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THE BLACK PELICAN BRIEF: MY JOURNEY TO OBX IN SEARCH OF RED DRUM
After a year or so of discussing visiting Black Pelican Custom Rods owner Brandon Elinich, I finally got the flights booked. I was headed on the adventure of a lifetime to North Carolina's picturesque Outer Banks Islands. My previous experience of the USA was based on news cycles, a lot of political reading, a night in Houston and 12 hours in New York City. Despite being reasonably well-travelled and having lived on three continents, the USA remained unexplored to me. It's a country I very much admire, with certain states on my travel bucket list. Being an introvert and lover of nature, Alaska, Montana, parts of California, and Georgia were on my agenda, as well as North Carolina.
I excitedly packed some gear into one suitcase and began the long journey from Sark, a British crown dependency in the Channel Islands, as usual, roughly 12kg (26lbs) over my luggage limit. I run the risk every time, carrying my heavy camera kit and batteries, relying on all sorts of mind games and dark psychology techniques to distract airline employees from noticing I am over my limit. My best bet is to ask them a question they are not expecting that makes them think, be polite, be charming, and do your best to hide the fact you are carrying a 22kg rucksack on your back as hand luggage. Also, arrive at departure lounges as late as possible when they are already busy and don't have time to profile passengers. That's the recipe for success.
I'll be honest, having to get a very lumpy ferry with 2.5m waves, and 3 flights to get me to North Carolina was a total drag. Being slightly tall (6'2) is hardly a pleasure in economy class. With knees around my ears and Phil Collins behind me playing the drums on my seat, it made me think about what a liberal word 'economy' is. Essentially, it's cattle class for those on a trajectory of having an uncomfortable life. The few times I have been fortunate enough to have flown 'business', I actually slept and felt refreshed after a flight. This was hellish, comprising of a few long blinks and the potential for some slack-jaw slobbering or a neighbour slack-jaw dribbling on me. The aisle seat was particularly miserable, with a metal trolley or the wide-hipped hostess constantly giving me a nudge to bring me back to full consciousness. It was like a form of slow torture. I sat there like a punch-drunk boxer with a neck that had been in an elevator accident, extremely grateful for the John Barry film soundtracks that I had downloaded, which made the trans-Atlantic passage slightly bearable. The "Moonraker" soundtrack, in particular, being a masterpiece. The 1977 film, "The Deep" starring Nick Nolte, Robert Shaw, Eli Wallach, Jacqueline Bisset and Luis Gosset Jr is a film a love watching late at night, and Barry was also involved in this soundtrack. The film is themed on shipwrecks, lost Spanish treasure, and organised crime. Although it's based in Bermuda, it seemed appropriate listening for my trip to Cape Hatteras.
Brandon came and grabbed me from Norfolk Airport (Virginia). We chatted the whole way to Avon, Outer Banks, NC, and because it was dark, I really had no idea of my surroundings for the two to three hour road trip. The place I was staying in was a beauty, a wonderful beach house on stilts with an interior that we might see in those movies which feature the Hamptons or Martha's Vinyard. The high ceilings, use of natural materials, mostly timber, and artefacts linked to the sea. From beautiful sea shells to bottlework, old maps, and bookshelves linked to the rich heritage of piracy that these shores experienced in days gone by. I simply fell in love with the place. I quickly understood that Brandon and Nancy had four dogs and an adorable little cat. Some of them proved more of a handful than others. Some grew to love me, and one in particular left a dirty protest in my bedroom to let me know I wasn't welcome, periodically. You can only please some of the dogs, some of the time, even if you try and bribe them with lumps of sirloin steak. I tried my best with Jo Jo. but she was a tough nut to crack.
I was awoken the next day by what could have been a howling coyote, but no, it was just one of the dogs. The sky was an azure blue, the kind we associate with those warm summer days, and oddly, considering it was late October, we had 70 degrees Fahrenheit (21C). Shorts and t-shirt fishing weather, my favourite kind. Brandon & Nancy soon had us heading to the tackle shops and the beach to wet a line.
I have to be honest, the coastline is stunning, around 200 miles of almost continuous surf beaches, only broken with gaps forged by torrents during storms, which give access to an enormous backwater behind this sand spit. You get sunrises/sunsets and all manner of beautiful colours in the sky each day. At its widest point, it's 3 miles, and at its narrowest, around 150 yards. When I lived in Dorset, UK, I'd fish on these long surf beaches all of the time, for Atlantic bass (European), rays, cod and other species, so the conditions and terrain was familiar to me, just not on this scale. I have fished rough ground for years, and deeper water here in the Channel Island's (UK). We have a larger tidal range (10m / 33ft) with some different challenges. Outer Banks, or Hatteras, has a lot more rips, and I could immediately see the logic of using these pyramid-style leads to find gullies and holes in the sea bed where bait and feeding fish may collect. I also thought that heavy grip leads would have the edge in holding the bottom once the surf became too fierce. There was certainly plenty to take in, and I listened to Brandon and others carefully.
The first sessions were pleasant, though drum-less, and I quickly began to understand that the pursuit of the desirable red drum was perhaps a challenging one, and certainly not a foregone conclusion. Brandon explained that there are anglers who come to these tournaments year after year and don't manage any. When they are there, you'll get hits, and when they are gone, it's like they are mythical or a thing of legend. I'd seen many images of these majestic-looking creatures, and I wondered if they'd fight well. If I'd feel every nod, kick and thrash of these scaly-looking beasts in the surf. I gazed hard at the body of water, looking for silhouettes in the surf with my polarisers on. Even venturing into the surf with my waders on, conscious of there being stingrays and all manner of things potentially lurking in the gently shelving surf beach.
