After hearing stories and seeing videos from my sons cell phone from last night I decided to have a go at it with a fly rod. Sure enough at the appointed time or some wheres there about, redfish started showing up under the lights of the pier. Now throwing a fly rod is not only verboten on the pier I think, but its a silly thought to even consider. But non-the-less the reds were there and I just couldn't resist. So off came the shoes and emptied the pockets to my wife's faithful care. Theo I still don't think it was necessary of her to count the money. Off the beach, in to the dark I walked fully armed with my two most trusted fly patterns, the gold spoon and the ever present Junk Yard Dawg fly. Full disclosure here my wife, son and grand son stayed on the pier, high and dry to witness the events from the box seats. OK they just leaned over the rail and yelled "Fish coming". Understand these are not finely tuned fish spotters and stalkers of the flats and I got advise like. "straight in front of about 20 feet to your right or no make that about 20 yards". They were trying and the fish coming part actually help to put me on alert. Plus when the real first fish showed up and I realized how big theses fellas were, that was all I needed. I started with the Junk Yard Dawg but just couldn't make the connection even after such solid direction being offered. So I switched to the spoon, it got looks but still no tight line event. After about forty five minutes a pattern started to emerge. Seemed every time I lit a smoke this one rather large distraction would put in an appearance. That thing is on the hunt, I know them moves. The jerky sudden changes of direction, the jealous guarding of a feeding space, the hovering inches over the plate like a starving five year old with a happy meal. I switched back the the junk yard dawg for the second time. Now there's a reason its named that, it's because it has this single endearing quality about it. It bites fish weather they make up their mind or not. Tonight it proved it yet again. As the line came tight the reaction was a well practiced maneuver, hit and hold, clear the line and test the resolve of the your quarry. In my dreams that is the way it goes any way. What actually happened was, I went to work the fly again and felt pressure on the line, strip strike, released methane in my wet jeans and got line burn for a reaction. The fish had its game plan in full operation before recovered from the shock. Threw the pilings and in a south by west angle was off and testing the backing knots in a nano second. From the east side of the pier it wasn't easy to determine just how many sets of pilings were to be involved in this pursuit, so I dropped all drag and opted for rim break. A fat man slogging threw the dark surf under the pier straining to follow his fast disappearing backing, I began to feel like a priest seeking divine guidance in a skid row brothel. Knowing one wrong decision meant certain damnation, as the barnacle laden piling would shred the line or backing instantly. Was it the hand of the almighty or just dumb luck either way I'll take it. The line and I both cleared the obstacle course and the fight in earnest was on. Go west young man, the fish and I both heard the call it seems. He south west to the gulf, me north west back to the beach each both determine to stand the fight in our better element. As I neared the beach to the adulation and encouragement of my family members, nature had one last little joke, mother nature arranged to place an eight inch sand curb directly in my dimly lite path. Oh who among us hasn't made some undignified quick steps while fighting a fish right? Finely up on the beach the fight continued for some time gaining and letting backing come and go, but ultimately I emerged the victor. A fine and worthy thirty five inch redfish was brought to hand, briefly admired and the fly removed from under his chin. Yup that's right under his chin not from its mouth, that's how the fly got its name. Two of the first four fish I caught with it were hooked under the chin (black drum), not by purposeful design with intent, but I love that it does just the same.