Captain Redtide's Log

SEPTEMBER 8TH, 2025

Title: The Letter I Never Sent (and Probably Still Won’t)

Latitude: Alone at anchor
Weather: Soft breeze, glassy water, clouds shaped like memories
Mood: Reflective, mellow, salt-rimmed

No antics today.
No flying barstools, swamp goblins, or Strongman Wayne shirtless in mesh.
Just the boat, the breeze, and a half-cold mug of coffee that tastes like someone else's memories.

I anchored out in the cove around sunrise. Didn’t bring a rod. Didn’t bring a cooler. Just a worn notebook I’ve been cartin’ around for years. The kind you tell yourself you’ll fill with profound thoughts but end up using for grocery lists and inappropriate haikus.

Flipped through it and found something I'd forgotten:
An old letter I never sent.

Wrote it years ago—during a stormy night, docked in Apalachicola, long before Phishnicked, before Goom, before the flaming cannonball birthday parties and haunted appliances.

It wasn’t addressed to anyone specific. Just one of those rambly captain’s confessions where you try to convince the sea (or maybe yourself) that you still know which way the compass is pointing.

I read it once. Laughed at how dramatic I sounded.
Folded it back up. Tucked it into the tackle box under a box of split-shot weights and half a Slim Jim.

Didn’t throw it away, though.
Might be there’s a little truth in things you write when no one’s watchin’.

Highlights of the Day:

• I watched a pelican fight its reflection in the water for 12 full minutes. The pelican lost.

• Goom left me a sandwich labeled “EMOTIONAL SUPPORT SUB.” I didn’t ask what was in it. I ate it anyway.

• I didn’t post a thing. Didn’t take a selfie. Just... existed. That’s enough.

Would I do it again? Every chance I get.
Sometimes, the only adventure you need is a little silence and something unfinished.

Stay anchored,
Captain Redtide
Loud most days. Quiet when it counts.

//BREAK//

SEPTEMBER 7TH, 2025

Title: I Met the Morton’s Fisherman — And I Think He Judged Me

Latitude: One aisle over from the frozen crab cakes
Weather: Indoors. Cold. Emotionally intense.
Mood: Starstruck, confused, and slightly underdressed

I don’t usually get flustered.
I've faced rogue waves, flying bait knives, and Lil Goom’s swamp smoothies.

But today?
I ran into a legend.

Not a sea monster. Not a washed-up yacht rocker.
The Morton’s Fisherman.

You know the one.
Beard like a Nor’easter. Peacoat tighter than a tax audit. Eyes full of frozen wisdom and vaguely Lutheran disappointment.

I was at the local dockside market picking up ice and frozen shrimp for a low-stakes gumbo throwdown with Phil. Strolling past the frozen section, I spotted him. Leaning casually against the freezer doors, arms crossed. Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just... observed.

I stopped mid-step.

He nodded.
I nodded.

It was like seeing your cooler’s spiritual ancestor. Or locking eyes with the ghost of seafood future.

I tried to play it cool, muttered something like “Big fan of your work.”
He raised one eyebrow like Poseidon judging a child’s paddle boat.

Ev appeared out of nowhere, looked at him, then whispered, “Do you think he’s animatronic? Like Chuck E. Cheese but for fish sticks?”
We were escorted out shortly after that.

Phil, of course, didn’t believe me.
Vinny claims he once arm-wrestled him in Reno.
Wayne challenged him to a boat-pulling contest via Instagram. Still waiting on a reply.

Highlights of the Day:

• I now own a commemorative box of Morton’s Fish Filets with a Sharpie signature I may or may not have forged myself.

• The market security guard said, “This is the weirdest thing that’s happened this week.” It was Monday.

• I made the gumbo. It was awful. But noble.

Would I do it again? Yes.
And next time, I’ll be dressed better. Maybe in corduroy. Something with sea gravitas.

Stay thawed,
Captain Redtide
Not frozen. Just emotionally flash-chilled.

//BREAK//

SEPTEMBER 6TH, 2025

Title: Boat Couture & the Mesh Tanktop Incident

Latitude: Floating just outside the boundaries of good taste
Weather: Blazing sun, light crosswind, 100% fabric confusion
Mood: Dazzled, disturbed, lightly sunburnt

Every so often, the marina decides to get "classy."
Today was Dockside Dazzle — our annual attempt at a boat fashion show, organized by a group of retirees with too much free time and matching parasols.

I tried to sit this one out. I really did. But Phil bribed me with rum and said, “Redtide, it’s time the people saw what real style looks like on a man who hasn’t folded laundry since 2004.”

So I showed up. Board shorts. Captain’s hat. A life vest I had aggressively autographed by a pelican.

Then… Strongman Wayne walked in.

Wearing a black mesh tank top, lime green swim trunks, and boots. Not boat shoes. Combat boots.
He strutted down the dock like he was modeling for Men’s Nautical Regret Monthly.

The crowd went wild.

