It was late Thursday night when our weekend logistics unraveled. With a mandatory Saturday return to Raleigh, my window to hit Johnnie Mercers Pier was thin. Word out of Wrightsville Beach was that pelagics were annihilating Gotcha plugs, and I had drawn up the perfect Friday game plan. Fish the morning, check into the hotel, and unwind in preparation for a Saturday return. Then came the gut punch: our hotel reservation had actually been booked for Thursday night, not Friday.
After fruitlessly scrambling for anyone to blame but myself, reality set in. We either hit the highway immediately and checked in late or we bailed on the trip entirely. I was beating myself up over the logistical fumble, my perfectly orchestrated plan now felt like a scramble that may not be worth pursuing.
Normally I would keep this frustration to myself, but I decided to share it with Mom to see her perspective. After all she would also be subjected to poorly timed long drives and a short sleep leading into a cold morning of fishing. Moms have a superpower for shrinking stress down to size: pack up, make the drive, and shake it off. A fantastic day was still waiting to be had, we just had to go get it.
A few short hours of sleep and a hurried breakfast later, we walked onto the pier right at 7:00 AM. A gathering nor'easter coupled with a full king tide had pushed the surf up to the legs of the lifeguard towers. Despite the chop, the water retained the Carolina blue clarity that feels surreal every time you see it.
Local talk was all about an aggressive bluefish slam at daybreak. A few heavy blues were still being caught, but they were dialing strictly into live mullet—a bait I didn't have available. Mom grabbed the high-low rig tipped with frozen shrimp and enjoyed the morning catching steady pinfish, while I reached for a goofy jig to prospect for stray Pompano.
The height of the pier makes precise rod work mandatory when fishing moving baits. I was running a newly added 5'10" medium-action Ugly Stik—a deliberate downsize from the long, thicc surf sticks I hauled out here recently. The shorter blank had just enough flex to flick the jig into a sharp darting hop without yanking it out of the strike column. Distinguishing the strike was a guessing game, until the line loaded up solid. Right as pier regular Tony Carter strolled past—fresh off our earlier discussion crowning Pompano the king of table fare—I swung a 10 inch Pompano over the rail. Not a notable catch, but the day was made.
From mid-morning toward noon, the pier transformed into a circus. I lobbed a fresh cut pinfish on a Carolina rig to wait on and continued working the Gotcha rod. In classic angling fashion, the bait rod went stone dead whenever I held it, only to get slammed the split second I picked up the plug. My baitrunner reel gave them plenty of free spool to pick up the chunk, but the slack let the fish shake loose before I could crank and get the line tight—a mechanical puzzle I still need to iron out.
Then the surface erupted. Roving packs of mullet and glass minnows sprayed skyward as schools of bluefish, spanish mackerel, and jack crevalle blitzed. Reels were screaming, plugs were firing, and rods were doubled over in every direction.
By afternoon, the surf calmed, the gear was packed, and that morning pompano made the journey up the road to become our centerpiece dinner in Raleigh. We laughed at how our survival skills would fail with such a small catch, but enjoyed every bite of the mild white flesh. Fishing beside Mom felt just like being a kid again—and making the day happen despite the uncertainty is a lesson I hope to keep with me for a long time.