A Florida Keys Grouper That Was Nearly The End

Glen Brunke, January 22, 2024

The bow of the 20-foot center console boat rhythmically rose and fell as it skipped across the waves, heading out to the reef edge four miles away. The wind was light, the sky clear – a gift of a December day for a weekend in the Florida Keys. The hum of the outboard motor accompanied the rhythmic lull of the waves, creating a serene symphony that echoed the tranquility of the day. I felt truly alive and lucky to experience this perfect sunlit canvas, my rental boat cutting through the glistening expanse of the open sea.

Normally, I would share such an experience with friends, workmates, or family, but today I was alone; schedules did not allow anyone to join me. After several miles of riding, I pulled back on the throttle, and the bow settled into the water as I swung the boat around to face into the wind. I was targeting a new section of reef that I discovered on Google Earth that looked promising. The north reef edge appeared to be steep with a ledge, possibly with an overhang, and the light north wind allowed me to anchor in the sand and drift baits back to this spot. With December nearly over, I was looking to land a grouper before the season closed at the end of the year, and this looked like a grouper spot.

The early fishing was slow. I drifted shrimp and ballyhoo baits into my chum line, which usually yielded yellowtail snapper, but today the snapper were smaller than normal, and I found few keepers. I baited a shrimp on my hook and set it out to drift back into the current. Suddenly, my line cut through the water, zipping above the reef. I knew this could only be one thing: Mackerel. The question was, was it a Cero or Spanish? Many times you never get to find out, as their teeth quickly find a way to cut through your line. This time it was a Spanish, and it was a Spanish two more times after that. Things were picking up.

With the yellowtail being slow, I opted to try a slightly heavier rig to join my grouper poles on the sandy bottom in front of the reef. Shrimp-tipped jigs yielded a few Jolthead Porgy, which I happily added to the cooler with the mackerel. A mangrove snapper and a pair of yellow jacks joined them, but I was still out of luck with my target of grouper.

Having enough for dinner and then some, I considered trying a different spot, but I was curious if my Google Earth assessment was correct: is there a reef edge here? Is there an overhang? My curiosity got the better of me, and I did something that is not advisable when fishing alone—I put on my snorkel gear to dive in and check it out.

Hopping over the gunwales and into the jewel-like water of the Keys, I was able to see the bottom twenty feet below from the surface. Grouper! I knew it; two black groupers spotted me and immediately made for nearby cover, but a red grouper rotated his body to stare at me, making no motion to escape. I had brought along a pole spear, previously learning the hard way always to expect to see fish. I took a deep breath, folded my body to dive down, and slowly descended down near the red grouper.

The fish started to drift away as I approached, but I was able to get off a shot and hit him right in the gills, causing him to thrash at the end of my spear—a good hit! I secured him with my gloved hands and kicked back up to the surface. I couldn't believe my luck; I had my grouper, and this spot did, in fact, look as promising as I had hoped. I couldn't get past the thought of the black groupers that swam away, though. Perhaps they were still nearby, huddled underneath the rock ledge I saw from the surface. I decided to add the red grouper to the cooler and "just check" to see if the black groupers were there.



Back in the water, I drifted down near one of the ledges to peer underneath. A huge puff of sand filled my view, and a black grouper hightailed it out of there. I should have been more careful. I wasn't ready to shoot; I could have speared that one, and it was a nice one too. Maybe there's more...

Encouraged by the first ledge, I checked a few more, but no luck on finding any more targets. I noticed I was getting pretty far from the boat and decided to head back, already feeling that I had pushed my luck by diving alone—a too-often deadly sin in the spearfishing community. It's easy to overexert yourself while spearing, increasing the risk of shallow water blackout, and without a dive buddy to save you, it can easily be a death sentence.

As I was kicking back to safety, something caught my eye off to my right. I couldn't make it out, but it seemed to be pretty large. As the haze of distance cleared away, I could see an enormous grey shape emerge. Shit, it was a shark. It was huge, by far the biggest fish I have ever seen, and it was swimming a few yards away. It was a Great Hammerhead. It's difficult to judge size underwater, but this fish looked boat-sized; I felt like a minnow in its presence.

No doubt the sounds and smell of the red grouper I had speared earlier had attracted the beast, and I was alone in the middle of the ocean with it and too far from the boat. My heart raced, and my adrenaline levels pushed my conscience into a sort of third-person state; the moment was surreal. This shouldn't have happened to me, but there I was.

I knew not to make any sudden movements or race back to the boat, but that's where I so desperately wanted to be. I kept kicking, making a little headway and keeping my eye on the shark. The big fish circled around, its long body swaying back and forth in the water, keeping its distance but staying within view. After what felt like days of swimming, the dive ladder emerged into sight. I made a slow motion to grab it, position myself, then immediately made a seal dive into the back of the boat. I was safe. Too close for comfort, though.

My day was done. There would be no second spot. I felt lucky to be back in the boat, and I would feel even better being back on shore. I pulled anchor, motored back to the dock, and savored being alive with a cooler full of fish, including one delicious red grouper.