A Killer Yellowfin Topwater Bite

Every now and then you end up at the right place at the right time. Those events seem to occur more frequently with preparation and consistency, but it always feel just as good. Last year, my friends Pete, Karl and I hit the jackpot on an acres of 60-80 pound yellowfin tuna blowing up a late summer biomass of krill south of Martha’s Vineyard.

Intel

Like every good fishing trip, we put together a game plan based on intel about yellowfin tuna schools feeding at the southwest corner of an area called "The Dump." Some friends had been out about a week earlier and found a few bites on topwater gear. We corroborated this with satellite imagery showing a temp break and blue/green chlorophyll mix (what we call the "slosh").

Gameplan

Our plan was to run to the same spot that had been reported to have life. If we couldn't find it there, we would run east, scouring the patch of mixing water until we found life.

The Trip

We left Narragansett Bay under the cover of darkness as usual and headed south. As we passed Pt. Judith, Karl, the salty vet, tossed his pocket change into the ocean, cracked a beer, and shared a sip with the sea. This offering to the fish gods was going to pay off, and we had no idea.

We passed through a fleet of lights at 20 fathoms and began doubting our plan. We knew they were fishing a hot bluefin chunk bite, but topwater yellowfins were on the menu, so onward we pushed.

About six miles out from our goal, as the sun was just peaking over the horizon, we spotted a group of milling tuna. Lazily they finned across the surface, then suddenly turned on to feed, and off plane we went. I grabbed a popping rod and managed to place a cast right at the leading edge of the feed, instantly hooking up to a small 40-pound yellowfin tuna. A few minutes later, it was over the rail, and we were back on the hunt, but so were the tuna.

We searched for about an hour and saw a few signs of life, but it was a one-and-done feed. The bite was over, and we were feeling impatient. Easterly we pushed, running the southern edge of the box that is "The Dump," until we found a set of seemingly derelict lobster gear with fish breaking all around it.

What we had found was apparently every Mahi-Mahi in the Atlantic Ocean nervously feeding around this high flier. We fed them squid, ballyhoo, butterfish, plastics, and poppers, but no takers. Too much live bait was in the area, and they were being fussy like toddlers. There was also this air of a nearby predator; although the mahi were feeding, they appeared nervous and darty. We attempted to jig up whichever monster loomed beneath the structure but to no avail. After two hours, it was time to leave this glorious spectacle and go back on the hunt. I think the saying goes, "Leave the fish, and you will find the fish," or something like that...

With the day growing old, we pushed west back to the area we initially witnessed tuna feeds. Perhaps they would be feeding again; we knew they were there. Sure enough, as we approached our original numbers, we began to see white water and birds. As we got closer, an 80-pound yellowfin tuna aired out in front of us. Let's go!!!

We lined upwind of the feeding schools and set the boat to intercept their perceived direction. Pete and Karl began casting towards the leading edge of the feasting school, ensuring their poppers were in front of the fish. Quickly they came tight in a ferocious blast of an attacking yellowfin tuna.

Doubles and triples ensued for the next two hours. After each batch of fish was landed, we would slowly approach the school again as it traveled northwest. These fish did not want to stop eating, and we had them all to ourselves.

Time to Go

In true fashion, we overstayed our welcome. It was getting very late, the chop was building, and we were definitely going to be late for dinner. But how could we put the rods down? Each cast resulted in a pissed-off yellowfin assaulting your lure and giving you a lively 20-minute fight...the perfect length.

Eventually, someone had to be the adult in the room, although I forget who, and call it a day. We poured a celebratory cocktail and headed to the barn. I'm sure all three of us were replaying those bites in our heads all the way home that day. Hell, I still do...

Moral of the story: drink a beer at 4:30 in the morning, and you will find fish.