WE HEADED OUT FROM ST. PETERSBURG in early June, 100 miles offshore with plans to hammer some gag grouper. It was my dad, my brother Jayden, and I, our buddy Jose Chavez, and Luke. We loaded up the boat with all the usual gear—rods for bottom fishing, slow-pitch setups, and plenty of pinfish. I wasn’t planning on bringing my speargun. We already had enough to haul, and honestly, I figured we wouldn’t need it. But then Luke looked at me and said, “You’re stupid.” So I brought it.
The weather was flat calm. We bounced from wreck to ledge, working jigs and soaking baits. The bite was slow. We put a few keepers in the box and landed a couple nice African pompano, but nothing worth writing home about.
THEN CAME THE CHAOS.
My dad was slow-pitching in about 300 feet of water when Jose hooked up. While he went for the gaff to help land the fish, he left his rod sitting in the holder with the jig dangling mid-column. Out of nowhere, something slammed it. The drag had been locked down for grouper, and that rod ripped out of the holder like it was nothing—gone in seconds.
Not five minutes later, a massive wahoo cruised right up to the boat…