Presidente Ip judged the event. He gave Wayne a perfect score, citing “raw intimidation and tactical thigh confidence.” Vinny accused the judging panel of “taste crimes.” Ev tried to do a quick-change mid-strut and got tangled in a beach towel. The applause was deafening.

I walked the runway next. Tripped over a cooler. Landed in a beach chair. Got a standing ovation anyway. One woman yelled, “You’re brave!” which felt both supportive and judgmental.

Highlights of the Day:

• Phil wore a towel toga and called it “Coastal Greco-Roman Minimalism.”

• Wayne flexed so hard his sunglasses cracked.

• Someone released doves. They pooped on everyone. Still majestic.

Would I do it again? Absolutely.
The ocean may be wild, but marina fashion? That’s a whole different kind of unpredictable tide.

Stay strutting,
Captain Redtide
Boat chic. Hull-deep.

//BREAK//

SEPTEMBER 5TH, 2025

Title: Swamp Tours & Gator Side Hustles

Latitude: Somewhere between moss and madness
Weather: 93° with 104% humidity
Mood: Skeptical, sweaty, spiritually swampy

This morning, Lil Goom told me she was starting a “boutique swamp tour business.”

I said, “Do you have a boat?”
She said, “No, but I have a vision.”
Which is how I found myself in a leaking canoe made of duct tape, zip ties, and what I swear used to be the roof of my bait shed.

Phil came too. Said he was “looking to spiritually reset.”
Vinny declined. Said he had “a rash last time.” Didn’t elaborate.

We launched from a questionable dock behind an abandoned bait shack. Goom handed out homemade brochures featuring things like:

• “Cryptid Hot Spots”

• “Moss-Infused Aromatherapy”

• “100% Chance of Gator”

Thirty minutes in, we passed a turtle sunbathing on a broken lawn chair, a pair of frogs boxing for dominance, and a heron wearing what I swear was a visor.

Then we saw him.
The Gator.

Big. Real big. Wearing what appeared to be a gold chain and a suspiciously human smirk.

Goom introduced him as “Darryl.”
She claimed he “runs a pawn shop on weekends” and “once traded a boat anchor for a juicer.” Phil nodded like this was normal.

I don’t remember paddling faster in my life.

Back on land, Goom tried to sell us souvenir jars of “Swamp Essence” for $12.95. I asked what was in it. She said, “The truth.”

I bought one. For research.

Highlights of the Day:

• Phil ate a leaf and said it tasted like “the concept of regret.”

• I now own a signed photo of Darryl the Alligator.

• Goom swears she’s franchising. She’s already made business cards out of oyster shells.

Would I do it again? Surprisingly, yes.
Would I bring my own canoe and life insurance? Absolutely.

Stay soggy,
Captain Redtide
Part-time paddler, full-time confused

//BREAK//

SEPTEMBER 4TH, 2025

Title: The Great Weigh-In Scandal of Crankbait Cove

Latitude: Right next to disappointment
Weather: Hot enough to poach a shrimp on deck
Mood: Competitive, suspicious, lightly lemon-scented

Today was the annual Crankbait Cove “No Rules” Fishing Tournament. A day when pride, protein shakes, and loosely enforced laws come together in the name of catching the biggest thing that moves.

I teamed up with Bro—because if anyone can out-stare a grouper into submission, it’s him. Man hasn’t blinked since 2011.

We set out early. Just me, Bro, and a tackle box full of ethically questionable bait. Things went well. Caught a few redfish, one mildly offended flounder, and a boot that might have been Ev’s from last month. Bro never spoke. Just nodded occasionally and stared into the horizon like he was listening to the whispers of ancient tuna spirits.

By weigh-in time, we were feelin’ good. Until Team Bassholes rolled up.

Led by none other than Vindictive Vinny, they strutted in with a “fish” so big it required its own trailer and a notarized handler. Said it was a 96-lb. largemouth. I said it looked like a tuna with lipstick and a fake mustache.

Presidente Ip oversaw the weigh-in, of course—clipboard in hand, monocle fogged from stress. He took one look at the Bassholes’ catch, squinted, and muttered, “That’s not... local.”

We filed an official protest.

Turns out the fish was bought at a seafood market in Tallahassee. Still frozen. The plastic wrap said “Best by Sept 7.” Vinny claimed it was “pre-caught for efficiency.”

Disqualified. Chaos. Vinny threw a folding chair. Wayne caught it midair and used it to do shoulder presses.

Highlights of the Day:

• Bro said his first word in three months: “Cheaters.”

• I won a koozie for “Most Dramatic Overreaction to Losing.”

• Goom tried to weigh in a catfish she drew on a cardboard tube. Got third place.

Would I do it again? With Bro? Yes. With Vinny around? Only if there’s body cam footage.

Stay skeptical,
Captain Redtide
Reel honest, weigh-in wounded

//BREAK//

SEPTEMBER 3RD, 2025

Title: The Great Squall & the Floating Barstool of Destiny

Latitude: Somewhere west of common sense
Weather: Sunshine sandwich with a thunderstorm filling
Mood: Damp, dramatic, faintly optimistic

This afternoon started like any other: sunscreen in my eyes, boat keys in the wrong pocket, and Ev yelling “YOLO” from inside a cooler.