I very much enjoyed having a cast with some of Brandon's Black Pellican / Century US rods, many of which that we don't have available in the UK. If you want to cast to infinity, the Century Surf Machine Max (2-8oz) will do the job perfectly with fixed spool and 40lb braid. The setup is ideal for these east coast surf beaches. I paired one with a Daiwa Emblem SCW QD, which has a fantastic spool for long casting and is the perfect reel to put on that rod. I also had a Century Eliminator GT1000 9ft popping rod and a Saltiga 20K, should I have gotten the opportunity to try for some sharks or big rays. I realise that most of the folks in North Carolina, detest sharks, as they are a pest fish that ruins fishing for many surf anglers. In the following days I understood the shark issue, being bitten off myself, landing a couple of smaller ones, and seeing Brandon curse the sea as his hook lengths and rigs were stolen by the taxman. I thought to myself; the lads back home would have all switched to wire and had the time of their lives fighting these toothy predators. Some of the locals did explain that the sharks are super lazy fighters here, like dead weight coming in. Which is a stark contrast to the animals I fought from the rocks on Ascension Island. Some of them were an empty spool waiting to happen. Warm water sharks really fly.
One of the more interesting things was seeing 'fluke". I don't know if they are summer or winter flounder, or the exact genus. Everybody who cast closer in seem to catch them by mistake. In the UK we have plaice, flounder, megrim, dab, Dover sole, lemon sole, and a couple of species of topknot. None of them look like this. These American flatfish seem more closely related to the halibut we find up in Norway, and that used to be prevalent in Scotland's northern isles before over-fishing. I marvelled particularly at their large mouths and sharp teeth. This one in the article was caught by Tommy Daley, a great lad who fished with us at Avon and Ocracoke Island, the final home of Black Beard, the famous pirate (Edward Teach or Thatch).
The first competition I was fishing in was the NCBBA, North Carolina Beach Buggy Association. This was a well-organised annual event, and if I am not mistaken, the 14th occasion it has been held. I had a great chat with the organiser and president of the club, Al Adam, who is obviously a man who loves his fishing. It seemed like I may be the only foreigner entering this year and almost certainly the person from the furthest afield. A couple of guys gave me the Trump handshake, which I found very amusing; there is a reel art to pulling someone off balance during a simple greeting. Joking aside, everyone was very nice and welcoming to an outsider. Providing that outsider respects the customs and culture that are already in place. That should be the way with fishing; after all, we have more in common than the rest of the population. This sport, hobby or pastime constitutes a way of life for most of us. It is our salvation, our connection with nature the sea, and what gives us so much pleasure in life. No matter what struggles and stresses we take to the beach, our lives are a little bit better after throwing some bait at the sea. We need it. It's our connection to our ancient hunter-gatherer self, what many of our ancestors did to survive. It is entirely natural to us. It makes me feel fantastic. It is a far superior or more rewarding addiction than the drugs and alcohol that are ruining lives in my country and yours. Fishing could help this epidemic of mental illness, I have no doubt. It's vital that we encourage the younger generations into this great sport and get them away from what is making so many unhappy.
The NCBBA is a 60 hour competition, and you can choose your pegs (stations) within certain limits and fish as many of those two and a half days as you like. I like the structure, as it favours the determined. The first day was a real struggle, with pest fish, stripped baits, and zero drum. I had the feeling the winds weren't helping; with little surf, and barren periods, it was soul-destroying. I felt pretty deflated after day one, especially as one chap had recorded a very big drum, and others had scored on the board. None of our species were scoring. I had a couple of whiskies to drown my sorrows and was up at dawn the next day to try again. I am a misery in the morning, the opposite of my evening state, but I was nevertheless determined. Nancy, Brandon's wife landed our first drum just after sunrise. We were over the moon, well sort of, and it perhaps made us both rethink the strategy of long-range for the biggest drum. We had points on the board, finally and proof of the target fish.
As hopes went up, by lunchtime, we flagged again. The inspiration the one drum gave us had dissipated. The heat of the midday sun and hunger meant it was time for a recess and a change of venue. I hate failing at anything, and it was little comfort that many of the four-hundred-plus anglers were experiencing the same pain. We needed a rethink and a change of luck or strategy. The afternoon crushed our spirits even more; nothing was happening for us, and Brandon was certainly getting frustrated. In reality, a few fish would change everything.
By dusk, we'd had a hunch to try a beach, a venue that would experience some of the most unpleasant conditions, wind bang in the face around 25mph, 60 or 70 yards of white water, and much tricker fish landing. I know this would put many off, but I always believe storms throw up good fish, and that theory is proven right time and again. Getting out of the truck, I looked at the roaring sea and thought, these are the perfect conditions for Atlantic bass (European Labrax) back home on the south coast of England. I was reinvigorated, and the excitement returned. It wasn't long until Brandon was into his first drum. Followed closely by another. I was thinking, this is great, but it's also now making me look bad. Brandon 2, Nancy 1, Chris 0. Brandon quickly called Mildred & Charles Ritter, two of our teammates, to let them know that it was starting to go off down here.
