I grew up in a floundercentric family. It was revered as the pinnacle species in both deceiving into biting a hook and for its table value. My dad actually was a bit of a floundercrat. For as little time as he gave himself to fish, he was actually pretty good at flounder fishing. First of all, he had the patience of a barnacle. My earliest memories are of him methodically dabbling a live shrimp around every pier piling, grass line or bulkhead that he could find. It’s funny that I can’t remember my first bike ride, first day at school or even my first day at college, but I can vividly remember the first flounder I ever saw my dad catch. When he swung that other-worldly, Martian fish onto the deck of the pier, I was hooked. Maybe not just on the cult of the flounder but on fishing in general. I mean, seriously, what the hell is that fish? It is arguably the coolest, weirdest fish and was like some prized treasure from the bay.
To this day. I have a certain reverence for flounder. Their unique design give them a truly unsettling way to ambush prey and their teeth and jaws are brutal. I have often thought if they grew to 1,000 pounds, there likely would not be recreational swimming in saltwater, and I think the movie Jaws might have had a different starring character. I don’t ever fish for them anymore, and I know its like sacrilege to write but I actually am not a huge fan of eating them, but I will always, always, always love the flounder.
Don’t forget to check out my new book It’s More Than Fishing.