We set out for a quick run down the coast—me, Phil, and a cooler labeled “Just Ice (but probably tequila).” The sky looked clear. Birds chirped. It was... unsettling.

And that’s when the squall hit.

No warning. No clouds. Just a sudden, immediate slap from Mother Nature herself.

Rain came sideways. Waves rolled in from directions that don’t exist on a compass. My hat took flight like a patriotic bald eagle. Goom (who had stowed away in the storage hatch again) popped her head out, declared, “WE'VE ANGERED THE SEA,” and then ducked back in.

We tried to anchor near a sandbar, but the rope tangled around Phil’s ankle and dragged him halfway off the boat. He held on by grabbing a floating barstool that had mysteriously appeared, spinning gently in the current like it was waiting for someone to sit and order regret.

We pulled him back in. The barstool stayed. Watching us.

Vinny later claimed the stool came from a tiki bar that vanished in the 1993 Mini-Margarita Hurricane. I’m not sure if he was serious. I’m not sure if he was serious.

Highlights of the Day:

• Strongman Wayne swam past in a paddleboat shouting “This is cardio, baby!” then vanished into fog.

• Ev tried to use a pool noodle as a lightning rod. It worked worse than expected.

• Goom offered the sea a Pop-Tart for mercy. The rain immediately stopped. I don't ask questions anymore.

Would I do it again? Absolutely.
Squalls test your character. And your ability to bail water while holding a margarita.

Stay afloat,
Captain Redtide
Still damp, always dramatic

//BREAK//

SEPTEMBER 2ND, 2025

Title: The Haunted Ice Machine of Slip 12B

Latitude: Dockside Purgatory
Weather: Sticky, spooky, slightly carbonated
Mood: Suspicious, hydrated, unconvinced

This morning, I went to get ice.
A normal task. Innocent. Boring.
But nothing is boring at Slip 12B—also known as the Marina’s "Appliance Graveyard."

The ice machine lives there.
No one owns it. No one remembers when it was installed. It hums like it’s whispering to ghosts. Ev says it runs on “cursed freon.” Goom swears she saw it eat a crab once. Phil just calls it “Steve” and avoids eye contact.

Naturally, I went alone.

I approached the machine with a cooler in one hand and low expectations in the other. Pushed the button. Nothing.

Then it groaned. Like an old man stretching after 60 years in a pickle jar. Ice shot out like cannon fire. The cooler shook. A pelican across the way flinched and flew directly into a sailboat.

I swear the machine growled.

When I opened the cooler, there wasn’t just ice in it.
There was also:

• A wooden nickel from 1983

• One cherry Airhead

• A paper napkin that said “Run” in what I hope was ketchup

I closed the lid and walked away. Slowly. With dignity.
Then I ran back to the boat and poured a stiff drink.

Presidente Ip later confirmed the machine has been “off the books” since 1997 and “may or may not be federally possessed.” I didn’t ask for clarification.

Highlights of the Day:

• Vinny attempted to exorcise the machine using a kazoo and lighter fluid.

• Wayne punched it. Broke his knuckle. The machine was unharmed.

• Goom offered it a raw oyster in exchange for “dark favors.” We’re still waiting on results.

Would I do it again? Maybe.
But next time, I’m bringing tongs, backup, and possibly a priest.

Stay frosty,
Captain Redtide
Certified Ice Survivor, Level 3

//BREAK//

SEPTEMBER 1ST, 2025

Title: Labor Day Means Never Apologizing for the Nap

Latitude: Starboard side of a hammock
Weather: 89° and morally justified laziness
Mood: Pro-union, pro-snooze, lightly marinated

It’s Labor Day, which means I did the most American thing possible: absolutely nothing.
No boat. No bait. No screaming goblins or pantsless cannonballs.
Just me, a hammock, and a cold drink sweating harder than I was.

Woke up around 9:30 to the smell of barbecue drifting across the marina like a love letter wrapped in smoke. Phil was already flipping something meat-adjacent on a folding grill. Said it was “plant-based brisket.” I asked if that meant it came from a really swole tree. He did not laugh.

Across the dock, Strongman Wayne was trying to bench press a cooler filled with ice and emotional trauma. Vindictive Vinny handed out charred hot dogs like cigars after a new baby. One of them may have still had the plastic wrapper on. It added crunch.

Lil Goom popped out of a laundry chute around noon with an American flag she claimed to have “borrowed from a flamingo-themed lawn shrine.” I didn’t ask.

The boat stayed docked. The reel stayed dry.
I pulled up a lawn chair, poured something strong into my Phishnicked Golf On The Rocks glass, and toasted to the working man, the not-working man, and the guy halfway between jobs and enlightenment.

Highlights of the Day:

• I ate seven deviled eggs and saw the face of Neptune.

• Ev tried to water ski behind a paddleboat. Failed gloriously.

• Presidente Ip showed up, gave a rousing speech on fiscal responsibility, and left with two cases of hard lemonade. Respect.