Then I saw my rod trying to fly out of the rod rest, even with the drag set. I quickly snatched it and felt the nodding of a nice fish; wow, the dopamine and adrenaline started. I was in business. I got it measured by the judges, and after a quick pic, and release, I was baited and cast back out. Mildred and Charles appeared to me right. And I was quickly into another drum, and I enjoyed every bit of the retrieve as the last. At this point, I was flying about. Brandon had a third, and so did I. Then I had a fourth; it was sensational fishing after this long lull. However, it seems like someone may have let slip to another team about the great fishing we were experiencing as trucks appeared at the ramp, and sped across to the beach to fish directly to our left. I know how it looked, and I can't be 100% certain of what went on. They had arrived like the A-Team, and perhaps the name was appropriate given the final scores.
I could see torches on the water to my right, Mildred and Charles were seriously chain-catching red drum and racking up some serious points on the board. It was a fantastic feeling. By 4am, Nancy looked at me and said, "Seriously, how have you got so much energy???". I said, "this is how I am when the fishing is good". Then I missed a good bite. The next cast I hooked what I thought was a decent shark. The battle in the surf was great. I thought I was careful, but perhaps I was a little eager with the drag too tight, thinking it felt like the taxman. It came free 20 yards from shore, and I expected to have my hooks bitten off. I was wrong. The circle and the hook length of 80lb fluorocarbon were perfectly in tact. It hadn't been a shark. The idea that I'd just lost a big drum was simply unbearable but probably a reality, and it would haunt me for days, replaying the event in my mind, in a way that only an angler losing a PB might do.
By 5am, we were leading the board, I was almost falling asleep, stood up, but still maintaining my regular bait ups and dreaming of a monster. Brandon and Nancy said we need to head back; they were exhausted, we'd been up almost 24 hours. I did say, you know, if we fish on until 12, we'll probably finish first. But we had to tend to the dogs, and I know it's not something most people want to put themselves through, we already felt dreadful. I did remember a quote from a recent Chris Williamson podcast, which I think he borrowed from Alex Hormozi.
"Whenever I get to a low point where I think - why do I even bother?
I just try to remind myself "this is where most people stop, and this is why they don't win."
We got home, our heads hit pillows, and we were instantly unconscious. Even the dogs gave us a funny look when we came in at dawn. We woke up hearing that we'd finished second, and the emotions were very mixed. It was a great achievement to come second in this exciting competition, but it could have easily been first. The drum fishing was sensational. It would be the pinnacle of the whole trip for me. Mildred got the most drum on our team, and Brandon also got the biggest for one of the event days. We all got prizes, including a reel for me, from a brand that doesn't sponsor me, so I daren't mention their name. Al Adam, called me up to the stage to receive a nice hoody as a guest, too, which was kind. He then asked me to say a few words, unprepared, and I thought "why didn't I just hide when I heard my name called?" I think Brandon did actually duck behind a pilar in case he got called up. I would like to thank the organisers for their hospitality and for running a fantastic competition. Also, many of the other competitors were great sports. It's wonderful to see many generations of families enjoying the event, and taking part, it is as it should be, men, women and children experiencing this great sport. It's worth noting that without Nancy and Mildred, we wouldn't have taken second, they were excellent.
We had a good drink that evening, Brandon passed out, after his second feed, and I went way too heavy on the bourbon. The next day we got back at it, but it wasn't the same without the pressure of the event, and the stormy weather had abated, the sea calm again. The next few days were patchy, some fish coming in, not anything we wanted, as the drum had vanished as quickly as they had appeared, like phantoms in the night.
We fished one day on the north beaches, and I needed the toilet. I asked Brandon where it was best to go, and he advised potentially the dunes for privacy. As I started walking off, I paused suddenly and went back. And asked: "Do you have any poisonous snakes around here?" And he explained the array of lethal or debilitating reptiles in OBX, but told me not to worry, as they are up at the camping ground. I said, "What? That's like 1000 yards away". I went by the vehicle, despite having good medical insurance for the trip. I don't need that in my life. The funny part is, the following day, I went to the US Post Office on foot to collect a parcel waiting for me. I am doing my usual daydream walk, in deep thought, and a black snake shoots across the path about 5 or 6 ft long, and I almost jump out of my skin in the middle of the day. I couldn't believe it. It shot from the hedges into some bushes on the other side of the pavement (sidewalk). My eyes were peeled for the rest of the trip. Despite trekking in the Amazon rainforest, Central American and Thai jungles, my fondness of snakes does not grow. Horrible things, and I hate surprises.
The second competition of my trip was the following day. Bill Daley, had ever so kindly given up his place so that I could take part. I get the feeling fishing is such an important thing in Bill's life. He asked me a million questions about UK sea angling and had all of the passion of a teenager addicted to fishing. I wish everyone felt like that about our sport. He's a salt of the earth guy, I think from New Jersey, or somewhere up that way, and he has been coming to Outer Banks forever to enjoy the superb fishing.
The Cape Hatteras Invitational surf fishing tournament was not a "rover" like the first match, where we could pick our spots to fish each session, this one was "pegged" with each team defined to zones for four sessions of fishing, with set start and finish times. We went and collected our buckets of team accessories, sets of rules, and random paraphernalia from the clubhouse. I marvelled at the selected old images taken over the years, which were on display in the foyer of the building. The sea was constantly shaping and reinventing the landscape. It is a reminder of our vulnerability and how we are at mercy of nature's unpredictable giving and taking. This coastline has endured over 3000 shipwrecks, and was once referred to as "The Lost Colony", after Sir Walter Raleigh set up the first English settlement in North America, and some 112-121 colonists vanished into thin air, with their fate being unknown to this day. Outer Banks is a place of intrigue, and even the turkey vultures overhead are a reminder of how everything fights to exist here. It is no country for old men. Everything on land or sea fights for its survival; the brutality of nature is laid bare.
