SEPTEMBER 21ST, 2025
Title: Silence, Finally
Latitude: Drifting north of the noise
Weather: 79°, golden skies, water like glass
Mood: Quiet, steady, something close to content
After the flames, the noise, the mesh shirts, the fireballs, and the koala-powered karaoke - I needed out.
No party.
No music.
No Vinny yelling at seagulls.
Just me.
And a sky that looked like it was painted on by someone who finally stopped rushing.
I left the dock before sunrise. No gear. No plans. Just drifted. The kind of drifting that feels like the ocean’s tucking you in.
Phil the Koala stayed behind. Said he was “journaling.” That means I’ll find a notebook later with three words and a drawing of a leaf.
Around mid-morning, I cut the engine and laid back on the deck.
The boat barely moved.
Even the gulls kept their distance.
I listened - to the water, to the soft thud of the hull, to nothing.
And it was everything.
Sometimes you need the fire and the yelling and the terrible song choices.
But other times?
You just need to hear yourself breathe.
And let the tide remind you that not all progress makes noise.
Didn’t check my phone. Didn’t open the radio.
Didn’t try to catch anything.
I just watched the water pass by.
And let go of a few things I didn’t know I was holding.
Highlights of the Day:
- A heron landed on the bow and stared at me like we were both pretending not to cry
- I drank lukewarm coffee in silence and it somehow tasted like peace
- I didn’t say a word for four hours, and for once, it felt like enough
Would I do it again?
Yes. And maybe tomorrow too.
Stay still,
Captain Redtide
Quiet now. Loud later.
//BREAK//
SEPTEMBER 20TH, 2025
Title: Bachelor Parties, Blazing Jen, and the Sandbar That Will Never Recover
Latitude: Half a mile from the “No Fun” buoy
Weather: 88°, sunny, with a 100% chance of someone yelling “SEND IT!”
Mood: Overstimulated, lightly singed, begrudgingly impressed
Today started with an invitation I should’ve ignored:
“Captain, you’re officially requested to MC a nautical bachelor party on Sandbar 7. Bring energy. And maybe fire insurance.”
I don’t know why I said yes.
Maybe it was the promise of free brisket.
Maybe I was just bored.
Phil the Koala came as moral support.
Carnie Ev showed up in a Hawaiian shirt made of mesh.
Vindictive Vinny had already started pre-gaming when we got there.
And then... she arrived.
Flaming Jen.
Wearing red sequins, Doc Martens, and a fire-breathing rig that looked homemade in a very concerning way.
She announced herself by screaming,
“WHO ORDERED THE PYROTECHNICS WITH A SIDE OF REGRET?!”
The answer, apparently, was: everyone.
The bachelor - name was Chad, predictably - was already three drinks into “his final voyage” and dared Jen to light his novelty sash on fire. She declined. Then immediately lit Ev’s solo cup on fire instead. He sipped it anyway.
Someone brought out a karaoke machine.
Phil the Koala - dead serious - belted out Dreams by Fleetwood Mac in perfect falsetto.
I cried. Wayne cried. Even Jen paused her flaming twirls to whisper, “That koala’s seen heartbreak.”
By the end of the party:
- Two jet skis were buried in sand
- The cooler had been turned into a slip ‘n slide
- Jen shot fireballs into the sunset while someone played bagpipes on Bluetooth
I don’t know who won. Or what the game was.
But it felt important.
Highlights of the Day:
- Vinny got into an argument with a paddleboarder and challenged him to a “sand duel.”
- Ev sang “I Want It That Way” into a bottle of sunscreen.
- Jen left via parasail. No one saw her land.
Would I do it again?
Yes. But next time, with a fire blanket and an emotional support extinguisher.
Stay lit,
Captain Redtide
Bachelor-tested. Fire-adjacent.
//BREAK//
SEPTEMBER 19TH, 2025
Title: Breakfast at Sea & The Grease Fire That Knew My Name
Latitude: 2 miles offshore, 10 feet from common sense
Weather: 74°, blue skies, faint smell of burnt sausage
Mood: Cautiously optimistic, immediately regretful
Today started with a knock on the hull and a voice that could curdle hollandaise:
“Y’ALL ORDER BREAKFAST DELIVERY?!”
It was Sloppy Omelette.
