Cody Moravits Benefit Tournament

Cody Moravits Benefit Tournament

I’ve known Cody Moravits for several years now. I’m not sure when we met the first time, but I do remember showing him how to cast a fly rod at an event here in Corpus at least 4 years ago. An avid fisherman and outdoorsman, Cody is happiest when he’s connecting with the sea and people who love the water as much as he does. Earlier this year, Cody was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, which, let me tell you, really put a damper on his summer. He was living the dream, employed as a mate on the Nyati offshore fishing vessel. Friends and family have rallied around Cody during his time of need, and this weekend, Oct. 24, is a benefit tournament with proceeds going to Cody’s family to help defray medical costs.

I invited Cody over for a chat and ambushed him with an interview; I’m sneaky like that.

What did you think when you were first diagnosed?

“Well, whenever I found out I was stage 2, I was more relieved that they finally figured out what it was. From what I had been told, the cancer seemed to be contained in one little area. I took it a lot harder once I found out I was stage 4. It definitely makes you live your life differently, on a day to day basis. “

Cody went on to mention that he had been feeling off for some time previous, but after one visit to a doctor who essentially said not to worry about it, he was conflicted. A second opinion finally got things straightened out – the new doc came to him “…and just said ‘I’m just gonna go ahead and tell you, I think it’s lymphoma.’”

You’re employed as a mate currently?

“I was in major fear of losing my job – that I had just started – due to the illness. However, my boss was very understanding. One of my main sources of motivation is to get well and get back on the boat; some of the things I saw this summer when I was offshore were just remarkable. I have always looked up to my boss; he’s been a section leader in the Big Shell Cleanup for years and just getting to be around him is really cool.”

This year, Cody landed his first blue marlin. Photo credit: Facebook

This year, Cody landed his first blue marlin. Photo credit: Facebook

 

You do a lot of shark fishing from the beach right?

“I went offshore for the first time when I was 13 years old. I caught some kingfish… going from catching trout and redfish to kingfish was a pretty big jump for me. Since then, I’ve wanted to catch the biggest baddest fish possible. Given my limited money, that became shark fishing off the jetties and beaches in the coastal bend. “

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Photo credit: Facebook

“I’ve had some of the most humbling experiences of my life, just out on the jetty or the beach. The conditions are perfect, you’ve got the perfect bait kayaked out… and you don’t get a bite. It makes you realize that there’s more to shark fishing, more to fishing in general, than just catching a fish. It’s more about being out there and taking it all in. It does make the times when you catch a shark just that much better though!” Cody chuckles.

“Like tomorrow… I’m headed down the beach, but it won’t be a bust if I don’t catch any fish. I’m just looking forward to getting out there. Going down the beach without even a fishing rod at all… it’s a different experience when you’re not focused on catching a fish, when you’re more focused on the things around you. “

“You can know about the fish, but you’ve got to know about everything. And then, you can know about it, but that doesn’t mean you understand it. I feel like fishing can be like super philosophical you know. It’s… “

“Spiritual? “

“Yeah. It really is.”

Cody from a recent trip down the beach.

Cody from a recent trip down the beach. Photo credit: Facebook

 

Today, October 24, is the benefit fishing tournament for Cody’s family to help defray the cost of Cody’s hospital stays. Please feel free to donate if you didn’t get to join in the tournament fun.

Louisiana – Land of Giants; The first morning.

The next morning we were out the door fairly early, granola bars washed down with water and gatorade. There was no need to be out before the sun had risen high enough to warm the water and provide light for spotting cruising marsh pumpkins.

Layered against the windchill, we headed back to the general spot that we had left the previous evening. We figured it might be holding fish waiting for the sun.

After the cold of the boatride it was great to stand on the bow again, soaking up some sun and enjoying the excellent visibility. The area that we had fished the evening before was barren of fish except for one lone straggler that we blew out. Rounding a point, we headed up a shallow shoreline after crossing a deeper gut. Jeremy heard the characteristic sound of redfish crashing bait and poled us down the shoreline towards the commotion. We didn’t get far before we started running into fish.

 

Doubled up.

Doubled up.

 

First there was one, then there were five, then too many to count. Continue reading

Louisiana – Land of Giants

Louisiana – Land of Giants

It started with a phone call, or maybe it was a facebook message… or possibly an end-of-the-jetty bs session. I don’t remember; it doesn’t matter.

What mattered was that I rolled into Houston on that cool December night to meet up with Capt. Jeremy Chavez (Casting Tales Guide Service) and catch a ride on the Midnight Marsh Train headed to Louisiana. Rods loaded up, materials stashed, boat hooked up and off we went into the night.

