I cannot see the waves, but I can hear them–even over the off-shore breeze that pelts my truck with beach debris.  In a hole I’ve dug in the sand, Texas post oak and old pecan logs burn deep and red. The smoke interprets the breeze in hypnotic dance against a back drop of fireworks and purple milky way.  It’s 77 degrees on New Year’s Eve in Matagorda.

I stand at the tailgate enveloping a redfish fillet in tinfoil with shallots, butter, and garlic. I throw the pouch on ice as I wait for a deeper bed of embers and grab a beer. I stand shirtless in front of the fire and wince a swig; savoring the solitude.

I’d decided to spend the new year alone. All of my friends had plans, I didn’t have anyone local to do anything easy with–and I was still heartbroken.  I had a terrible itch to go. So like I’ve been known to do in the past, I hit the eject button.  I needed to be truly alone and as far away from people as I possibly could be. This way, maybe, I could learn to be my own best company again. 

On a MeatEater episode some months prior, I’d heard about tailing redfish and how fun they were on a fly rod.  Since I had a kayak and enough screw it in me to try, I stuffed all my gear into my truck, rolled a couple joints, put the radio on blast, and hauled ass for the Texas coast.

While relationships may not be my strong suit, I can damn sure catch fish.

I leave Dallas in the early evening and decide to stop in Houston for a beer and a few hours of shut eye.  Suddenly, like magic, that beer turned into eight when a looker from El Salvador complimented me on my pool form.  An unexpected night ensued, and I left Houston much later than expected–I guess I still got it.

I arrive in Matagorda with only a couple of hours daylight to spare.  It’s a very small town: pay at the register gas pumps, an old-school DIY car wash, and a Dollar General. I have no idea where to camp, what the regulations are, or who I am supposed to talk to. 

Naturally, I go fishing. 

I grab a coffee from Cassady’s and chat up the barista. She informs me of a paddle craft launch right off the main (only) road into Matagorda.  I figure, perfect: my sissy two wheel drive work truck can handle that.

As I drag my kayak over to the water, a couple of paddlers make their way back.

“I hope yeh tryin to catch skeeters out there man, cause they ain’t bitin’ fer shit!”

As I shake up a fresh can of OFF,

“man, I thought they were birds at first!  I was gonna try and catch some and use ’em as bait…”

swat!

…before the bastards carry me off of course!”

Public boat launches are bastions of banter, lies and half truths.  In the end, however, there is a truth that lies unspoken: the catch, doesn’t really matter.  It’s the feeling of possibility that does.  The feeling that this time, or next time, we’ll get it right. In reality, we probably won’t.

Now that I’m fueled up on coffee, hot dog buns and a renewed sense of youthful exuberance, I slip into my C124 and paddle towards east Matagorda bay–hoping to get dumb lucky two nights in a row.

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Thank you for reading! If you like these Stories from the Road, then please check out my portfolio and newsletter. I also do photography and videography–and I’m easy to reach.

Catch you on the flip side.

D.G.