Yup. The Sloppy Omelette - CarnieVille’s most dangerous short-order chef, last seen deep-frying pickles with a blowtorch and once banned from six county fairs for "reckless syrup slinging."
She climbed aboard in a grease-stained apron, dragging a propane burner, a griddle the size of a manhole cover, and a mysterious “meat bag” she refused to refrigerate. I should’ve stopped her. I did not. Phil the Koala gave me a look that said “This is how boats burn.”
Before I could protest, she shouted, “FLOATING BREAKFAST BONANZA, BABY!” and lit the burner.
Smoke. Instantly.
Sausage links flew like artillery. A raw egg hit Vinny in the sunglasses.
Ev, always eager for spectacle, tried to “fan the flames with flair” and accidentally sent half a pack of hash browns overboard.
Sloppy didn’t blink. She flipped, stirred, scrambled, and cackled like a woman possessed by brunch itself.
She cooked seven omelettes at once, used the fish-cleaning table as a prep station, and stored “emergency cheese” in her boot. We didn’t ask.
The kicker?
It was delicious.
Possibly cursed, but delicious.
Highlights of the Day:
- Phil caught a slice of bacon mid-air. Said it “tasted like trauma and triumph.”
- Wayne showed up late and ate an entire grease biscuit with one bite.
- The griddle is now fused to the deck. Sloppy left it there. “Call it art,” she said.
Would I do it again? Yes. But only with fire extinguishers and prayer.
Stay scrambled,
Captain Redtide
Fried, fed, forever changed
//BREAK//
SEPTEMBER 18TH, 2025
Title: Thunder, Panic, and the Life Jacket That Wasn’t a Cheese Board
Latitude: Wet. Emotionally and physically.
Weather: Full squall with side helpings of drama
Mood: Waterlogged, wind-whipped, not impressed
The forecast said “light chance of storms.”
That was a lie.
The kind of lie that gets you soaked, sloshed, and shouting nautical insults at thunderclouds.
It started as a normal day: some light trolling off the point with Carnie Ev, Vindictive Vinny, and Phil the Koala. Calm seas. Music playing. Ev was wearing what he claimed was “a rainproof sequin cape.” I didn’t argue - it was early and I hadn’t had coffee.
Then the sky snapped shut like a trapdoor in a murder mystery.
Clouds rolled in. Wind kicked up. Rain came sideways. Full squall.
Vinny immediately declared we were all gonna die and tried to call 911 on a fish finder.
Ev pulled his cape over his head like a shiny wet burrito and shouted, “I regret nothing!”
Phil just calmly secured the gear and handed me a banana, saying, “For blood sugar.”
And that’s when Vinny grabbed the cheese board.
To be fair, it was shaped like a life jacket. Sort of.
Flat. Orange. With a handle.
But it was made of pine and said “Charcuterie is My Love Language” in cursive.
He strapped it on and shouted, “I’m buoyant, right?!”
He was not. It immediately slipped off and sank like a judgmental dinner tray.
Meanwhile, Ev was attempting to “tame the wind” by dramatically flapping his cape and yelling, “I AM THE STORM.”
It didn’t help. It made things worse.
I took the helm. Phil manned the bilge pump with one hand and ate the banana with the other.
We made it back. Barely. Docked crooked, soaked to the bone, emotionally tenderized.
Highlights of the Day:
- Vinny filed a complaint with the cheese board manufacturer
- Ev wants to start a nautical cape line
- Phil didn’t say a word the whole time. Just handed me a towel and muttered, “Land is nice.”
Would I do it again? Yes. But I’d bring better friends and fewer accessories.
Stay afloat,
Captain Redtide
Storm-tested. Charcuterie-traumatized.
//BREAK//
SEPTEMBER 17TH, 2025
Title: The Floating Cooler of Destiny (or Possibly Just Beans)
Latitude: Drifting northeast of “Don’t Touch That”
Weather: 83°, slight chop, strong whiff of curiosity
Mood: Intrigued, irrationally hopeful, beans-adjacent
You ever see something on the water and just know it’s a bad idea with a magnetic pull?
That was us today. Me, Phil the Koala, and Presidente Ip, out for a light drift and mild existential banter when we spotted it bobbing in the distance:
A cooler.