The competition was soon underway, I think it was an 8am start, and the north winds had produced a crosswind and diagonal surf where we were fishing. The first session was pretty duff, I think Jamie and Mike may have scored with bluefish, but it was a pretty barren four hours, requiring heavy grip leads (sputniks). Even so, our baits were all drifting in front of each other. The second session by the camping ground, with the wind off our backs, was very pleasant conditions, with a glassy sea and beyond sharks, not much happening. It was the opposite of the final night of the NCBBA competition. I had very low expectations of seeing a drum. Bill was watching as some chap was hauling in a rather large shark, of perhaps 80-100lb, and I asked the chap if he wanted help landing it, and he chirped, "I'd rather just have my rig back". I smiled, as it really summed up people's feelings toward sharks. Obviously, they score you no points in the comp, and they also cost you a rig. The thrashing of the shark snapped him off in the shallows, and I retreated out of the water in my waders. Bill then said, "Chris, are you good at handling sharks?" as he'd seen me almost grabbing it. And I said: "Well, you've always got another arm if you get it wrong." He chuckled. That was the highlight of the session, and we all went home dejected and downbeat, as we knew our low scoring was leaving us way down the board after day one. I had a few drinks that evening and drowned my sorrows.
The following morning was yet another amazing sunrise as we setup. With new hope, we started letting the casts fly. We didn't realise it at the time, but we had the would be winners of the competition to our left. And they were outhauling us from the off. We watched carefully; we were hitting the same range, emulating rigs, but getting less action in our zone. Which was of course, highly frustrating. I rued not having my UK rigs with me, as well as a lure rod, as I think they would have been a real game changer. All of our team were racking up points, which was pleasing, and we were suddenly back in the competition, or at least holding a more respectable place on the board. I had a late flurry toward the cessation of the session.
By the afternoon, for the final zone of the competition, we were back on the north beaches with the crosswind and undertow that made it a challenge to hold bottom, and to avoid crossing over eachothers lines or having leads drop into an opponent's zone. We developed a queueing system for casting, like a conveyor belt, and we did pretty poorly, with I think Brandon and Jamie having the better luck. I felt for the ladies, as casting closer was a real disadvantage for them, but they persevered.
We finished 34th of 118 teams. The result was semi-respectable, not awful, but not that good. I was conscious of what we needed to do differently in the conditions to finish higher up, or even reach the summit. I would setup differently next year, if I do indeed return to Outer Banks.
In the last days of my trip, I went to Ocracoke Island, as aforementioned, the final resting place of Black Beard, the infamous pirate. I loved the ferry ride, navigating the channels like a maze, and the island, which is largely as Edward Teach or Thatch would have known it, very much a spectacle of sand dunes, and pristine beaches, with a sense of wildness and intrigue. I love that the community still embraces its history; I think it's a real tragedy when things are lost to the sands of time. My imagination drifts to days gone by, times of less comfort and significant hardship, and I love places where you can feel the past all around you. I should point out that we fished a marvellous beach with Drew, Tommy, and Tyler. Nancy had a lovely black drum, with us all catching a collection of species, just no reds. The final sunset of my trip was a fitting sendoff as we awaited the ferry back across the inlet. Some sort of gulls used the ferry lights, which was searching for markers, to hunt via artificial light. They kept diving the surface and flying in the bright searchlights.
My final night in Outer Banks was spent having whiskey and Tyler turning up at midnight, to take me out to try for something big. He took me to the point, which was deserted. The usually rammed venue, populated by anglers shoulder to shoulder, was empty. Well, almost. I could make out one truck and angler in the distance, lightless, just a black shadow occasionally approaching the water under the light of a waning half-moon, and the stars, rather spooky. We put baits out, barely spoke, but stood mesmerised by a very orange lightning storm which raged somewhere toward Bermuda in the distance. There was no sound but the swish of the Atlantic, and collapsing of surf. I was alone with my thoughts. There really was this feeling of being at the edge of the world. We marvelled at Orion's belt above us, and a million stars in the night sky twinkling. It was truly special. All I needed was one good fish. My drag started to run briefly, I snatched the Saltiga and leant into a very big fish; it was moving. My adrenaline was up, the intense excitement of the battle commencing. Just one minute into the scrap, which I am sure was a huge skate or ray, and everything went light; the fish was off. I was gutted and dashed to bait back up. I noticed the brand new shark trace hook, had been burred or blunted, inexplicably. Had I not checked it? Had the fish done it? Devastated, I probably had 10 more casts, and as 4am approached, I said to Tyler, we needed to go, as I had to pack my things and leave at 12 for the airport. I hadn't got my fairytale ending to the trip. Losing big fish is what makes you want to return somewhere. We are gluttons for punishment, all of us. I'll return to Cape Point someday. Sometimes, you just get a feeling about a place, it being special. I thanked Tyler and said goodnight, tip-toeing around the house and dogs, hoping not to wake my generous hosts.
The drive to Norfolk was beautiful, I saw everything I had missed on the way out to Avon. What a special place. The trip had been an incredible experience, unique. Not just in terms of the fantastic pursuit of the famous red drum, but also in having Brandon and Nancy welcome me into their lives and show me the very best of America. These really are great people. I'll forever be in their debt for this hospitality. I'll remember the others who were kind: Bill, Al, Tyler, Drew, Tommy, Chris Tenbush, and others. My message to Outer Banks is, never change; you've got life right in a world that has a lot wrong at the moment.
Thanks for reading.
Chris Kennedy
Facebook: Atlantic Drift Fishing
Insta: AtlanticDriftFishing
PS. If mods would like to move the thread, that's cool. This is where I usually post.