Would I do it again? Without hesitation.
Labor Day isn’t about what you do—it’s about refusing to do anything useful with passion and style.

Stay lounging,
Captain Redtide
Pro-nap, anti-shoe, fully marinated

//BREAK//

AUGUST 31ST, 2025

Title: We Have the Meats — And a Mugshot

Latitude: Legally distant from the Arby’s on Gulfview
Weather: Hungover with a 100% chance of regret
Mood: Proud. Confused. Slightly crispy.

The Panhandle was on fire last night—not literally (this time), but in spirit, soul, and sheer volume.

Florida State pulled off a beautiful, glorious win the day before, and the celebration hit the coastline like a Red Tide of its own—music, fireworks, car horns, and someone playing a cowbell rendition of the fight song on a stolen jet ski.

Naturally, I stayed up too late, toasted too often, and fell asleep fully clothed on top of my own tackle box.

But the real story?

Vindictive Vinny and Strongman Wayne got themselves arrested.

Apparently, around 1:47 a.m., fueled by Seminole pride and Presidente Ip’s “Midnight Motivator” cocktail (which is, I believe, 80% Everclear and 20% bad decisions), they sprinted through the local Arby’s wearing nothing but Seminole war paint and smiles, screaming:

“WE HAVE THE MEATS!”

The staff was not impressed.
Neither was the manager.
But the security camera footage is a work of art.

They were taken in without a struggle—Wayne offered to arm wrestle the arresting officer, Vinny demanded curly fries as part of his phone call rights.

Presidente Ip bailed them out before dawn.
Wrote it off as a “marketing expense.”
That man doesn’t miss a beat.

Highlights of the Day:

• I found a glitter-filled tomahawk in my bait bucket. I’m keeping it.

• Ev called me from a rooftop yelling “Tomahawk this, baby!” and then hung up.

• A pelican landed on the dock, threw up what looked like cheese fries, and flew away without explanation.

Would I do it again? Not sure I could stop it if I tried.
The Panhandle runs on pride, passion, and a questionable grasp of public decency.

Stay wild,
Captain Redtide
Not arrested, but guilty by association

//BREAK//

AUGUST 30TH, 2025

Title: Fore, Pour, and a Whole Lotta Lies

Latitude: 18th hole, emotionally
Weather: Sun-kissed with a splash of shade
Mood: Relaxed, slightly skeptical, perfectly buzzed

Today, I traded in the fishing rod for a 7-iron.

Yep. Golf.

I know, I know… not exactly the salty sea chaos I’m known for, but sometimes even a storm-chasin’, bait-slappin’, seagull-dodgin’ man like myself needs a break. So I linked up with a few of the boys—Strongman Wayne, Vindictive Vinny, and Presidente Ip—for what they called “an elite gentleman’s day of precision sport and polite smack talk.”

We teed off at 9:00 a.m. sharp. I was wearing flip-flops and a hat I found in my truck bed. Wayne showed up shirtless. Ip brought his own embroidered scorecard clipboard. Vinny wore golf gloves and brass knuckles. I knew we were in for something special.

I’m not gonna lie—I shot a 105. Not great. Not terrible. I lost three balls, four tees, and briefly, my patience on Hole 7 when a sand trap ate my will to live. But I kept my cool, channeled my inner marlin, and finished strong.

Then there’s Wayne.

Four hole-in-ones.
FOUR.
When asked how, he just grunted and said, “I visualize domination.”
Vinny accused him of performance-enhancing protein shakes. Ip opened a spreadsheet and started analyzing wind patterns. I just poured myself a cocktail.

And let me tell you—nothing hits better after a day like that than sippin’ something cold and honest from my brand-new Phishnicked Golf on the Rocks Glass.

A glass so classy, even Wayne held it with his pinky out. For about three seconds. Then crushed it.
(He’s paying for that.)

We watched the waves roll in after the round. Didn’t say much. Didn’t need to.

Highlights of the Day:

• Vinny threatened to fight a gopher.

• Ip made a spreadsheet predicting Wayne’s next hole-in-one. It was accurate.

• I hit par once and nearly retired on the spot.

Would I do it again? Weekly.
Fishing feeds the soul, but golf… waters the ego.

Stay chilled,
Captain Redtide
Now accepting tee times, BYOB required

//BREAK//

AUGUST 29TH, 2025

Title: The Flying Bombie’s Birthday Bash (A.K.A. Shenanigans on the High Dock)

Latitude: Somewhere between celebration and citation
Weather: Party-level humid with a 90% chance of glitter
Mood: Spirited, confused, slightly concussed

No fishing today. Not because I didn’t want to—but because today was sacred.
The Flying Bombie’s birthday.
And if you don’t know who that is, then you’ve never been properly launched into a pond via homemade trebuchet.

Bombie, for the uninitiated, is CarnieVille’s premier human cannonball, amateur poet, and full-time fire hazard. She once cleared three flaming hoops, a popcorn stand, and half a goat. On purpose.

So when her birthday rolls around, you don’t fish.
You celebrate. Loudly. Questionably. Illegally, if necessary.