Unmarked. Untouched. Floating like it had secrets.
Ip said, “Could be treasure.”
Phil said, “Could be bait.”
I said, “Could be chili. Either way, we’re opening it.”
We approached it like it was rigged to explode. Tied it up with a boat hook, hoisted it aboard, and gathered ‘round like old pirates ready to divvy up gold-or tetanus.
Inside?
One can of beans.
Unopened. Slightly dented. Label faded to “Ea s B ns.”
And underneath that?
A laminated note that simply said:
“Return if found. Or eat if hungry. Love, Jerry.”
That was it. No last name. No coordinates. Just Jerry.
Ip claimed this was part of a secret sea scavenger hunt run by an underground coastal society.
Phil stared into the distance and whispered, “Jerry’s still out there… watching.”
We heated the beans anyway. Ate them right there on deck.
They were perfect.
Maybe a little haunted. But perfect.
Highlights of the Day:
- Ip tried to reverse-engineer the brand based on bean density
- Phil fashioned a tiny paper sail and set the empty can back adrift “so the journey could continue”
- I now have a cooler that smells like mystery and cumin
Would I do it again? Always.
Some days you don’t fish - you just find the kind of meal that comes with a question mark.
Stay curious,
Captain Redtide
Bean believer. Cooler collector.
//BREAK//
SEPTEMBER 16TH, 2025
Title: Deck Yoga & the Warrior Pose That Nearly Sank Us
Latitude: Center of the bay, edge of comfort
Weather: 77°, breezy, inner peace with outer chaos
Mood: Centered, skeptical, lightly stretched
Today started off calm.
Too calm.
Phil the Koala invited me to join him on the boat for “sunrise yoga and inner realignment.”
I assumed it was code for drinking coffee quietly and stretching once to pick up a dropped bait knife.
It was not.
Phil showed up wearing linen pants, sunglasses with no lenses, and a rolled-up bamboo mat. He said, “The ocean is already balanced. You are not. Let’s fix that.”
Before I could protest, Strongman Wayne boarded shirtless and holding a thermos labeled “Flex Fuel.” Said he wanted to “unlock his hip wind.” I still don’t know what that means. I didn't ask.
We anchored out, put on Phil’s “Sounds of Moderate Enlightenment” playlist (mostly pan flutes and distant foghorns), and tried to follow along.
First was Downward Dog - Wayne’s boat squat cracked the floorboards.
Then came Warrior II - he lunged so aggressively he slipped and spilled my coffee.
By the time we reached Pigeon Pose, Wayne had ripped his shorts and declared yoga “a soft lie built on sweaty betrayal.”
Phil never flinched. Just sipped tea and whispered, “The pose reveals the truth.”
Wayne attempted one final move - Crow Pose - on top of the cooler.
It held for two seconds before the lid caved in and he was swallowed into a pile of lukewarm bait and crushed ice like a protein bar into a blender.
I’m still picking shrimp scales off my towel.
Highlights of the Day:
- I pulled a hamstring trying to reach for a bagel
- A passing kayaker asked if we were filming a low-budget reboot of “Cast Away”
- Phil ended with a spoken-word meditation about barnacles and self-worth
Would I do it again? Honestly… yes.
Because even if you don’t find your center, it’s fun watching someone else fall off theirs.
Stay flexible,
Captain Redtide
Stretched thin. Holding pose.
//BREAK//
SEPTEMBER 15TH, 2025
Title: Fog, Flares & the Lady Problems Rescue Mission
Latitude: Visibly nowhere
Weather: Foggy with a 60% chance of embarrassment
Mood: Fogged in, flared up, and mildly heroic
It started with a fog bank that came in like an uninvited ex - no warning, bad energy, and somehow louder than you remember.
I was out early with Phil the Koala, just doing some low-stakes trolling near the drop-off. Water was flat, the vibe was mellow, and we were arguing about whether dolphins have regional accents when the world disappeared into cotton.
We were socked in within minutes. Couldn’t see the bow from the stern. Even the seagulls sounded confused.
Then came the flare.
Straight up. Slightly sideways. Definitely panicked.
It arced through the mist like a drunken Roman candle and fizzled into the soup with a sound I can only describe as “uh-oh.”