After a year or so of discussing visiting Black Pelican Custom Rods owner Brandon Elinich, I finally got the flights booked. I was headed on the adventure of a lifetime to North Carolina's picturesque Outer Banks Islands. My previous experience of the USA was based on news cycles, a lot of political reading, a night in Houston and 12 hours in New York City. Despite being reasonably well-travelled and having lived on three continents, the USA remained unexplored to me. It's a country I very much admire, with certain states on my travel bucket list. Being an introvert and lover of nature, Alaska, Montana, parts of California, and Georgia were on my agenda, as well as North Carolina.
I excitedly packed some gear into one suitcase and began the long journey from Sark, a British crown dependency in the Channel Islands, as usual, roughly 12kg (26lbs) over my luggage limit. I run the risk every time, carrying my heavy camera kit and batteries, relying on all sorts of mind games and dark psychology techniques to distract airline employees from noticing I am over my limit. My best bet is to ask them a question they are not expecting that makes them think, be polite, be charming, and do your best to hide the fact you are carrying a 22kg rucksack on your back as hand luggage. Also, arrive at departure lounges as late as possible when they are already busy and don't have time to profile passengers. That's the recipe for success.
I'll be honest, having to get a very lumpy ferry with 2.5m waves, and 3 flights to get me to North Carolina was a total drag. Being slightly tall (6'2) is hardly a pleasure in economy class. With knees around my ears and Phil Collins behind me playing the drums on my seat, it made me think about what a liberal word 'economy' is. Essentially, it's cattle class for those on a trajectory of having an uncomfortable life. The few times I have been fortunate enough to have flown 'business', I actually slept and felt refreshed after a flight. This was hellish, comprising of a few long blinks and the potential for some slack-jaw slobbering or a neighbour slack-jaw dribbling on me. The aisle seat was particularly miserable, with a metal trolley or the wide-hipped hostess constantly giving me a nudge to bring me back to full consciousness. It was like a form of slow torture. I sat there like a punch-drunk boxer with a neck that had been in an elevator accident, extremely grateful for the John Barry film soundtracks that I had downloaded, which made the trans-Atlantic passage slightly bearable. The "Moonraker" soundtrack, in particular, being a masterpiece. The 1977 film, "The Deep" starring Nick Nolte, Robert Shaw, Eli Wallach, Jacqueline Bisset and Luis Gosset Jr is a film a love watching late at night, and Barry was also involved in this soundtrack. The film is themed on shipwrecks, lost Spanish treasure, and organised crime. Although it's based in Bermuda, it seemed appropriate listening for my trip to Cape Hatteras.
Brandon came and grabbed me from Norfolk Airport (Virginia). We chatted the whole way to Avon, Outer Banks, NC, and because it was dark, I really had no idea of my surroundings for the two to three hour road trip. The place I was staying in was a beauty, a wonderful beach house on stilts with an interior that we might see in those movies which feature the Hamptons or Martha's Vinyard. The high ceilings, use of natural materials, mostly timber, and artefacts linked to the sea. From beautiful sea shells to bottlework, old maps, and bookshelves linked to the rich heritage of piracy that these shores experienced in days gone by. I simply fell in love with the place. I quickly understood that Brandon and Nancy had four dogs and an adorable little cat. Some of them proved more of a handful than others. Some grew to love me, and one in particular left a dirty protest in my bedroom to let me know I wasn't welcome, periodically. You can only please some of the dogs, some of the time, even if you try and bribe them with lumps of sirloin steak. I tried my best with Jo Jo. but she was a tough nut to crack.
I was awoken the next day by what could have been a howling coyote, but no, it was just one of the dogs. The sky was an azure blue, the kind we associate with those warm summer days, and oddly, considering it was late October, we had 70 degrees Fahrenheit (21C). Shorts and t-shirt fishing weather, my favourite kind. Brandon & Nancy soon had us heading to the tackle shops and the beach to wet a line.
I have to be honest, the coastline is stunning, around 200 miles of almost continuous surf beaches, only broken with gaps forged by torrents during storms, which give access to an enormous backwater behind this sand spit. You get sunrises/sunsets and all manner of beautiful colours in the sky each day. At its widest point, it's 3 miles, and at its narrowest, around 150 yards. When I lived in Dorset, UK, I'd fish on these long surf beaches all of the time, for Atlantic bass (European), rays, cod and other species, so the conditions and terrain was familiar to me, just not on this scale. I have fished rough ground for years, and deeper water here in the Channel Island's (UK). We have a larger tidal range (10m / 33ft) with some different challenges. Outer Banks, or Hatteras, has a lot more rips, and I could immediately see the logic of using these pyramid-style leads to find gullies and holes in the sea bed where bait and feeding fish may collect. I also thought that heavy grip leads would have the edge in holding the bottom once the surf became too fierce. There was certainly plenty to take in, and I listened to Brandon and others carefully.
The first sessions were pleasant, though drum-less, and I quickly began to understand that the pursuit of the desirable red drum was perhaps a challenging one, and certainly not a foregone conclusion. Brandon explained that there are anglers who come to these tournaments year after year and don't manage any. When they are there, you'll get hits, and when they are gone, it's like they are mythical or a thing of legend. I'd seen many images of these majestic-looking creatures, and I wondered if they'd fight well. If I'd feel every nod, kick and thrash of these scaly-looking beasts in the surf. I gazed hard at the body of water, looking for silhouettes in the surf with my polarisers on. Even venturing into the surf with my waders on, conscious of there being stingrays and all manner of things potentially lurking in the gently shelving surf beach.
