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For year-round reds and much more, Florida's Fort Myers offers action as consistent as you'll find in the state
Hey, Mike,” I said, “pole over to your left about 30 yards; I want to get a few silhouette shots of you with that orange glow blooming on the horizon.” Mike Dill and I had launched about 40 minutes earlier, Dill in his square-backed canoe, me in my kayak. In total darkness we paddled our way across smooth open water toward a large flat about a quarter-mile offshore on the eastern side of Florida’s Banana River no-motor zone (NMZ).
There’s not a lot to do in the dark, except perhaps collectively plot an attack strategy for the 40-inch-class redfish and black drum that you and your companion hope to find when the sun begins to rise. Or, in the case of a solo trip, counter the monotony of paddling by counting satellites racing across the predawn sky.
Since Dill was rowing backward using oars, he used my eyes, which were fixed on a set of lighted buildings adjacent to a Cape Canaveral launch gantry. Nearly an hour after launching, we arrived at the flat just as the sun was radiating a red-orange glow to the east. Perfect timing!
Fashionably Late
Dill stowed his oars, assembled his push pole and moved into position as I reached behind me for my camera. An uneasy feeling hit me as I blindly groped behind my small lunch cooler, where my case should have been. A second later, it was painfully clear that my gear was not there. A wave of panic set in, but I knew what I had to do: race back toward the cars with my fingers crossed, hoping I’d find my beloved floating camera case somewhere along the way.
I left Dill alone on the utterly smooth flat, praying I’d find the box within a few hundred yards but prepared to accept an hour-plus worth of work before I could catch up with him. My anxiety was compounded by the fact that I was going to miss fishing the best part of the morning!
So I paddled like a crazy man all the way back to the cars without finding the floating box. A few other anglers launched while I was plowing in the wrong direction, but they were out of earshot and I was sure my floating case would be along my path in the windless lagoon, provided I was on the right reverse vector.
Thankfully, I did find the case, which I had apparently left next to my pickup truck along the road. I was lucky it was still there, and after securing it to my kayak with bungee cords, as I should have done earlier, I paddled hard in the direction I had left Dill.
Physically wasted, uncomfortably sweaty but extremely grateful that I still had a camera, I finally spotted Dill at the northern end of the flat. He was out of his canoe, which was a good sign. I dug my blade in hard and pulled against the drag of the water, wanting to close the gap between us as fast as possible. As I approached, it appeared he was fighting a substantial redfish.
I glided within earshot to see the water boil 20 yards from his rod tip and hear his drag complain against the pull. “Nice fish, Mike,” I said, sliding my anchor overboard. “Not exactly how I planned my morning, but at least I made it back in time to shoot your toad redfish.”
“You found your camera case?” he asked, incredulous.
“Yeah. Back at the car where I left it.”
“Well,” he said, attempting to downplay what I knew was a perfectly executed operation, “I found a school of the big girls just off the point about 30 minutes after you left. It took me a while to move into casting range without spooking them — they were floating, tails and backs out of the water — but I managed to get in close for a good cast.”
Under dead-calm conditions, even the slightest pressure wave from a canoe or kayak will sink a floating school. Typically you can expect to get one, and only one, shot on those mornings when the air is still enough to hear a casual conversation between anglers from nearly a quarter-mile away. And when the hookup occurs — or doesn’t — the school will be on to you before the second cast, bolting for the mid-lagoon channel markers after sensing your errant movements or the panic of their hooked mate.
Enter the Zone
The 10,500-acre Banana River no-motor zone has become arguably one of the richest and most balanced protected marine ecosystems in the United States. Even before its establishment in 1994, substantial keep-out zones, created by NASA for apparent security reasons, provided sanctuary for popular species, such as redfish, spotted seatrout and black drum. I say balanced because, unlike many other areas of the state, where you’ll rarely find redfish longer than the 28-inch slot limit for keepers, the NMZ hosts redfish, black drum and trout of all sizes and lengths.
I fished the area prior to its becoming a canoe- and kayak-only sanctuary and marveled at the number of redfish prowling the shallows even back then. While the Mosquito Lagoon and the adjacent waters of the Indian River and Banana River, outside the NMZ, also hold large redfish and black drum, those fish invariably experience more pressure from powerboat-ensconced anglers than the ones living within the confines of the NMZ, where overall fishing pressure is negligible.
Even on bluebird days, when perhaps a dozen anglers might be encountered in the NMZ over the course of a day, the quiet nature of the vessels employed ensures the fishery remains exceptional. Besides, you do not need to be the first on the flat to score here.
When it comes to fishing the NMZ, Dill is normally a sleep-in type of guy who waits for the morning people to work their way north from the designated launch area before he climbs out of bed (ironic, because when it comes to snook fishing, Dill is a nocturnal beast). On the other hand, I can’t deal with not being the first guy on the flat and have been known to launch as early as 4:30 a.m., a characteristic flaw that has earned me a charming moniker from my fishing buddies that begins with ballistic and ends with — well, let’s not talk about what it ends with.
Regardless of on which side of the Pepsi/Coke timing issue we stand, Dill and I both have caught our fair share of trophy fish. As a “sweeper,” Dill prefers to come in after the crowds and targets those fish on the flats that tend to show later in the morning, particularly during the winter months, when the water warms as the day wears on. His canoe is best suited for fishing later anyway. Because he’s able to stand in it and pole efficiently, it provides him a higher vantage point and therefore greater visibility.
On the other side of the coin, my kayak puts me low to the water, and I prefer dawn to see those fish that float at first light, even if they are not feeding. Both strategies have merit, and occasionally I do get Dill out of bed for the zombie patrol.
Pre-9/11
The NMZ encompasses roughly the entire northern end of the Banana River, from State Road 528 north to the NASA Causeway. Technically speaking, there is a small chunk of water north of State Road 528 and west of the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW) open to motorized vessels all the way up to Kennedy Athletic, Recreation and Social (KARS) Park. However, even the ICW is closed north of KARS Park.
Between 1994 and 9/11, the NMZ was open to all anglers, though NASA employees had “preferred status.” On the western shore, KARS Park was open only to NASA employees or their designated guests, and the guard at the gate made sure of that. To fish the west side if you were a non-NASA employee, you had to launch from the barge canal parallel to State Road 528, which added at least an hour’s worth of paddling.
NASA guys, however, could not only access KARS Park but also launch at designated areas along the NASA Causeway to the north, or at the port on the northeastern corner of the NMZ, where the ships that hauled in the solid rocket boosters were moored. Yeah, it wasn’t fair.
On the eastern shore of the NMZ (prior to the building of the Port Canaveral cruise terminal), anglers could launch from the 401 causeway, parking at the fence near the entrance of the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station. They could then work their way north to the NASA Causeway along the eastern shoreline if they were so inclined. This was just fine for non-NASA folks, as there are plenty of good areas to fish from just north of the launch area.