The festivities were held dockside. Started around noon.
I brought balloons. Phil brought a cooler full of “mystery punch” and regret.
Bombie showed up late wearing her trademark sequined helmet, feather cape, and a smile that said, “Something’s about to catch fire.”

She wasn’t wrong.

The cake was fine until Lil Goom added sparklers to it and blew the frosting into low orbit. The music was great until Carny Ev plugged in his “experimental banjo-trap remix” playlist. Three guests swan-dived into the bay. None of them were sober. One wasn’t invited.

At one point, Bombie insisted we let her do a slow-motion cannonball into a kiddie pool filled with marshmallows. We said no.
She did it anyway.

The splash radius took out three lawn chairs, a Bluetooth speaker, and most of Phil’s dignity.

Highlights of the Day:

• Bombie got stuck in a hula hoop and declared it her “circle of power.”

• Ev started selling commemorative T-shirts mid-party. No one authorized them.

• Goom created a game called “Dart Roulette.” No one won. Everyone bled a little.

Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.
Would I do it sober? Absolutely not.

Happy Birthday, Bombie.
May your landings always be soft, and your helmet never crack.

Stay airborne,
Captain Redtide
Party-tested, cannonball-approved

//BREAK//

AUGUST 28TH, 2025

Title: A Quiet One — Just Me, the Sea, and a Sandwich That Betrayed Me

Latitude: Middle of nowhere. Perfect.
Weather: Gentle breeze, glassy water, no goblins in sight
Mood: Peaceful, suspicious of the peace, emotionally sunburnt

Today, for the first time in what feels like 46 consecutive chaos-stained mornings, I fished alone.

No Carny Ev juggling sardines.
No Phil flipin’ flapjacks mid-wave.
No Lil Goom turning the boat into a snack-based black market.

Just me, a thermos of questionable coffee, and a sea so calm I half expected a whale to poke its head up and offer stock tips.

I launched just after sunrise. Didn’t even say a word out loud for the first hour. Just cast… reeled… breathed. The water was flat as a bar tab Ev swears he paid. Birds glided overhead without pooping on me—a miracle in itself.

Caught nothing. Didn’t care.

I even brought lunch. A quiet sandwich. No funny business. Just turkey, cheese, and dignity.

At least until I bit into it and realized I'd accidentally packed one of Ev’s “energy wraps” from his preposterous diet plan. Peanut butter, banana, and… sauerkraut?

My mouth still hasn’t forgiven me.

But that was the only hiccup in an otherwise perfect day. I even took a nap on the deck. No anchor, no plan. Just drifted like seaweed in a lazy current. Dreamt of simpler times. Or maybe it was just the sandwich.

Didn’t write anything profound. Didn’t solve the world’s problems. Didn’t post a selfie.

Just floated.

Highlights of the Day:

• Perfect cast. No witnesses.

• Found a shell that looks like it’s screaming. Named it “Intern.”

• Saw a dolphin. Saluted it. It ignored me.

Would I do it again? Absolutely.
Some days, the sea doesn’t need a story. It just needs your silence.

Stay still,
Captain Redtide
Temporarily at peace, emotionally pickled

//BREAK//

AUGUST 27TH, 2025

Title: Lil Goom and the Trail Mix Mutiny

Latitude: Slightly off the grid, fully off the rails
Weather: Overcast, suspiciously sticky
Mood: Betrayed by snacks, confused by goblin logic

Look, I didn’t invite Lil Goom on the boat.

That’s important to note.

She must’ve snuck aboard in the dead of night—probably rode in on a dock rat or popped out of a pile of coiled rope like a popcorn kernel of mischief. Either way, I found her curled up in the livewell, munching on trail mix and whispering something about “secret bean portals and the squid rebellion.”

Standard morning stuff, really.

She claimed she was “on official CarnieVille Coffee business,” which is rich coming from someone who once tried to sell me a used coffee filter as a dreamcatcher. Before I could kick her off, she offered me a single soggy raisin as tribute. I accepted, reluctantly. It felt… ceremonial.

As soon as we hit the water, Goom got to “work.”

And by “work,” I mean she dismantled my entire tackle box and repurposed the parts into what she called “The Crusty Caster 3000”—a rod made from zip ties, a broken spatula, and dental floss. She tried to catch fish using a half-eaten Payday bar as bait. It attracted a jellyfish. And a pelican. And some bad energy.

Midday, she declared herself Captain Crunchy and initiated a full-blown snack mutiny. Said I was “hoarding the cashews,” which was a lie. I was hoarding the almonds. She barricaded herself behind the bait bucket and started flinging banana chips like ninja stars.

I negotiated peace using half a granola bar and a firm voice.

She fell asleep shortly after in the chum bucket. Rolled over mid-snore and whispered, “Tell the beans I forgive them.” Then drooled on a bobber and passed out fully at peace.

Highlights of the Day:

• Goom tried to sell a hermit crab a loyalty punch card.

• I now have trail mix fused to my reel and questions about my life choices.

