The wind dies down on the way to East Matagorda Bay

When Jim dropped me off at my hotel he said "we'll see how brave you are in the morning".

I wasn’t very brave.  I woke up and went outside and the palm trees were bending in the wind.  I thought "here we go again".  Three more big bays.  I started to think about alternatives.  I put out bids on Uship to truck me from Rockport to East Matagorda Bay, only 60 miles away.  I was about to call Jim and tell him that I would be working on alternatives and would catch a cab as soon as I figured it out.  I was going back and forth.  Should I go or not?  I got a bid on Uship for $330.  Hmm, that sounds reasonable.  I was definitely conflicted.  Frankly I just didn’t want three more bays worth of fighting the waves and the wind. 

But I decided to give it a shot.  Jim picked me up and as my boat and I moved out of his marina, you could see him looking at me like I had lost my mind.  Actually the wind was calmer and I quickly made it to the middle of the bay and the ICW.

Once across Aransas Bay, there was a land cut to San Antonio Bay.  Once through San Antonio Bay was another land cut to West Matagorda Bay. 

The land cuts were a shelter from the wind.

I was running kind of low on gas.  It looked like I had a quarter left in my 60 gallon tank.  I had made it from Brownsville to halfway between Corpus Christi and Galveston.  I pulled over at a small marina with a gas station just before the town of Port O'Conner and West Matagorda Bay.  That is where I met Carl.  What a character. 

Nthe belt buckle.  It is a classic.  It says Deputy Sheriff.  And he was the deputy sheriff.  Of what, I am not sure but he had some great stories about the “old” days on the coast and the trips he made in his boat to the keys and other places.  He said he served in WWII, Korea and Vietnam. 

Before I entered West Matagorda Bay was a development that someone had poured lots money into.  Note the quality of the jetties.  Red Right Return.  The red buoy is on the right as you would be returning.  Not many houses.  It looks like someone was losing a lot of money on this.

At the marina where I had filled up my tank there were a handful of guys that looked like they knew the area like the back of their hand and I had an idea.  Instead following the ICW and going across the middle into the teeth of the rough water, go east to the barrier Island that lined West Matagorda Bay, a bay bigger than Corpus Christi.  I figured the wind should be much less along that strip of land.  Two of the guys said yes and two others said I wouldn’t know the shallow spots.  In fact it was almost as calm as a land cut and I made my way North until I had to go back West to the ICW and into the big land cut that went from there to Galveston...and I had run aground only once.

After crossing West Matagorda Bay I felt a great sense of accomplishment and relief, as if a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders.  There was only one more bay, Galveston where I felt comfortable, all the way to New Orleans and the wind was dying down.

Now it was off to East Matagorda Bay to meet my friend from BMC, Mark Binford, and stay in his bay house.

The trip from West Matagorda Bay to east Matagorda Bay was longer than I thought and cut in two by the Colorado River where large retractable doors separated the river from the ICW as the river made its way to the Gulf.

My newest nemesis was the yacht.  Who said the economy was bad?  I had not seen one from Brownsville to the Colorado River but I saw at least five from there to Matagorda, probably 30 miles.  The threat was their wake.  It rifled out from both sides and washed the entire width of the ICW.  If they had passed at full throttle I would have been swamped…and there was nowhere to go.  I would shut down and wait for them to pass hoping they understood my situation.  Most did.  Most slowed to a “no wake” speed as they went by.  One didn’t and seemed to ignore me as I cussed him as loud as I could.  From then on out I armed myself with my air horn and let out a loud blast as they approached. 

Mark’s place was hard to find.  I passed it and didn’t realize it for about 10 miles before I turned around.  His place was literally in the middle of nowhere in a group of about 20 houses.  It is a fisherman’s dream nestled on the marsh of East Matagorda Bay with access to some of the most highly sought after fishing waters on Texas.

 Mark is a very good fisherman and a very good friend.  That night one of his twin newborn granddaughters was taken to the emergency room in Houston and I could sense his concern.

In the morning I got up, headed to the other side of East Matagorda Bay to fish.  I followed the trail on my GPS to the same place we fished the night before.  It was a fantastically beautiful morning and the trout were running, I could see them, but they weren't biting.

In this picture, my boat is in 18” of water and I am wade fishing in about 4’.