Sunrise saw us well into Louisiana, stopping to pick up licensure. Regular ol’ saltwater license for me and a bonafide Louisiana guide license for Capt. Chavez.

Paperwork concluded, we headed for the water. I was practically hanging my head out the window like an eager bird dog, tongue lolling.

I watched as cities faded to towns, and towns faded to hamlets and fishing villages with tired houses and small, locally owned grocers.  The restaurants, like the houses, were small and weathered. I expected to find myself in the middle of all the cajun food I could eat; I’d find out later how mistaken I was.

Finally arriving at the water-side in the afternoon, we messed around with trying to arrange a place to stay. Due to the offseason doldrums, that was easier said than done. Eventually, we gave up and launched the boat; we had wasted enough fishing time.

Headed out of the marina on Capt. Jeremy’s Hell’s Bay skiff, I relaxed in the passenger seat and tried to take it all in. Continue reading

The Makings of Dedication

Flyfishermen are an introspective bunch, tending to philosophize a little more than our other fishing brethren. We like to catch big fish and high five about it, but we also like to talk about WHY we fish. I figure that is mostly because it’s something we ask ourselves often as we are picking another tangle out, or standing waist deep in frigid and/or shark infested water.

That being said, there are also physical and mental attributes that make a

Continue reading

Winter is Coming

With the first major cold front of the year leaving Fall hanging in the air, it’s time.

Time to go fishing.

Get out there and take advantage of the bait migration, the cooler temps, the clear water, the low numbers of fishermen on football Sunday afternoons. Do yourself a favor – grab a fly rod and get out there.

 

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Continue reading

Fishing our way home

As good things must, our trip was drawing to an end. We were reluctantly headed back down the road towards Denver, determined to stop a few times to fish along the way. I was looking forward to getting some dry fly action in, which you might think is a little funny after catching several great streamer browns. I just love a topwater bite over any other. I think it might have to do with tempting a fish to enter my world, the world above water, if just for a little bit, if only with the tip of his nose.

I was planning on throwing a hopper all day.

We put the pavement behind us, already rehashing stories of the fish we had caught in the previous days.

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A couple hours later the truck was rumbling down gravel, then bouncing through potholes, and then resting in the shade of a riverside tree grove.

We wadered up as Brian filled me in on stories of fishing the water in years past. Rigging quickly as we talked, we smelled the river-smell and listened to the gentle chuckle of the riffle only a few yards away. Determined to get the dry fly eat that I was hankering for Continue reading

Rainbrowns – Afternoon trophy trouting

After my morning success, the guys decided to get serious about looking for large brown trout in the winding creek behind the house. Brian and I, along with our host, wadered up and set off to do a little bushwhacking.

Our host had explored a lot of the available territory, so he was able to point us in the direction of a few likely big fish haunts. In the warm, liquid light of a fall Colorado afternoon, we explored, fished, and enjoyed life.

 

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We didn’t see any hatches come off during the couple days we were there. The sand-silt bottom made for fairly murky visibility, so streamers were the name of the game. Brian had a fly box full of meaty goodness tied up by Fly Geek’s Matt Bennett, while I stuck with the battle-proven black Smullett that had coaxed many strikes already.

It’s easy to get frustrated when you’re sure that fish are around but none of them want to play. I figured I should move and cover as much of the stream as possible Continue reading

Rainbrowns – In the Trees.

The next morning dawned cool and quiet, with the excitement from the nocturnal fish wrangling still lingering. I was just as ready to throw on waders as the previous morning, but Brian wanted to spend some time chatting with his buddy over coffee so they hung back at the house. I headed for a section of the creek that I had looked over but hadn’t given a proper chance to produce the big fish it looked capable of holding.

I felt confident in what I had learned about this new water, and I figured that I would be able to do a little headhunting for the bigger browns I knew had to be hanging in tight to the tangled cover. I had figured out that the browns were behaving a lot like snook, demanding a pinpoint accurate cast tight in next to cover to elicit a strike.

The creek bank was solidly lined on each side with willows, with only a few moose trails creating open paths. These trails had been enhanced in some areas with chainsaw and elbow grease, but the places I wanted to go were pretty darn thick. The close-quarters nature of the vegetation made casting a real headache, but I relished the challenge, the antithesis of throwing bomb casts over open water like I was used to.

It was extremely technical, close quarters fishing. Steeple casts and bow-and-arrow casts were my primary tools I moved from spot to spot. I made it to a shallow sandy riffle area that dropped off quickly, with an undercut bank on the far side. There just had to be a fish in there, but in order to land a fly on target I had to cast through a foot wide slot in the willows behind me and lay in on the backcast, making accuracy a real challenge. Not only that, but getting the rod to load with only the leader and a couple feet of flyline out the tip was quite the challenge.

