Hooked Up and Hands Full
The redfish hit so hard it nearly ripped the rod out of my one good hand. My other hand? Busy trying to keep my phone steady. Between the drag screaming and the camera shaking, I wasn’t sure which one was going to give first. It’s a juggling act, one that’s turned into my signature move. Most people scrolling through Instagram probably see a one-handed hookup and think that looks easy. Truth is, it’s anything but. Down here on the Lower Laguna Madre it takes everything I’ve got to sight-cast, set the hook, and fight a redfish―all while holding a phone close enough to capture every second of it.
The first time I filmed a fish one-handed, it wasn’t some big idea or social media strategy. I just wanted to show people what I see when I’m out there. The glint of a tail in skinny water, the way a fish slides through the grass, and that split-second when everything explodes. I figured a quick clip might give folks a look at the raw side of sight-casting.
What I didn’t expect was how much people connected with it. The comments came rolling in; some cheering me on, others saying I was crazy. But the more I posted the more those videos started catching traction. Turns out, folks like seeing the chaos of an up-close hookup. No fancy editing, no camera crew, just a guy trying to hang on.
Holding a rod in one hand and a phone in the other might not sound like much until you try it. Every fight is a balancing act. Keeping tension on the fish, steering it out of the grass, adjusting the drag, and somehow keeping the camera pointed in the right direction.
Sometimes I hook into a strong one and instantly regret not having both hands on the rod. But once you commit, you’re all in. The trick is to trust your instincts and your gear. My Waterloo rod does the heavy lifting, and my KWigglers soft plastic handles the rest. Subtle, lifelike, and deadly when a redfish decides to commit. It’s a bit like trying to pat your head, rub your belly, and dance on a slick deck. All while a 25-inch redfish is peeling line off your reel. But that’s the fun of it. It keeps me sharp and, in a weird way, it’s taught me a lot about control. Not just of the fish, but of myself during the moment.
The reason these one-handed videos have caught fire isn’t because they’re perfect. It’s because they’re real. The camera shakes, the drag screams, the fish runs right at me and the viewer gets to see it all exactly how I do it. It’s not polished or staged. It’s raw, loud and natural. I think that authenticity is what pulls people in. You’re not watching some highlight reel; you’re right there in the action, watching the lure disappear and the water erupt. Every video is unpredictable just like fishing itself.
If there’s one thing one-handed fishing has taught me, it’s patience. You don’t have time to overthink. You have to react, adjust, and stay present. When I’m recording, I’m hyper-aware of everything, the wind, the light, the fish’s body language. Every movement counts.
It’s also reminded me that sometimes doing something a little different, even a little ridiculous, can open new doors. Those clips have connected me with anglers from all over the coast, sparked conversations, and even brought new clients who saw a video and said, “Man, I want to do that.”
These days, it’s just part of my routine. I see a redfish push, I grab my rod and my phone, and I go. Some fish make it easy. Others humble me real quick. But no matter how it goes, every clip tells a story. One of connection, timing, and the constant dance between chaos and control.
At the end of the day, that’s what fishing is all about, finding your rhythm and sharing those little moments that make it special. Whether I’m poling across the flats of South Padre or standing on the bow with my Waterloo bent and my KWigglers lure swinging, it’s the same feeling every time―heart pounding, camera rolling, and one hand doing its best to hang on.