The One That Got Away at Masonboro

It was a calm morning at Masonboro Inlet. The kind of morning where the water looks like glass and you can see mullet jumping three hundred yards out. I had my Penn Slammer rigged with a Carolina rig, 6/0 circle hook, and a chunk of fresh mullet that could have fed a family of four.

About 7:15 AM, the rod doubled over. I mean DOUBLED. The tip hit the water and the drag started screaming like a banshee at a church picnic. I grabbed the rod and set my feet — and that's when the real fight began.

For forty-five minutes, that fish ran me up and down the inlet. My arms were burning, my back was killing me, and my buddy was laughing so hard he nearly fell out of the boat. When I finally got that red drum alongside, we estimated it at 52 inches and well over 40 pounds.

I reached for the net. The fish looked at me. I looked at the fish. And then — snap. The line broke like it was made of dental floss. That drum gave one final tail slap, soaking me head to toe, and disappeared into the murky water.

To this day, I swear that fish winked at me before it left.