I very much enjoyed having a cast with some of Brandon's Black Pellican / Century US rods, many of which that we don't have available in the UK. If you want to cast to infinity, the Century Surf Machine Max (2-8oz) will do the job perfectly with fixed spool and 40lb braid. The setup is ideal for these east coast surf beaches. I paired one with a Daiwa Emblem SCW QD, which has a fantastic spool for long casting and is the perfect reel to put on that rod. I also had a Century Eliminator GT1000 9ft popping rod and a Saltiga 20K, should I have gotten the opportunity to try for some sharks or big rays. I realise that most of the folks in North Carolina, detest sharks, as they are a pest fish that ruins fishing for many surf anglers. In the following days I understood the shark issue, being bitten off myself, landing a couple of smaller ones, and seeing Brandon curse the sea as his hook lengths and rigs were stolen by the taxman. I thought to myself; the lads back home would have all switched to wire and had the time of their lives fighting these toothy predators. Some of the locals did explain that the sharks are super lazy fighters here, like dead weight coming in. Which is a stark contrast to the animals I fought from the rocks on Ascension Island. Some of them were an empty spool waiting to happen. Warm water sharks really fly.
One of the more interesting things was seeing 'fluke". I don't know if they are summer or winter flounder, or the exact genus. Everybody who cast closer in seem to catch them by mistake. In the UK we have plaice, flounder, megrim, dab, Dover sole, lemon sole, and a couple of species of topknot. None of them look like this. These American flatfish seem more closely related to the halibut we find up in Norway, and that used to be prevalent in Scotland's northern isles before over-fishing. I marvelled particularly at their large mouths and sharp teeth. This one in the article was caught by Tommy Daley, a great lad who fished with us at Avon and Ocracoke Island, the final home of Black Beard, the famous pirate (Edward Teach or Thatch).
The first competition I was fishing in was the NCBBA, North Carolina Beach Buggy Association. This was a well-organised annual event, and if I am not mistaken, the 14th occasion it has been held. I had a great chat with the organiser and president of the club, Al Adam, who is obviously a man who loves his fishing. It seemed like I may be the only foreigner entering this year and almost certainly the person from the furthest afield. A couple of guys gave me the Trump handshake, which I found very amusing; there is a reel art to pulling someone off balance during a simple greeting. Joking aside, everyone was very nice and welcoming to an outsider. Providing that outsider respects the customs and culture that are already in place. That should be the way with fishing; after all, we have more in common than the rest of the population. This sport, hobby or pastime constitutes a way of life for most of us. It is our salvation, our connection with nature the sea, and what gives us so much pleasure in life. No matter what struggles and stresses we take to the beach, our lives are a little bit better after throwing some bait at the sea. We need it. It's our connection to our ancient hunter-gatherer self, what many of our ancestors did to survive. It is entirely natural to us. It makes me feel fantastic. It is a far superior or more rewarding addiction than the drugs and alcohol that are ruining lives in my country and yours. Fishing could help this epidemic of mental illness, I have no doubt. It's vital that we encourage the younger generations into this great sport and get them away from what is making so many unhappy.
The NCBBA is a 60 hour competition, and you can choose your pegs (stations) within certain limits and fish as many of those two and a half days as you like. I like the structure, as it favours the determined. The first day was a real struggle, with pest fish, stripped baits, and zero drum. I had the feeling the winds weren't helping; with little surf, and barren periods, it was soul-destroying. I felt pretty deflated after day one, especially as one chap had recorded a very big drum, and others had scored on the board. None of our species were scoring. I had a couple of whiskies to drown my sorrows and was up at dawn the next day to try again. I am a misery in the morning, the opposite of my evening state, but I was nevertheless determined. Nancy, Brandon's wife landed our first drum just after sunrise. We were over the moon, well sort of, and it perhaps made us both rethink the strategy of long-range for the biggest drum. We had points on the board, finally and proof of the target fish.
As hopes went up, by lunchtime, we flagged again. The inspiration the one drum gave us had dissipated. The heat of the midday sun and hunger meant it was time for a recess and a change of venue. I hate failing at anything, and it was little comfort that many of the four-hundred-plus anglers were experiencing the same pain. We needed a rethink and a change of luck or strategy. The afternoon crushed our spirits even more; nothing was happening for us, and Brandon was certainly getting frustrated. In reality, a few fish would change everything.
By dusk, we'd had a hunch to try a beach, a venue that would experience some of the most unpleasant conditions, wind bang in the face around 25mph, 60 or 70 yards of white water, and much tricker fish landing. I know this would put many off, but I always believe storms throw up good fish, and that theory is proven right time and again. Getting out of the truck, I looked at the roaring sea and thought, these are the perfect conditions for Atlantic bass (European Labrax) back home on the south coast of England. I was reinvigorated, and the excitement returned. It wasn't long until Brandon was into his first drum. Followed closely by another. I was thinking, this is great, but it's also now making me look bad. Brandon 2, Nancy 1, Chris 0. Brandon quickly called Mildred & Charles Ritter, two of our teammates, to let them know that it was starting to go off down here.
Then I saw my rod trying to fly out of the rod rest, even with the drag set. I quickly snatched it and felt the nodding of a nice fish; wow, the dopamine and adrenaline started. I was in business. I got it measured by the judges, and after a quick pic, and release, I was baited and cast back out. Mildred and Charles appeared to me right. And I was quickly into another drum, and I enjoyed every bit of the retrieve as the last. At this point, I was flying about. Brandon had a third, and so did I. Then I had a fourth; it was sensational fishing after this long lull. However, it seems like someone may have let slip to another team about the great fishing we were experiencing as trucks appeared at the ramp, and sped across to the beach to fish directly to our left. I know how it looked, and I can't be 100% certain of what went on. They had arrived like the A-Team, and perhaps the name was appropriate given the final scores.