My first cast fell a little short of the tiny gap in the willow branches that I was aiming for, but the second dropped right in. I actually couldn’t believe that I had managed it, to be honest with you. I let the black streamer sink down into the tannin-murk for a one count, and immediately began the retrieve. Well, I tried to begin the retrieve, but immediately came tight onto a branch. A branch that moved… not a branch!

A thrumming headshake and a quick turn downstream had my heart racing as I grudgingly gave line to the unseen fish. It immediately headed for the nearest tangle, but I had an 8lb (3x) fluoro leader on. I was able to apply some serious pressure to put the brakes on, and used the long lever of the fly rod to turn the fish. A few tense moments more, and a beautiful buck was in hand, my largest fish for the trip.

Brown trout giving me the crazy eye

Whutchew lookin’ at?

 

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I had a huge grin plastered across my face as I positioned the tired fish for a couple quick photos and then watched him slip from my hands back into the slow current. Mission accomplished… but let’s do that again!

Working downstream through another set of moose trails, I hit the creek again. I spotted a tempting brushpile downstream a bit and headed that way. My second step found me suddenly wading through knee-deep muck. Trying to be stealthy, I squelched my way into position. Using the creek as a casting lane this time, I laid out a cast parallel to the waterlogged limbs and began to retrieve.

This time, the thump! of the take reverberated with unquestionable fishiness. Then, quicker than I could think, the fish darted for the safety of the branches. Aww… crap.

 

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Ohhhh… beaver.

To the bottom left of the picture you can see the flyline and amnesia mono to which my leader is looped. The situation seemed grim, but I could feel the fish down there, thrashing. My leader held, so I was left with a choice; Break the fish off and let it perhaps die of starvation while tied to the brush pile, or go in after it. I sighed and started removing layers, down to t-shirt and waders.

Working my hand down the mono, freeing as I went, I ended up nearly to my shoulder in the frigid water. I had a great view of my wavering reflection, since my face practically rested on the surface film. I was almost as busy making sure I didn’t dip water into my waders as I was with untangling the fish, cussing quietly the whole time.

Eventually, I was able to drag the fish back up and out of the bottom of the pile, and a nice hen rose into the light.

 

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I snapped a picture and eased the trout back in the water. Since I was already wet, cold, and in the middle of the stream, I figured I might as well use the good casting lane to hit a couple points down the way that I couldn’t get at while on the bank.

Two casts later, a thump!

To my amazement, I was hooked up again. I was surprised all the commotion hadn’t turned off the pool.

Soon, another pretty fish was in hand, red bespeckled sides gleaming in the gathering morning brightness.

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After she swam off, it was time to head back to breakfast. We had a day of fishing to discuss, and I was sure that the guys had cooked up a great plan along with the scrambled eggs and taters.

Rainbrowns – Nighttime is the Right Time.

After a delicious evening meal constructed around the fresh trout caught earlier in the day, we relaxed with a couple fingers of slow-burning scotch. Full bellies and the warmth of the living room dimmed our desire for heading back out in the evening chill, but tales of massive eruptions under mouse flies had us strapping into waders once again.

Quietly easing down to the beaver dam where I had gotten a bump the day before, Brian and I spread out and started casting.  I was chunking the same black streamer that had worked for me the evening before, while Brian was determined to experience a mousing strike. The water was cloudy, so I doubted that he would be successful, but I could definitely appreciate the goal.

The night was dead calm, and the coyotes sang from a nearby ridge as the Milky Way sprawled across the bejeweled velvet of the night sky. Long minutes of nothing ensued. The quiet shushing sounds of casting mingled with the rustling of small rodents going about their night-business. Casting at the far bank was a tricky endeavor; a wall of willow limbs waited for a fly cast just too far. Casting down the grassy near bank was much easier. I heard the plop of Brian’s mouse fly down the bank a ways to my right as he too fished the grassy shore. Suddenly, a surface commotion, followed quickly by the terse call – “Fish!” I hurriedly reeled in and moved down the bank to his position to see if I could assist.

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A couple pictures later, the fish was once again a top predator lurking in the inky blackness. High fives all around – time to hit the sack and see what the morrow would bring.

 

 

Rainbrowns, Day 2

After a night of waking up every couple hours to check the clock – “Is it time to fish yet?!…No… Now?!… No…” – I finally woke up the last time to the giddy sight of a thin line of light on the eastern horizon. Time to fish! I hopped out of bed, crawled from my den of fly fishing tackle, and headed for my waders.

 

The air was still as I stepped out into the coolness of the morning. Walking to my fly rod Continue reading