Return to the Pelican

Far, far away in a land that would seem to only exist in childhood dreams sits a fish camp. Well, technically it’s three houseboats tied together, but you get the idea.

If magic exists—and I’m still undecided—it lives in places like this.

At the Pelican, just being there is enough. A rooftop porch with a 360-degree view of nothing but horizon. A wrap-around deck with tired Adirondack chairs perfect for solving the world’s problems. And yes, the greatest toilet known to man.

The Pelican doesn’t feel like a lodge, and it doesn’t feel like one of our Drifter camps either. It’s got a feel all its own. It has a soul.

That soul is what most of us are really chasing—and big fish. We like those too.

This year we ran two four-day trips back-to-back, sixteen club members in and out, all of them hungry for something different.

From Puerto Rico to Virginia, Drifters hopped on planes and loaded up trucks to break free of their normal boxes and test their metal in this wild place.

Club Member's gear up for a highly anticipated first session on the water.

Let’s be real. Fishing wasn’t easy this year. I don’t want these recaps to read like glitter and gel-pen rainbows (remember those?). It was tough, it took work, and more often than not, it was humbling.

The key here is preparation. Pack like the world’s ending. Too many flies? Doesn’t exist. Too many rods? Not possible. Too much beer, too much food, too many pairs of underwear—you’ll thank yourself later.

The boat ride out feels like a time machine. Not the sci-fi kind with knobs and buttons, but the kind that strips away noise, billboards, and jet skis. For a moment, you get to imagine what it was like before we filled the world with nonsense.

Those willing to grind found reward: black drum tailing in the mud, slot reds cruising the beach, jacks crushing bait. And the stories rolled in—Cliff falling off the skiff, Sloan losing a monster jack, Blake nearly getting me listed as “local man mauled by shark” in tomorrow’s headlines. Good times.

There were firsts, too. Mike Free’s monster red on fly. The Green Brothers putting fish on the table. Joe Espich, who caught his first red on fly but chickened out on a tattoo from me—though, in his defense, my credentials were questionable.

One of the fishing highlights for us was catching sharks off the dock at night. We made a real sport of it. After a never-ending, profanity laced trial and error session of Chase and I trying to land a shark on my hand-line, we went back to the basics and wore out a few shark jaws.

Of course, the shenanigans never stay far away. Chase inked me with a peg-legged, beanie-wearing, pipe-smoking pelican. A masterpiece. We broke out the Gyotaku kit (thanks Iko) and made fish prints like kids during summer camp arts-and-crafts.

Food at the Pelican is stripped-down and unapologetic: monster steaks, gumbo thick enough to stand a spoon in, fried fish so fresh it barely hit the cutting board before the oil. Nobody went to bed hungry. Nobody complained.

The real story here wasn’t the fishing. It was the people. Cut off from the mainland, the conversations deepen. Strangers turn into fishing partners. Partners into friends. Friends into family.

We laughed until it hurt. We traded stories well past midnight. We fell into a rhythm dictated only by tide, light, and weather. That’s what Drifter is about.

The Pelican is one of those rare places that strips life down to the studs. Water. Fish. Food. Company. Everything else—emails, headlines, errands—doesn’t exist out here.

This year wasn’t about hero shots or easy fishing. It was about showing up, embracing the unknown, and collecting stories worth telling.

So here’s to the Pelican. To rooftop sunsets and long boat rides. To bad tattoos, good food, and better friends. We’ll be back.

MORE PHOTOS AND VIDEO ON THE WAY