I could see torches on the water to my right, Mildred and Charles were seriously chain-catching red drum and racking up some serious points on the board. It was a fantastic feeling. By 4am, Nancy looked at me and said, "Seriously, how have you got so much energy???". I said, "this is how I am when the fishing is good". Then I missed a good bite. The next cast I hooked what I thought was a decent shark. The battle in the surf was great. I thought I was careful, but perhaps I was a little eager with the drag too tight, thinking it felt like the taxman. It came free 20 yards from shore, and I expected to have my hooks bitten off. I was wrong. The circle and the hook length of 80lb fluorocarbon were perfectly in tact. It hadn't been a shark. The idea that I'd just lost a big drum was simply unbearable but probably a reality, and it would haunt me for days, replaying the event in my mind, in a way that only an angler losing a PB might do.
By 5am, we were leading the board, I was almost falling asleep, stood up, but still maintaining my regular bait ups and dreaming of a monster. Brandon and Nancy said we need to head back; they were exhausted, we'd been up almost 24 hours. I did say, you know, if we fish on until 12, we'll probably finish first. But we had to tend to the dogs, and I know it's not something most people want to put themselves through, we already felt dreadful. I did remember a quote from a recent Chris Williamson podcast, which I think he borrowed from Alex Hormozi.
"Whenever I get to a low point where I think - why do I even bother?
I just try to remind myself "this is where most people stop, and this is why they don't win."
We got home, our heads hit pillows, and we were instantly unconscious. Even the dogs gave us a funny look when we came in at dawn. We woke up hearing that we'd finished second, and the emotions were very mixed. It was a great achievement to come second in this exciting competition, but it could have easily been first. The drum fishing was sensational. It would be the pinnacle of the whole trip for me. Mildred got the most drum on our team, and Brandon also got the biggest for one of the event days. We all got prizes, including a reel for me, from a brand that doesn't sponsor me, so I daren't mention their name. Al Adam, called me up to the stage to receive a nice hoody as a guest, too, which was kind. He then asked me to say a few words, unprepared, and I thought "why didn't I just hide when I heard my name called?" I think Brandon did actually duck behind a pilar in case he got called up. I would like to thank the organisers for their hospitality and for running a fantastic competition. Also, many of the other competitors were great sports. It's wonderful to see many generations of families enjoying the event, and taking part, it is as it should be, men, women and children experiencing this great sport. It's worth noting that without Nancy and Mildred, we wouldn't have taken second, they were excellent.
We had a good drink that evening, Brandon passed out, after his second feed, and I went way too heavy on the bourbon. The next day we got back at it, but it wasn't the same without the pressure of the event, and the stormy weather had abated, the sea calm again. The next few days were patchy, some fish coming in, not anything we wanted, as the drum had vanished as quickly as they had appeared, like phantoms in the night.
We fished one day on the north beaches, and I needed the toilet. I asked Brandon where it was best to go, and he advised potentially the dunes for privacy. As I started walking off, I paused suddenly and went back. And asked: "Do you have any poisonous snakes around here?" And he explained the array of lethal or debilitating reptiles in OBX, but told me not to worry, as they are up at the camping ground. I said, "What? That's like 1000 yards away". I went by the vehicle, despite having good medical insurance for the trip. I don't need that in my life. The funny part is, the following day, I went to the US Post Office on foot to collect a parcel waiting for me. I am doing my usual daydream walk, in deep thought, and a black snake shoots across the path about 5 or 6 ft long, and I almost jump out of my skin in the middle of the day. I couldn't believe it. It shot from the hedges into some bushes on the other side of the pavement (sidewalk). My eyes were peeled for the rest of the trip. Despite trekking in the Amazon rainforest, Central American and Thai jungles, my fondness of snakes does not grow. Horrible things, and I hate surprises.
The second competition of my trip was the following day. Bill Daley, had ever so kindly given up his place so that I could take part. I get the feeling fishing is such an important thing in Bill's life. He asked me a million questions about UK sea angling and had all of the passion of a teenager addicted to fishing. I wish everyone felt like that about our sport. He's a salt of the earth guy, I think from New Jersey, or somewhere up that way, and he has been coming to Outer Banks forever to enjoy the superb fishing.
The Cape Hatteras Invitational surf fishing tournament was not a "rover" like the first match, where we could pick our spots to fish each session, this one was "pegged" with each team defined to zones for four sessions of fishing, with set start and finish times. We went and collected our buckets of team accessories, sets of rules, and random paraphernalia from the clubhouse. I marvelled at the selected old images taken over the years, which were on display in the foyer of the building. The sea was constantly shaping and reinventing the landscape. It is a reminder of our vulnerability and how we are at mercy of nature's unpredictable giving and taking. This coastline has endured over 3000 shipwrecks, and was once referred to as "The Lost Colony", after Sir Walter Raleigh set up the first English settlement in North America, and some 112-121 colonists vanished into thin air, with their fate being unknown to this day. Outer Banks is a place of intrigue, and even the turkey vultures overhead are a reminder of how everything fights to exist here. It is no country for old men. Everything on land or sea fights for its survival; the brutality of nature is laid bare.