• We didn’t catch a single fish. Goom claims the ocean was “closed for spiritual maintenance.”

Would I do it again? Somehow… yes.
Next time, I’m locking the bait locker and hiding the raisins.

Stay suspicious,
Captain Redtide
Unwilling snack pirate, goblin-tested

//BREAK//

AUGUST 26TH, 2025

Title: Phil’s Pancake Parade and the Almost-Capsize Crisis

Latitude: Slightly off center (both boat and crew)
Weather: 84°, calm breeze, syrupy atmosphere
Mood: Chill, sticky, alarmed by griddle behavior

Today I made the mistake of letting Phil from The Easy Life™ convince me to “slow things down” and “reconnect with the moment.” I agreed, mostly because I thought we’d just be drinkin’ coffee on the dock and talkin’ about how to properly fold cargo shorts.

But Phil had plans. Big ones.

He brought a pancake griddle on board. I asked him why. He said, “Because sometimes the tide needs flapjacks, brother.”
I had no comeback to that, which is concerning.

So now it’s me, Phil, and a propane-powered breakfast buffet on a 14-foot boat. He brought four different syrups, a Bluetooth speaker playing acoustic yacht rock, and a mason jar of “sunrise mimosa batter” that I’m 60% sure had tequila in it.

We weren’t fishing. We were “brunching on the bay.”

Then the wind picked up. So did the griddle. The boat shifted. The propane tank tipped, pancakes flipped, and Phil yelled, “ABANDON THE HASHBROWNS!” like we were under cannon fire.

We didn’t sink. But we did drift into a kayak rental group. Four tourists in matching neon vests now smell like Vermont. One of them asked if we were filming a cooking show or a cult ritual.

Phil just smiled and said, “Yes.”

Highlights of the Day:

• Phil wore a shirt that said “Work Less, Flip More™.”

• We lost six pancakes, two forks, and a small amount of personal dignity.

• The Bluetooth speaker survived. The syrup, tragically, did not.

Would I do it again? Yes, but only with a wider hull and a fire extinguisher.
Would I brunch with Phil? Every time. That man could make toast feel like a lifestyle.

Stay sticky, stay steady,
Captain Redtide
Occasionally philosophical, usually overcooked

//BREAK//

AUGUST 25TH, 2025

Title: Tag-Team Trouble: Redtide & Bro vs. The Unhookable Beast

Latitude: Somewhere off the coast of sanity
Weather: Hot enough to poach an egg on the hull
Mood: Confident, then cocky, then completely unhinged

I went fishin’ today with my brother, Bro — not to be confused with Carnie Ev, who was banned from the boat for a mandatory 48-hour “timeout” following the Great Pepper Spray Fiasco.

Bro’s got grit. Quiet guy. Built like a fridge. Talks about fish the way poets talk about love. Wears sunglasses like he’s permanently judging the sun.

We headed out with two rods, a cooler full of Gatorades, and an unspoken goal: land something worthy of a story. And oh, we did.

About 200 yards off the reef, Bro gets a bite so hard his rod bends like it owes the fish money. I grab the net. The engine cuts. Birds circle. Dramatic music might’ve played — no proof, but I swear I heard a cello.

This fish… was a monster. Not just in size, but in attitude. It ran, dove, and thrashed with the fury of a creature that had seen some things. I’m talkin’ scars, missing scales, a tattoo that said “No Regrets.” Every time we got it near the boat, it looked at us with what I can only describe as disdain.

Bro locked in. I backed him up, shouting motivational quotes and slapping sunscreen onto his neck mid-battle.

Thirty minutes later, we had it alongside the hull. One eye. Broken fin. Roughly the shape of a boot with fins. I reached in with the net and—snap.

The line snapped. The beast flipped us off (emotionally) and vanished into the deep like a ghost at last call.

Highlights of the Day:

• Bro said five words the entire trip. One of them was “dang.”

• I pulled a muscle in my back netting absolutely nothing.

• We now refer to that fish only as “The One Who Got Revenge.”

Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.
Next time, we're bringin’ stronger line, cooler shades, and possibly a harpoon.

Stay humbled,
Captain Redtide
Outmatched, but not outclassed

//BREAK//

AUGUST 24TH, 2025

Title: The Pepper Spray Debacle of Dockside D

Latitude: Too close to Ev for comfort
Weather: Breezy with stinging regret
Mood: Burning, inside and out

This morning started like any other: too early, too loud, and Ev was already caffeinated beyond what the FDA would recommend.

We were loading up the boat when he pulled a small canister from his bag and said, “I brought cologne.” I raised one eyebrow (the skeptical one), and asked, “You mean bug spray?”

He said, “Nope. This is for ambiance. Ladies love a spicy man.”
I had questions. Many. Didn’t get to ask a single one before he sprayed it.

Directly. Into. The wind.

Turns out Ev’s “cologne” was pepper spray. Not even the low-end kind. This was military-grade tear gas in a can labeled “Ostrich Wrath.” We both got a face full.