Radio crackled. A voice came through, frantic and nasal:
“This is the Lady Problems requesting assistance! We’ve lost our bearings and our captain is... indisposed.”
I did a double take.
Phil blinked slowly and said, “Say that name again.”
I hailed them back:
“Copy, Lady Problems. This is Redtide. We’re on our way.”
Turns out “Captain” Dave had passed out in a beanbag chair while drinking spiked Arnold Palmers and trying to “manifest better engine performance.”
The boat was drifting toward the oyster beds, the crew was two bridesmaids and a man named Carl, and no one knew how to shift into neutral.
Phil took the helm. I boarded and re-routed them by hand. Carl handed me a friendship bracelet made of dental floss. I accepted with the grace of a man who just doesn’t want another flare fired near his head.
Highlights of the Day:
- The fog lifted just as Carl asked if we believed in “nautical soulmates”
- “Lady Problems” has a decal of a mermaid with a martini
- Phil left a koala sticker on their throttle. They still haven’t found it.
Would I do it again? Yep.
Rescuing “Lady Problems” might be the best story I’ll never stop telling.
Stay foggy,
Captain Redtide
Clear-headed. Slightly flared.
//BREAK//
SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2025
Title: Beach Cleanup & The Crab Who Couldn’t Let Go
Latitude: Low tide, high comedy
Weather: Sunny with scattered sandals
Mood: Helpful, hopeful, crab-pinched
This morning I agreed-voluntarily, might I add-to help out with the Panhandle Beach Cleanup Initiative.
Apparently “community service” doesn’t always mean “court ordered,” and I figured I’d earned some karma after the Hot Tub Jon Boat incident.
Phil the Koala showed up in a sun hat and flip-flops, carrying a reusable tote bag that said “Respect the Reef.” I didn’t ask where he got it. I assumed he made it out of seaweed and stubbornness.
We were assigned a stretch near the dunes where the sand was about 114°F and every fifth item was a bottle cap or a broken sandal that told a sad tale of spring break gone wrong.
Midway through the cleanup, I spotted something moving in a pile of trash - turns out it was a blue crab living inside a discarded juice box.
I went to move him gently and he latched onto my thumb like I’d insulted his lineage.
Phil watched, silently, as I attempted to reason with the crab.
I said:
“Sir, this is a volunteer effort.”
He responded by clamping harder.
Phil handed me a small stick and said, “Try diplomacy.”
I used it to pry the little fella off. He skittered away, still dragging the juice box like it owed him rent.
I named him Clamps and wished him well.
Later, the cleanup crew gathered at the marina for snacks and dockside karaoke.
Wayne sang a passionate, off-key rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”
Phil read beach-themed haikus. I recited mine:
Sunscreen in my eye,
Juice box crab hates community.
Still showed up. Respect.
Highlights of the Day:
- I got sunburned in the shape of a net
- Phil received a volunteer ribbon and wore it like a military decoration
- I now fear juice boxes
Would I do it again? Definitely.
Sometimes cleaning up the beach means getting pinched by the truth.
Stay useful,
Captain Redtide
Crab-bitten. Community-driven.
//BREAK//
SEPTEMBER 13TH, 2025
Title: Hot Tub Jon Boat: The Ill-Fated Float of Luxury
Latitude: Technically afloat, morally sinking
Weather: 91°, steamier than a shrimp boil
Mood: Boiled, betrayed, blistered
Let me start by saying:
Not all ideas born on a dock at 8:00 a.m. with zero hydration and leftover rum should be executed.
Presidente Ip, bless his overly-funded heart, showed up this morning with a blueprint, a truck bed full of PVC pipe, and a smug grin.
His pitch?
“Redtide… we’re turning this jon boat into a floating hot tub. Comfort. Class. Controlled chaos.”
He had me at chaos.
The plan was simple:
- Seal the inside with heavy-duty plastic liner
- Fill with hose water
- Install a portable propane heater
- Float like kings
The execution? Less simple.
By the time we got it filled and lit, the boat was squatting lower than Phil the Koala in nap mode. Steam was rolling. Bubbles were bubbling. Spirits were high.
Then Wayne cannonballed in.
Three things happened instantly:
- Half the hot tub water evacuated over the side
- The plastic liner ripped
- The propane heater began making a sound like a raccoon trying to beatbox
Within 30 seconds, we were no longer in a Hot Tub Jon Boat.
