Shook Standing alone in a silvery-gray dawn, casting to the rolling swells at the end of Port Aransas's north jetty, is a feast for the senses. The surf roars and vibrates through angular openings in the rocks. Warm sea water and foam wash across your ankles.
Gulls cry out overhead in perpetual anticipation.
As you stand on a block of pink granite at the water's edge, your first casts are almost reflexive-loop after loop of fly line thrown into the frothy troughs between rolling combers. That's usually when the first strike comes. There's a jolt, your rod bows up, and you stand wide-eyed as the fish makes a searing run. Your first thought is that this one is out of control, unmanageable, possibly unstoppable. But the second run is shorter, and you begin to take charge, steering the flashy shape toward the nearest flat rock.