Within five seconds, we were coughing, blind, and crawling across the dock like barnacle-covered gremlins. I dunked my head in the bait cooler. Ev tried to rinse his eyes with a half-finished Red Bull.

An old man walking his cat watched the whole thing and muttered, “Idiots.” He was not wrong.

We debated calling off the trip. But Redtide Rule #3 clearly states: “Never let your own stupidity prevent further stupidity.” So we set out anyway.

Everything burned. The sun? Too bright. The wind? Too judgmental. Ev? Loud and still half-blind.

We didn’t catch fish. We didn’t even bait hooks. We just sat there, tears streaming, looking like we’d both been dumped and maced at a seafood buffet.

Highlights of the Day:

• Ev thought pepper spray could be “romantic.”

• I learned your eyeballs can sweat.

• We achieved emotional vulnerability through mutual suffering.

Would I do it again? Probably.
But next time, I’m checkin’ Ev’s toiletry bag for weapons-grade condiments.

Stay blurry,
Captain Redtide
Permanently inflamed, still not impressed

//BREAK//

AUGUST 23RD, 2025

Title: Black Moon, No Batteries

Latitude: Uncharted waters, emotionally and otherwise
Weather: Nightfall with a hint of "what was that sound?"
Mood: Philosophical, underlit, mosquito-bit

Tonight was supposed to be magical. A Black Moon, they said. Rare. Mysterious. The perfect time for reflection, realignment, and maybe even a little romance—if you’re the kind of person who falls in love with dock pylons.

Carnie Ev declared it was “the universe’s way of resetting the vibe.” I declared it was “a great time to catch fish that don’t wanna be seen.”

We packed light. Too light, as it turns out.

Halfway to the spot, I realized Ev had brought exactly zero flashlights, claiming, “the moon will guide us.” That would’ve been poetic… if this weren’t a Black Moon, which means no moonlight. At all. Just darkness thick enough to slap.

We tried to make the best of it. Turned off the boat lights and laid back to stargaze. Ev started pointing out constellations he clearly made up. “That’s the Shrimp Basket,” he said, gesturing at nothing. “And over there is the Dolphin That Owes Me Money.”

A breeze picked up. Peaceful. Quiet. Beautiful. Until we realized something was rustling in the bait bucket. In the dark. Loudly.

Ev shrieked. I grabbed a net. We both swung blindly and managed to knock over a gallon jug of chum, which splashed across the deck and gave the entire boat the fragrance of “Expired Dreams and Anchovy Tears.”

Whatever was in the bucket escaped. Probably to start a new life with a lanternfish.

Highlights of the Night:

• Ev tried to read horoscopes by lantern light and set his sleeve on fire.

• I caught a glimpse of the stars, then a faceful of bug spray.

• We caught no fish, but may have summoned a deep-sea cult.

Would I do it again? Absolutely.
Would I bring backup lights and sage? Yes, and probably a headlamp.

Stay shadowy,
Captain Redtide
Romantically entangled with the void

//BREAK//

AUGUST 22ND, 2025

Title: Peach Bait and the Pancake Incident

Latitude: Somewhere between regret and indigestion
Weather: Sticky with a side of smoke
Mood: Mildly fruity, deeply concerned

Carnie Ev showed up this morning with a bag full of peaches and a grin that made me nervous. “It’s National Eat a Peach Day,” he declared, handing me one like it was a sacred artifact. I asked what that had to do with fishin’. He said, “Everything’s better with peaches.” Which is not true. Not even remotely.

He then proceeded to use a peach wedge as bait.

Now, I’ve used weird things before—chicken skin, hot dogs, one time even a churro—but I draw the line at soft fruit. But before I could protest, he cast it into the water with the confidence of a man who once read a Pinterest post on “fruit-forward angling.”

The peach didn’t catch anything. Unless you count the bees. Three of them. On a boat. One flew directly into Ev’s face. He screamed like a haunted accordion and smacked himself so hard he fell overboard. I helped him back in. He thanked me with a soggy pancake.

Which leads to part two of the tale.

See, Ev also brought a hot plate. On the boat. For “dockside flapjacks.” I tried to explain that hot griddles and fiberglass don’t mix, but he was too deep into his “brunch on the bay” fantasy. The man flipped one pancake (badly), then knocked the whole thing over trying to film it for TikTok.

We now have a permanent syrup patch where the minnows come to party.

Highlights of the Day:

• Ev got stung by a bee in the ear and claims it made him hear colors.

• I invented a new nautical term: “pancake overboard.”

• We caught one fish. It choked on a peach pit and spit it back.

Would I do it again? Unfortunately, yes.
Would I trust fruit as bait? Only if I’m trying to catch vegans.

Stay sticky,
Captain Redtide
Part breakfast, part burnout

//BREAK//

AUGUST 21ST, 2025

Title: The Seagull Sniper and the Bait Shop Betrayal

Latitude: 15 steps from the nearest regrettable decision
Weather: Cloudy with a chance of humiliation
Mood: Damp. Offended. Slightly betrayed.

Woke up this morning with one goal: finally outsmart the fish. Carny Ev, of course, had other plans. Said he “had a lead on a new kind of bait.” I should’ve known that phrase would end in tragedy.