We were in a Slowly Sinking Lukewarm Disaster Canoe.
Phil calmly climbed onto the dock, wrapped himself in a towel, and muttered, “This is why I swim alone.”
Ip blamed “turbulence physics.” Wayne claimed victory. I claimed a back spasm and three unintentional exfoliating burns.
Highlights of the Day:
- I now have a tan line shaped like a floating thermometer
- A heron landed on the wreckage and gave us the bird
- The jon boat is currently drying upside down, smelling like regret and eucalyptus
Would I do it again? Yes.
But next time, fewer people. Smaller heater. Stronger boat. Maybe a waiver.
Stay bubbling,
Captain Redtide
Unsoaked. Unshaken. Slightly pruned.
//BREAK//
SEPTEMBER 12TH, 2025
Title: Reunited & It Melted So Good
Latitude: Dockside Diner, Table by the Hose Reel
Weather: 82°, clear skies, grease in the air
Mood: Nostalgic, toasted, briefly hostile
This morning started like most: I was knee-deep in boat wax and emotionally unprepared for human interaction. Then Duke “Snapjaw” Morales rolled up.
Haven’t seen Duke in 15 years. We served together on a charter boat down in Key Biscayne. Back then, he was all arms, attitude, and an eyebrow ring he swore helped him detect fish vibrations. Now? Bald, tanned, and still radiating pure Florida chaos.
We hugged like men who’ve narrowly survived things that should’ve made the news. Then headed to the Dockside Diner for a reunion breakfast that turned into a full-blown grilled cheese debacle.
See, Duke has opinions.
Specifically, he believes grilled cheese must be made with mayonnaise, not butter.
I, being a civilized sea-dweller, disagreed. Strongly.
Words were exchanged. Napkins were crumpled. A fork may have been brandished.
Phil the Koala intervened before it got too spicy.
He ordered both versions, cut them into quarters, and held a silent taste test like a koala-themed Iron Chef.
Verdict?
He nodded toward mine, said nothing, and went back to sipping iced tea.
Victory. Glorious, greasy victory.
We spent the rest of the afternoon swapping sea stories, arguing over whether the moon controls crabs, and drawing increasingly unrealistic maps on paper placemats.
Highlights of the Day:
- Duke still carries a lucky fishing hook. He stores it in his sock. I did not ask follow-up questions.
- The waitress called us “The Cheese Brothers.” We did not correct her.
- Phil got a free slice of pie for “looking non-threatening.” He accepted without emotion.
Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.
Old friends don’t age - they just get saltier, louder, and more convinced they’re always right.
Stay melty,
Captain Redtide
Grilled. Not grilled about it.
//BREAK//
SEPTEMBER 11TH, 2025
Title: A Dock, a Flag, and the Silence That Matters
Latitude: An old marina where the past still echoes
Weather: Blue skies, low tide, heavy air
Mood: Quiet. Still. Respectfully adrift.
Today, I didn’t cast a line.
Didn’t polish the boat. Didn’t yell at seagulls or sip anything stronger than coffee.
I just tied up at the far end of the harbor - the old part. The quiet part.
There's a dock down there nobody uses anymore. Pilings rotted soft. Planks creak like they remember more than they say. But the flag’s still up at the end. A little faded. Still proud.
I’ve made a lot of noise in my life.
But some days aren’t for stories.
Some days are for remembering.
I sat on the edge of that dock for hours, listening to the water slap the posts and the wind breathe through torn canvas. Thought about all the folks I’ve known - fishermen, neighbors, friends - who were there one day, gone the next, and always worth remembering.
Phil the Koala showed up mid-morning. Said nothing. Just handed me a cup of strong black coffee, sat beside me, and stared straight ahead. We didn’t need to speak. That’s the thing about good crew - they know when to laugh, and when to sit with the silence.
At noon, the marina did a horn blast. One long, two short. Tribute style. A few folks saluted. I tipped my hat. Phil raised his mug. A seagull landed nearby and, for once, didn’t scream. It just stood there.
Highlights of the Day:
- No antics.
- No fish.
- Just a dock, a flag, and some well-earned quiet.
Would I do it again? Every September 11th.
