm day, you can see rays pushing water when they’re on the surface. But often they swim 10 feet or more down. When they pass under your boat, they’re easy to see. For better or worse, rays also hit a jig or soft plastic.

Rays often appear accompanied by storm petrels, or what we call “tuna chicks”—small unassuming birds that seem to dance on the water. Just the presence of these birds, with or without the rays, can indicate sand eels, and subsequently tuna.

The petrels clearly don’t feed on sand eels. More likely they’re eating the same planktonic animals as the sand eels. A mother lode of storm petrels signals a mandatory stop, but even if you see just a half-dozen, give it a try. “We had our largest bluefin one year, casting a stickbait at a flock of what was maybe six or seven tuna chicks,” Crochetiere says. “A 250-pound-class bluefin came out of nowhere and crushed the plug.”

Shearwater birds also can suggest the presence of sand eels. If you see shearwaters circling high above the water, make a stop. They might be seeing something that you can’t, such as big pods of sand eels or even cruising tuna.

While you’ll likely see such life fairly close to shore, inside 20 fathoms, you probably won’t see tuna, at least during the June-to-September period. We really don’t stop on anything inside 20 fathoms, unless we see obvious signs of tuna feeding. Generally, we find the sweet spot in the 30-fathom range.

However, even in that depth range, if the water looks green or dirty, most of the time we just move. You occasionally might find bluefin in less-than-blue water, but rarely yellowfin. Look for sand eels in cobalt-blue offshore water. That doesn’t guarantee tuna, but work the area. Nearby tuna eventually will find that bait.

Tough Tuna Fishing Gear

We fish these sand eel aggregations with soft-plastic and hard baits, using stout spinning tackle. Our favorite reels include Van Staals , Shimanos, and Daiwas. For a more affordable alternative, try the newest Penn offshore spinners. Reels should be spooled with at least 80-pound braid and 6 to 10 feet of 80- to 125-pound fluorocarbon leader.

Rods must be specific to the tuna-popping-and-jigging game as well. Popping rods measure 7 feet, 6 inches to 8 feet, 4 inches long (casting distance is important), and they should be strong in the butt section for extended fights and real lifting power.

Rods to fish soft-plastic eels can be shorter, at 6 to 7 feet, but they should demonstrate the same parabolic composition. Madd Mantis makes an affordable 7-foot all-around rod.

Summer Bluefin Tuna Fishing

Sand eels usually start to show in the 30-fathom range by mid-June. “It’s generally a water-temperature thing,” says noted New York offshore angler Ray Phelan. “Right around 65 degrees, we start to see them, and they get more abundant as things warm.”

Late spring also marks the appearance of larger (for spin-fishermen) bluefin in the 200-plus-pound category. Moving into July, the bluefin become more manageable in size—in the 80-pound range.

“Yeah, we get a few on poppers and stickbaits,” Crochetiere says, “but during the past couple of years, the shearwaters were so bad that you’d waste valuable time untangling birds. Most of the fish we catch [when that happens] are on RonZ soft-plastic baits.”

The soft-plastic tail wiggles so easily that you won’t have to impart much action to make it resemble a sand eel. Even when working this bait very slowly, it still features a ton of movement. “Tuna will often grab it on the drop,” Crochetiere says. “And we’ve certainly caught fish just dead-sticking them,” or leaving the rod in the holder.

We’ve learned over the years that bluefin like a slow bait presentation. Even with plugs, a long, slow retrieve draws way more strikes than a fast one. Once you get the RonZ below the surface, avoiding a shearwater attack, it works really well. Yes, metal jigs can and do work, but not as well as these 10-inch soft plastics.

When the birds abate, Crochetiere mixes in some poppers and stickbaits such as the Nomad Riptide. This 200 mm (8-inch) translucent floating stickbait features a single strip of reflective tape on its sides, and closely mimics a sand eel. Work this bait in a slow, sweeping fashion. Other effective plugs include the Siren Deep Seductress, Shimano Orca and Daiwa Slider.

“Poppers are pretty awesome too, if for no other reason than the often-violent blowups,” Crochetiere says. His popper choice: the Madd Mantis Atasi. “Not so easy to find anymore, but there’s something about this plug that draws crazy strikes.”

Late-Summer Yellowfin Tuna Fishing

By late July or early August, you might catch a yellowfin while targeting bluefin in that same, general 30-fathom range. And then, in what seems like the span of a few hours, the bluefin can disappear, presumably shooting up to New England and farther north.

“I’m not sure if it’s a ­temperature change, or it’s just that so many yellowfin show up that they push the bluefin out,” Quigley says, noting that the water warms to 74 or 75 degrees in midsummer.

The bait doesn’t change, however; the sand eels continue to swarm. Fishing yellowfin on sand eel aggregations remains similar to targeting bluefin, with a few nuances. Yellowfin seem to swim with the dolphins to a greater extent than the bluefin. A popper placed in front of a school of feeding dolphins often results in an explosive strike from an 80-pound tuna. Cow-nosed rays also dependably indicate nearby yellowfin; the fish often swim directly underneath the rays.

Unique to yellowfin, however, are the skipjack schools. “We have a lot of success throwing big poppers in those skipjack schools,” Quigley says. “The big yellowfin come up from underneath all those skippies and hammer them.”

I don’t think the yellowfin eat the skipjack. Both species seem to feed on the sand eels. Almost every time we clean a yellowfin, we find a stomach packed full of eels, but no skipjack.

Sand eel fishing for tuna winds down in September mainly because the weather worsens and the water cools. Yellowfin, in particular, begin to migrate to deeper water. The eels do remain, and anglers can fish another brief run of bluefin in December as the tuna head back south. During that time, fishing occurs in much shallower water closer to shore.

For summer tuna, remember that farther might not always be better. Think twice about running long, or at least keep your eyes open on the way to the deep. Find the life, and you might score big without burning all that fuel.

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