Three Under Thirty: Part Three, Andrew Steketee

Captain Eric Herstedt

Before I put this article together, I decided to give Rick Murphy, one of the finest flats guides in south Florida, a quick call to see if he might offer a recommendation. It didn’t take Rick long to remind me of the “kid” who ran his chase boat a few years back when I was interviewing him for a chapter in a book. The young captain’s name was Eric, and he was developing some impressive buzz as a big tarpon guide in the Everglades and upper Keys.

Rick also informed me he recently handed over his entire clientele to Eric, as part of phasing out his guiding and getting more involved in television. As a businessman, Rick wanted to find somebody young, talented and willing to “outfish the playing field;” as a friend, he was looking for somebody he could trust. “Eric has what it takes to be the next Steve Huff, the most decorated and respected fly-fishing guide in the Keys, because of his talent and willingness to work. Every time we talk, dusk ‘till dawn, even days off, he’s either on, or getting off the water. That’s what it takes to be great.”

Eric was born in Miami and spent most of his youth as a self-confessed “water rat,” with his parents running one of the area’s major marinas. Everyone is Eric’s family loved fishing and willingly supported his passion. At the age of twelve, when he came down with chicken pox, his mother bought craft materials so he could start fly tying; at sixteen, instead of a car, his dad hunted down a trailer and boat; and during college, when he was working on a business management degree, everyone, especially Rick, encouraged him to stay on the water, sharpening his skills. “I never really had any intention of doing this for a living. I just started catching more big fish than anyone else, except for Rick, until one day, it happened,” notes Eric.

At the age of twenty-one, he officially opened his doors for business, offering trips to Biscayne Bay, the upper Keys and Everglades for tarpon, snook, redfish, bonefish and permit, and has been up and running for eight years. He tournament fishes a bit, guiding the Gold Cup Tarpon Tournament in Islamorada, and has spent a few winters entered in various Gulf Coast redfish events, though he isn’t enamored with the travel and competition. “I don’t need my shirts and skiff covered with sponsors to make a living, or prove I’m any good. Maybe that’s naïve, but for me, it hasn’t been about money. The experience should count for something.”

On the phone, the night before our trip, Eric runs us through our dwindling morning options: A huge band of weather has settled over the Keys and Everglades, so early morning tarpon are out; with some luck, we might slide onto a Biscayne Bay flat for shots at larger-than-average bonefish, but the Weather Channel images don’t look promising. Despite our worst fears, a mid-morning clearing materializes over Biscayne Bay, and for an hour or two, we have a window. Eric doesn’t know how long the weather will hold, if we’ll fly-fish, or even if the bonefish will show, but we’re headed out. Idling into a skyline of black thunderheads, he remarks, “Curled up on a deck in the fetal position, waiting for a lightning storm to pass, already’s been checked off my to-do list. Let’s make this quick.”

We weave through a muddle of cloudbursts, ragged chop and gusting wind, making our way to a wide flat, abutting the eastern edge of Elliott Key and the open Atlantic. Eric thinks we are the first visitors today, which bodes well for seeing bonefish — catching them is another matter. These are some of the largest bonefish in the Keys — often starting at seven pounds — but through a mixture of over-fishing, Miami boat traffic and dwindling habitat, they have become exceptionally wary. Eric baits a spin rod with a small blue crab and quietly jumps to the platform. Fly-fishing is out. He wants to get a fish, get some photographs and get home.

Eric poles the flat’s deeper margins — careful not to impede feeding zones — scanning the shoreline for life, then suddenly directs me to check the reel’s bail. When I ask if he sees fish, he points to a half-dozen iridescent tails surgically carving the surface. “Stevie Wonders, eleven o’clock,” he says with a wry smile. I learn later that a “Stevie Wonder” is a bonefish so big, so flamboyant, that even Stevie Wonder could … well, you get the picture. I pitch the crab seventy feet to their intended direction, but the shell slapping water triggers some prehistoric flight mechanism, sending them scurrying for cover. I think to myself: I’ve seen this rerun.

Over the next two hours, a dismal pattern emerges — Eric spotting big, beautiful bonefish, as I manage to backlash reels, misjudge fish and wind movement and generally throw crabs to close, or too far from pinpoint destinations. Eric salvages the day for our increasingly annoyed photographer by motoring to an offshore flat, frequented by smaller, but more accommodating, specimens. Two casts, and he lands an unmarked seven-pound bonefish.

On the ride back, bowing my head in defeat for the second day in a row, it occurred to me that hooking an adult Biscayne Bay bonefish was simply out of my league. I even muster the humility to inform Eric of my newfound respect for spin and bait fisherman, to which he responds: “The best fly-fishermen I know still throw plugs and bait, because it teaches them hundreds of unseen variables. I’ll never tell a client, or myself, that we can’t learn more. Most fly-fisherman who step foot in my boat are horrible anglers, because they’re close-minded. My job is to correct that.”

First appeared in The Drake.