Fishing with grandkids

We all hope to pass on something before we pass on, permanently, and the one thing I know something about is fishing.

So, when the grands joined us for a few days of vacation recently on Florida’s Panhandle coast, fishing was naturally on the agenda.

The kids—Nicky and Sophia—are typical 2025 elementary schoolers, a lot more savvy about a lot more things than I was at their age, and the palette of entertainment options they have available stretches to beyond imagination in this age of personal electronics and Internet connection.

As with many families these days the grandkids live hundreds of miles away from us and we see them only four or five times a year. Their pop, my son, has tried to get them into fishing repeatedly because he grew up with it in Florida and loved it, but with only the Ohio River anywhere near them, opportunities are limited for actually catching something.

They arrived in Pensacola with a tackle box full of gear—all suited to catching freshwater panfish rather than powerful coastal species. And, of course, plastic closed face spincast reels with a wet noodle panfish rod.

“They would really like to catch a fish on their new tackle,” my son advised.

No pressure.

I tried locating some pinfish within range of the back beach on Pensacola Bay. No dice.

Flounder at the pass?

Nothing.

Maybe a pompano running along the beach? Nope, the wimpy gear wouldn’t get us out to the first trough.

The Pensacola Beach pier was my last hope.

When we walked out on the span—closed face reels in hand as the regulars eyed us with disdain—I could feel the cold sweat despite the 80 degree sunshine.

The first fish I saw in the rolling green water was a 6’ bull shark. Shortly after that, a pod of tarpon, everyone of them over 5’ long, came cruising through. Some guy with a 5/0 rig stuck a whopper king mackerel at the end of the span and it almost dumped his reel.

No Zebco-sized fish.

But, we have a bag of shrimp, we have weights, we have hooks—we have a chance at something. I bait em up and they heave em out.

The little reels have just a bit more line on them than it takes to reach the water from the giant pier.

And we catch nothing, for an hour.

“These fish will bite on one of my lures,” says the 7-year-old.

He has a tray of TEMU lures with hooks that are mostly size 8’s that look like repurposed paper clips. Just right for stocker trout or bluegills. Not so good for pissed-off redfish or black drum.

My wife has brought along one of my sticks, a 7’ medium-heavy with a 30-size spinning reel and 15-pound braid with 30-pound-test hard mono leader. Call it intuition. She puts on one of the tiny trout-sized spoons, heaves it into the rolling seas—I forgot to mention, there are double red flags and the surf is running about 6 feet—and immediately sticks a 2-pound Spanish mackerel.

“I told you they would bite my lures” screams the 7-year-old.

I do a bit of rerigging, including adding bite leaders to the Zebco’s, tie on some more of the mini-spoons, and everybody whales away at the roaring water.

And immediately everybody sticks either a Spanish or a ladyfish. Lines are crossing, Zebco’s are zipping, kids are screaming.

For the next hour, I am knee deep in fish scales, slime and blood, unhooking fish faster than the mate on an all-night snapper boat. The little spoons get cut off anytime a bigger mackerel takes hold, but fortunately that plastic tacklebox seems to have a bottomless supply of those 2 inch long silver spoons.

Finally, whatever triggered the fishy madness ends—nobody is getting bit, and it’s way past time for lunch anyway.

“That was the best fishing trip ever,” says the 7-year-old as we make the long walk back to shore. “It’s a good thing we brought my tacklebox.”

Meanwhile, I’m trying to look up TEMU spoons on my cell phone.