THOSE GREAT DAYS WHEN SKIPPING OUT OF SCHOOL MEANT SURFS UP IN “MONSTER HOLE” AND THE “BULL REDS” ARE RUNNING AT SEBASTIAN INLET.
I sure remember those days packing my dad’s ford courier truck to the brim with coolers, rods, surfboards and canvas tents, to finally rumbled across the high bridge that spans Sebastian Inlet. As we crossed below, the powerful, emerald-green current churned, marking the violent, beautiful boundary where the brackish lagoon met the vast Atlantic. A collective sigh of relief and excitement escaped our small group—the smell of salt, sun-baked sand and a big old 70’s joint instantly replaced the stale air of the long drive. We quickly secured our campsite, a sandy patch tucked under ancient, wind-bent oaks near the northern bank, the promise of the sea lulling us into a state of anticipation for the days of saltwater adventure ahead.
Dawn had just broken on the first morning, we were already ghosts on the northern beach. The Atlantic was a vast sheet of slate grey, only beginning to glow with the promise of sunrise. We set up our surf fishing rods, driving the spikes deep into the damp sand, baiting the hooks with fresh shrimp, cut fresh mullet and casting long, hopeful lines past the breaking waves. The fishing here was a quiet, contemplative ritual. While the bigger prize often eluded us, the gentle pull of whiting and pompano in the receding tide offered a steady, satisfying rhythm, providing the perfect light snack for later and a peaceful start to the day.
The true test of angling skill and another local technique however, lay on Sebastian’s formidable jetties. These long, granite arms, stretching hundreds of yards into the open ocean, were a bustling, challenging world of their own. Dodging rogue splashes and the lines of other serious fishermen, we maneuvered to the tip, where the inlet’s outgoing current was fiercest. It was here, with a live finger mullet cast perfectly into the rushing tide, that the reel screamed—a violent, electrifying sound. After a heart-pounding twenty-minute battle, my brother hauled in a massive, silver-sided snook, its jaw notched and powerful, which we admired briefly before releasing it back to the depths.
Fishing success was quickly followed by the call of the waves. Our attention turned south, across the inlet, to the legendary break known as “Monster Hole”. This offshore anomaly—a shallow, submerged rock ledge—requires either a long, punishing paddle or a quick boat ride to access. We chose the paddle, our surfboards cutting through the choppy inlet water and then settling into the deep blue of the open sea. The atmosphere shifted from crowded shoreline to isolated ocean, creating an adrenaline-charged quiet as we approached the spot where the water suddenly reared up in immense, rolling walls.
Monster Hole lived up to its name. The waves were not just tall; they were thick, powerful, and utterly relentless, driven by the distant groundswell. After waiting patiently for the perfect set, I dug deep and paddled furiously. The wave picked me up with the force of a freight train, and for a glorious, terrifying moment, I was flying, carving a line across a steep face of water that felt taller than any building. The ride was short, intense, and ended in a chaotic tumble into the foam, leaving me exhilarated and humbled by the brute force of the ocean’s hydraulics.
As the afternoon waned, we gathered our belongings, surf-weary and salty, and headed back across the inlet. The late light painted the sky in shades of bruised orange and deep violet, signaling the close of a successful day. We sat on the jetty wall one last time, watching the sun sink behind the mainland, feeling the deep, tired ache that only comes from full-day physical exertion in the salt air. The memory of the snook’s powerful pull and the wave’s towering height merged into a quiet, profound appreciation for the raw coastal environment.
Back at the campsite, the real comfort of camping began. The flickering orange glow of a newly built campfire provided the perfect centerpiece. We skewered hot dogs and traded stories of near-misses on the waves and the ones that got away on the line. The air filled with the scent of woodsmoke and roasting marshmallows, a comforting, elemental aroma. Laughter echoed softly among the pines, and the distant, rhythmic sound of the ocean served as the ultimate lullaby, a constant reminder of our temporary home by the water.
Lying in the tent that night, the sound of crickets and the occasional owl replacing the human chatter, I felt a deep sense of peace. Sebastian Inlet is more than just a place on a map; it’s a crucible where the thrill of the sport meets the serenity of the wilderness. The grit of the sand that still clung to our gear, the slight sting of sunburn, and the satisfying fatigue in our muscles were all tokens of a weekend well spent. We knew, without having to say it, that we would be counting the days until our next pilgrimage to the sun-soaked, wave-battered, fish-rich shores of the Inlet.
Discover more from Florida's Native Son
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