The competition was soon underway, I think it was an 8am start, and the north winds had produced a crosswind and diagonal surf where we were fishing. The first session was pretty duff, I think Jamie and Mike may have scored with bluefish, but it was a pretty barren four hours, requiring heavy grip leads (sputniks). Even so, our baits were all drifting in front of each other. The second session by the camping ground, with the wind off our backs, was very pleasant conditions, with a glassy sea and beyond sharks, not much happening. It was the opposite of the final night of the NCBBA competition. I had very low expectations of seeing a drum. Bill was watching as some chap was hauling in a rather large shark, of perhaps 80-100lb, and I asked the chap if he wanted help landing it, and he chirped, "I'd rather just have my rig back". I smiled, as it really summed up people's feelings toward sharks. Obviously, they score you no points in the comp, and they also cost you a rig. The thrashing of the shark snapped him off in the shallows, and I retreated out of the water in my waders. Bill then said, "Chris, are you good at handling sharks?" as he'd seen me almost grabbing it. And I said: "Well, you've always got another arm if you get it wrong." He chuckled. That was the highlight of the session, and we all went home dejected and downbeat, as we knew our low scoring was leaving us way down the board after day one. I had a few drinks that evening and drowned my sorrows.
The following morning was yet another amazing sunrise as we setup. With new hope, we started letting the casts fly. We didn't realise it at the time, but we had the would be winners of the competition to our left. And they were outhauling us from the off. We watched carefully; we were hitting the same range, emulating rigs, but getting less action in our zone. Which was of course, highly frustrating. I rued not having my UK rigs with me, as well as a lure rod, as I think they would have been a real game changer. All of our team were racking up points, which was pleasing, and we were suddenly back in the competition, or at least holding a more respectable place on the board. I had a late flurry toward the cessation of the session.
By the afternoon, for the final zone of the competition, we were back on the north beaches with the crosswind and undertow that made it a challenge to hold bottom, and to avoid crossing over eachothers lines or having leads drop into an opponent's zone. We developed a queueing system for casting, like a conveyor belt, and we did pretty poorly, with I think Brandon and Jamie having the better luck. I felt for the ladies, as casting closer was a real disadvantage for them, but they persevered.
We finished 34th of 118 teams. The result was semi-respectable, not awful, but not that good. I was conscious of what we needed to do differently in the conditions to finish higher up, or even reach the summit. I would setup differently next year, if I do indeed return to Outer Banks.
In the last days of my trip, I went to Ocracoke Island, as aforementioned, the final resting place of Black Beard, the infamous pirate. I loved the ferry ride, navigating the channels like a maze, and the island, which is largely as Edward Teach or Thatch would have known it, very much a spectacle of sand dunes, and pristine beaches, with a sense of wildness and intrigue. I love that the community still embraces its history; I think it's a real tragedy when things are lost to the sands of time. My imagination drifts to days gone by, times of less comfort and significant hardship, and I love places where you can feel the past all around you. I should point out that we fished a marvellous beach with Drew, Tommy, and Tyler. Nancy had a lovely black drum, with us all catching a collection of species, just no reds. The final sunset of my trip was a fitting sendoff as we awaited the ferry back across the inlet. Some sort of gulls used the ferry lights, which was searching for markers, to hunt via artificial light. They kept diving the surface and flying in the bright searchlights.
My final night in Outer Banks was spent having whiskey and Tyler turning up at midnight, to take me out to try for something big. He took me to the point, which was deserted. The usually rammed venue, populated by anglers shoulder to shoulder, was empty. Well, almost. I could make out one truck and angler in the distance, lightless, just a black shadow occasionally approaching the water under the light of a waning half-moon, and the stars, rather spooky. We put baits out, barely spoke, but stood mesmerised by a very orange lightning storm which raged somewhere toward Bermuda in the distance. There was no sound but the swish of the Atlantic, and collapsing of surf. I was alone with my thoughts. There really was this feeling of being at the edge of the world. We marvelled at Orion's belt above us, and a million stars in the night sky twinkling. It was truly special. All I needed was one good fish. My drag started to run briefly, I snatched the Saltiga and leant into a very big fish; it was moving. My adrenaline was up, the intense excitement of the battle commencing. Just one minute into the scrap, which I am sure was a huge skate or ray, and everything went light; the fish was off. I was gutted and dashed to bait back up. I noticed the brand new shark trace hook, had been burred or blunted, inexplicably. Had I not checked it? Had the fish done it? Devastated, I probably had 10 more casts, and as 4am approached, I said to Tyler, we needed to go, as I had to pack my things and leave at 12 for the airport. I hadn't got my fairytale ending to the trip. Losing big fish is what makes you want to return somewhere. We are gluttons for punishment, all of us. I'll return to Cape Point someday. Sometimes, you just get a feeling about a place, it being special. I thanked Tyler and said goodnight, tip-toeing around the house and dogs, hoping not to wake my generous hosts.
The drive to Norfolk was beautiful, I saw everything I had missed on the way out to Avon. What a special place. The trip had been an incredible experience, unique. Not just in terms of the fantastic pursuit of the famous red drum, but also in having Brandon and Nancy welcome me into their lives and show me the very best of America. These really are great people. I'll forever be in their debt for this hospitality. I'll remember the others who were kind: Bill, Al, Tyler, Drew, Tommy, Chris Tenbush, and others. My message to Outer Banks is, never change; you've got life right in a world that has a lot wrong at the moment.
Thanks for reading.
Chris Kennedy
Facebook: Atlantic Drift Fishing
Insta: AtlanticDriftFishing
PS. If mods would like to move the thread, that's cool. This is where I usually post.
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