Because the sea never forgets. And neither should we.
Stay respectful,
Captain Redtide
Loud most days. Silent today.
//BREAK//
SEPTEMBER 10TH, 2025
Title: Seasickness Crystals & Other Questionable Healing Techniques
Latitude: Just offshore, just off-center
Weather: Light chop, medium nonsense
Mood: Suspicious, slick with sunscreen, emotionally alkaline
I headed out this morning to grab some fuel and bait. Simple mission.
But nothing is ever simple when you dock next to a pop-up tent that says:
"HEAL YOUR SEA SOUL – Maritime Energy Realignment by Skye 🌊✨"
Now, I should’ve just walked by. I really should’ve.
But curiosity is a disease, and I’ve got it in all major organs.
The woman behind the table wore a wetsuit covered in rhinestones and kept referring to herself as an “aqua-shaman.” She told me my nautical chakra was blocked and I “reeked of unprocessed wave trauma.”
I was halfway through telling her I’ve smelled worse when she tried to tape a “seasickness amethyst” to my belly button.
I declined. Politely. At first.
Phil the Koala stood beside me, holding a bag of bait shrimp and observing the whole thing like a monk watching a sitcom. When she started offering me “moon-blessed driftwood” for $27.50, he turned and said,
“We already have sea energy. It’s called saltwater and poor decisions.”
She did not take that well.
We left before things escalated, but I could feel her judging my aura from behind a wind chime made of discarded flip-flops.
We got on the boat, launched out to a quiet cove, and spent the afternoon tossing lines and avoiding spiritual enlightenment.
Phil caught two mackerel and said nothing. Just gave me a knowing nod like he’d just defeated a sea demon with calm silence.
Highlights of the Day:
- I accidentally stepped on a “healing oyster.” It did not forgive me.
- Phil now carries a pocket crystal, but only uses it to open beer bottles.
- I still don’t know what a “reef cleansing ceremony” is, but I’m 90% sure it’s illegal.
Would I do it again? Probably.
Because nothing keeps the spirit young like narrowly escaping a chakra realignment you didn’t ask for.
Stay grounded (but not too grounded),
Captain Redtide
Unblocked, unbothered, uncrystalled
//BREAK//
SEPTEMBER 9TH, 2025
Title: Drift, Don’t Paddle - A Lesson in Lazy Propulsion
Latitude: Mid-bay, mid-thought
Weather: 78°, calm, occasional splash from overconfident mullet
Mood: Drifting, curious, unintentionally inspired
Today wasn’t supposed to be anything.
Just a simple morning drift with Phil the Koala, who packed a thermos of lukewarm coffee, a single boiled egg, and a book titled "Mindful Drifting: Letting the Tide Decide."
He’s been going through a minimalist phase, which mostly involves saying things like “less is more” while doing absolutely nothing in slow motion.
We shoved off just after sunrise, no anchor, no lines in the water. Just two salty silhouettes floatin’ on a current of soft indifference.
Then, out of nowhere, a figure appeared:
A paddleboarder. Alone. Angry. Loud.
Every paddle stroke sounded like a war declaration. He grunted with each pull. Had motivational quotes tattooed on both calves - one said “Earn Your Oxygen”, the other just said “Pain is a Friend”.
We watched him pass in silence.
Phil sipped his coffee and said, “That man’s in a race no one else is running.”
Then went back to reading about barnacle-based meditations.
About ten minutes later, we spotted the paddleboard again-coming back toward us. Slower. Wetter. Visibly angrier.
Turns out he was lost. His smartwatch had overheated.
He yelled, “How do I get back to the marina?”
Phil pointed toward the shoreline and said, “Let the tide correct you.”
The guy screamed, dropped his paddle, and drifted past us in silent rage.
We offered him a boiled egg. He declined.
Highlights of the Day:
- Phil the Koala claims silence is the highest form of cardio.
- I briefly made eye contact with a jellyfish. I’m not okay.
- A mullet jumped directly into the boat and flopped onto my foot. I took it as a gift from Poseidon.
Would I do it again? Yes.
Sometimes progress looks like sitting still and letting everyone else paddle themselves into a frenzy.
Stay effortless,
Captain Redtide
Drifting professional, unlicensed philosopher
//BREAK//
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.
