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Shutout on Sanibel
Destinations · July 15, 2002

Rob stares at the bulge under Kari's jacket, the only outward sign that she's two months shy of having a baby, and there's a pregnant pause. Our guide had been animatedly talking about what's biting out in the flats near Sanibel Island, Fla., this time of year - snook, redfish and an occasional cobia - until his eyes settled on my fishing buddy's midriff.

"How far along are you?" he asks.

"Seven months."

"You gonna be okay to fish?"

Kari nods. But I suspect it isn't her Rob ought to worry about; it's the fish. Kari has always been an exceptionally lucky angler. In a non-pregnant state, she's hooked everything from a boat-sized tarpon to an elusive bonefish and made it look like child's play. Something tells me she might be even more effective when she's enhanced.

Rob starts up the engine and we cruise into the bay, the Sanibel Island Causeway on the left and off in the distance the coastline of Sanibel Island and Pine Island. It's a picture-perfect spring morning, the kind the tourism brochures imply you'll have on every day of your Southwest Florida vacation but that really only happen every now and then when the gentle Gulf breezes and mild weather make for ideal fishing conditions.

I can tell that Rob is concerned that something will happen, so I try to reassure him.

"We just got back from a trip to New Mexico. Kari went skiing," I say.

"I went down a black diamond slope," she clarifies. "Experts only!"

If I'd had the photographic evidence to prove it - and I did somewhere on my computer - then I would have shown it to Rob. There's one photo in particular of Kari in skis standing on the precipice of a dangerous-looking downhill run at Taos that nearly gave her mother a heart attack. If she can handle icy moguls that segue into thousands of feet of death-defying vertical drop, then she can manage a morning on the flats.

But can the fish? The last time we were out here in these waters, Kari easily scored what's known as the flats 'slam' - hooking a trout, snook and redfish - within half an hour. I struck out. "It's no fair!" I protested to our guide, Norm. The self-described "Fishin' Magician" slowly shook his head and said, "Women just have a way with fish." Most guides, in fact, can tell you a story or two about fishing trips that severely tested a relationship after a woman outperformed her mate.

Rob navigates his 16-foot vessel into Matlacha Pass near St. James Island as the sun begins to climb above the mangroves. He quietly slips the anchor into the soft seagrass just a few feet away from the shoreline and helps us bait our hooks with tiny pinfish.

"Aim toward the shadows. That's where the fish are," he says.

My first cast is always the worst. Mine flies unevenly toward a patch of sand, missing its intended target by yards. Kari leans back slightly and then sends her line toward the shoreline in a flawless arc. I'm already in trouble.

Kari's line goes taut almost immediately. She sets the hook as her rod bends to a 45 degree angle and she pulls in a small snook, which Rob calls "a good start."

The score is 1-0.

I retrieve my line and cast again. This time I hit the shadows. The green water thrashes; I try to set the hook, but after a short battle the fish prevails.

"That was a big one," says Rob.

Five minutes later, Kari turns up a redfish. On her next cast, another snook. Then a redfish. The score is now 4-0, and I'm starting to look for someone to blame. I could say that this just isn't my time of year to fish the saltwater flats. I usually do better in the summer, when Permit and Snapper are easily caught in the bay. I could fault Rob - maybe he's using the wrong bait?

Kari laughs.

"What's so funny?" I ask.

The baby is kicking around, she says. After at least four measurable doses of adrenaline, I'd probably be fit to be tied, too. Rob asks if she's all right, but I am not worried about her. I am worried that I won't catch anything and that my fragile male ego won't survive the Shutout on Sanibel Island.

It is at the moment of despair that the gods of fishing take pity on me, if only briefly. It is one thing to be outfished by a woman, but to be crushed by one who is expecting is at least twice as humiliating. My prize is a hard-fighting jack crevalle, a real man's fish that proves to be a worthy adversary.

The score is now 4-1.

Kari's competitive spirit is stirring; I can tell because she reaches for a rod as soon as the defeated Jack is released into the water. She sends a hooked pinfish into the mangroves and then pulls the line stealthily toward her target. Not even ten minutes later, she's released two more redfish and the score is now 6-1.

I wish I could say that somehow I made a miraculous comeback that morning. But by the time Rob started up his engine to head back to the marina, the Jack was the only trophy worth mentioning, and the final score stood at 14-1. I had been soundly and decisively defeated by a pregnant woman.

My only consolation is that the baby kicked around so much that she often couldn't tell if there was a fish on the line or if her unborn accomplice was excited. Every time she pulled in nothing but bait, Rob and I had a good chuckle. Kari had the last laugh, though.

There are plenty of scientific studies that suggest pregnant women shouldn't eat certain types of fish, but none about whether pregnant women ought to go fishing. I don't think they should. Not because it's dangerous to their health or the baby's, but because it gives them an unfair advantage. I've never seen Kari fish so well as when she was seven months pregnant - and I don't expect to see her do that well again any time soon.

Me, at least I knew a jack.

Christopher Elliott is a travel commentator based in Key Largo, Fla.