We rolled up to a back-alley bait shack Ev swore was “the good stuff—VIP bait.” The guy behind the counter had an eyepatch, one tooth, and a beard that smelled like beef jerky and regret. He sold Ev a bucket of something he called “mystery meat deluxe.” I asked what it was. He said, “Don’t ask questions you’re not emotionally prepared for.” We paid in quarters and beef sticks.

We get out to the dock and I’m threading this meat onto a hook when I feel something slap the back of my head. I turn around—nothing. Then again. BAM. This time I look up and see a seagull just floating there, hovering like a winged assassin. Dead in the eyes. Vengeful. Calculated. That bird sniped me with something that can only be described as aerial seafood hate mail.

Carny Ev? He’s doubled over laughing so hard he drops the entire bait bucket into the water. Every last ounce of mystery meat sank to the bottom while the sniper gull circled above, satisfied.

So now we’re baitless, humiliated, and being heckled by what I can only assume is the bird mafia. We tried cutting up beef jerky to use as bait. It attracted nothing but ants. On a boat. Still unclear how.

Highlights of the Day:

• Ev slipped on fish scales and landed in a crab trap. The crab won.

• I invented the phrase “sky turd of vengeance” to describe seagulls.

• We caught nothing but shame. And possibly scurvy.

Would I do it again? Of course.
Would I bring backup bait and a helmet? Absolutely.

Stay slippery,
Captain Redtide
Emotionally bruised, physically stained

//BREAK//

August 20th, 2025

Title: Fishing with Carny Ev: A Clown Show at Sea

Latitude: Probably off course
Weather: Sunny with a 90% chance of chaos
Mood: Sunburnt & slightly concerned

Took Carny Ev fishin’ today.

Because what every seasoned sailor dreams of… is handlining snapper next to a man in glitter suspenders with cotton candy in his tackle box.

Ev showed up 30 minutes late, juggling hot dogs and singin’ sea shanties off key. His idea of bait? Funnel cake soaked in Red Bull. I told him, “Fish don’t want dessert, Ev.” He just winked and said, “Neither did my prom date.”

We managed to hook something big. Real big. I’m talkin’ “bend-the-rod, scream-like-a-tourist” big.

Ev swore it was a merman. I swore it was a rusty shopping cart. Turned out to be an inflatable flamingo with a mullet wig.

We kept it anyway. Named him Captain Flapjack the Third. He’s now our first mate and is somehow more useful than Ev.

Highlights of the trip:

• Ev got his shoelace caught in the anchor chain.

• I got sunscreen in my eye and screamed like a banshee.

• We caught exactly one fish… and it laughed at us as we threw it back.

All in all, 10/10. Would do it again.
But next time, I’m bringin’ earplugs. And less Ev.

Stay slippery,
Captain Redtide
Permanently concerned, moderately impressed

//BREAK//

August 19th, 2025

Title: The Day I Tried to Outdrink a Pelican

Latitude: Somewhere Between Regret and Redemption
Weather: 92° and judgmental
Mood: Lightly pickled

Aye, let me spin ya a tale from this very mornin’.

Woke up to a sound I thought was the Kraken itself—turned out it was just a pelican hurlin’ insults and fish guts off the dock. Feelin’ a bit too confident (and possibly still marinatin' in yesterday’s rum), I challenged him to a drinkin’ contest.

Big mistake.

That feathered hooligan not only held his own but stared into my soul as he downed a bait bucket cocktail like it was happy hour at The Salty Crab. Three minutes in, I was slurrin’ sea shanties and he was judging me with eyes that said, “you ain’t built for this tide, old man.”

Moral of the story?
Never trust a bird with a bigger throat pouch than your future.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to apologize to the local marina for stealing a jet ski I swear looked like mine and shout inspirational quotes at tourists.

Stay salty, stay weird, and never challenge wildlife to a duel of wits or whiskey.

Captain Redtide
Barely functional, fully Phishnicked

//BREAK//

August 18th, 2025

Latitude: Unknown | State of Mind: Unbothered

Aye, it’s the Captain here.

First entry o’ the log - not for the faint-hearted nor the landlocked. The tide pulled me here to scribble thoughts for those who still believe in the wind, the waves, and the wild things that whisper from the depths.

If yer readin’ this, chances are you’ve felt it too… that itch in the soul that can’t be scratched by concrete or cubicles. I call it the Phishnicked pull - the call of the coast, the chaos of the carnival, the freedom in failure, and the joy in haulin’ up nothin’ but seaweed and still smilin’.

This log won’t follow rules. It won’t be pretty. But it will be honest. It’ll tell tales from the panhandle to the back bays. It’ll shout out the crew, curse the wind, share hauls, near misses, and the kind of wisdom you only earn by losin’ everything and gettin’ back up with a cracked smile and a cold drink.

To the drifters, the dreamers, the stubborn and the sunburnt - welcome aboard.

Captain Redtide
Founder. Fisherman. Philosopher. Occasionally wrong.