I’ve been playing around with A.I. last few months, mainly for general search information on things I’m working on or something I am looking to purchase. Definitely saves a ton of time from doing google searches and clicking hopefully good links. It’s not perfect of course but it is definitely incredibly usueful. I’ve been mainly using Grok and Gemini a few times. So for fun I thought I would have Grok write my article this month.
I asked Grok to write an article for Nautical Mile Magazine using my writing style and to ACpull information from my previously written articles from sources across the internet. The article should be based around flats fishing and about 800 words.
Here’s the final result after a couple tweaks. I will leave it as is with the exception of a boat and fly rod name change as it is not the gear I use nor have ever run or written about.
Anyway hope you get a chuckle, I sure did. Sounds nothing like me, though I wish I was that creative!! I don’t know where Grok grabbed the writing style from so apologies to whomever this sounds like.
Have a great holiday and we’ll see you all next year.
_________
Whispers of Winter
on the Key West Flats
Well, howdy folks, it’s Capt. Mike Bartlett here, poling my way through another bend in the trail down here in the Keys. Seems like just yesterday we were sweatin’ through those dog days of summer, chasin’ shadows of tarpon in the backcountry heat, and divin’ for lobsters like it was our last supper.
But blink your eyes, and poof—autumn’s sneakin’ in on those soft southeast breezes, paintin’ the mangroves gold and stirrin’ up the ghosts on the flats. Here we are in mid-November 2025, and the water’s got that crisp edge to it, like the good Lord’s remindin’ us winter ain’t far off. I’ve been out there every dawn I can steal, and let me tell you, the flats are whisperin’ secrets if you’re willin’ to listen.
Take last week, for instance. I had this fella from Ohio—name of Tom—first time on the bow of my skiff. He’d been readin’ my scribblin’s in the magazine for years, he said, and finally cashed in his vacation days to chase bonefish with the old captain. We pushed off Garrison Bight at false dawn, coffee steamin’ in the Yeti, and the tide was fallin’ out like a slow leak in a balloon.
I poled us west toward the Content Keys, where the turtle grass still holds that emerald glow even when the rest of the world’s turnin’ gray. The air smelled of salt and low tide, that sweet funk of crab and mud that tells you the fish are feedin’. A pair of osprey wheeled overhead, screamin’ like they’d just spotted breakfast. Tom stood tall on the platform, 8-weight rigged with a tan Crazy Charlie, eyes scannin’ the horizon like a hawk.
First light hit the water just as we crossed the bar, and there they were—mud plumes risin’ like smoke signals from a dozen bonefish rootin’ in the marl. I killed the engine and grabbed the push pole. “Keep your knees bent, Tom,” I whispered. “These ghosts don’t like loud neighbors.” He nodded, eyes wide as saucers, and laid out a perfect 45-footer. The fly settled soft as a gull feather.
One twitch, two twitches—then the flat erupted. Line screamed off the reel, and Tom’s whoop echoed clean to Boca Grande. That fish took us on a sleigh ride all the way to the channel edge before we finally lipped him—a solid eight-pounder with a tail like a barn door. I slipped the hook, gave the fish a pat, and watched him rocket back to the grass. Tom just stood there, rod tip dancin’, grinnin’ like he’d won the lottery. That’s the flats in November, boys and girls—pure magic if you time it right.
But it ain’t all tailin’ bones and hero shots. Winter flats fishin’ is a chess game, and Mother Nature’s always movin’ the pieces. Water temps are droppin’ into the mid-70s now, and that pushes the permit off the wrecks and onto the shallow banks lookin’ for crabs. I’ve been seein’ schools of thirty, forty fish cruisin’ the white sand patches off Marvin Key.
Problem is, they’re spooky as a cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs. You gotta stalk ’em slow, keep the sun at your back, and present that Merkin like it’s the last meal on earth. Last Tuesday I had a shot at a blacktail bruiser pushin’ fifteen pounds. My angler—a gal named Sarah from Colorado—made a textbook cast. The crab landed two feet in front of the lead fish. He tilted down, flared his fins, and inhaled it.
Sarah set the hook smooth as silk, and for thirty glorious seconds we were tight to the best permit I’d seen all season. Then—snap—the 20-pound leader parted like tissue paper. Barnacle kiss on the wreck, I reckon. Sarah just laughed, re-tied, and we went lookin’ for the next one. That’s flats fishin’. You win some, you learn a lot more.
Redfish are showin’ up too, pushin’ in with the mullet schools on the flood tides. I’ve been findin’ ’em schooled up in the little potholes inside Sawyer Key, tails waggin’ like golden retrievers. A well-placed Gurgler popped slow across the surface’ll get ’em chargin’ like bulls in Pamplona. Just don’t horse ’em—those potholes are ringed with mangrove roots sharper than a bartender’s wit after last call.
I keep a 7-weight handy with 15-pound fluoro and a weedless shrimp pattern for when the wind kicks up. November gusts can turn a calm flat into a washing machine quicker than you can say “Conch Republic.” Yesterday the breeze laid down to a whisper by 10 a.m., and we found a school of copper missiles pushin’ water so hard it looked like a rain squall. Three fish in the boat before noon, all released with a splash and a promise to fight another day.
Gear talk—let’s keep it simple, like a good conch fritter. I’m still runnin’ my Beavertail BT3 skiff; she’s got more scars than a biker’s knuckles but poles like a dream. Colton Tradewinds 8-weight for the bones and 9-weight when the permit get sassy.
Leaders? Nine-foot tapered to 12-pound for bonefish, 16-pound for permit, and I always carry a spool of 20-pound fluoro for the redfish bruisers. Flies are the usual suspects: tan and pink puff for bones, Merkin crabs in tan and olive, and a couple of gurglers in chartreuse and white. Keep ’em sparse—less is more when the water’s gin-clear. I tie my own most nights, sittin’ on the porch with a cold Kalik and the radio playin’ Jimmy Buffett low. Nothin’ fancy, just enough hackle to breathe and a bead-chain eye to sink slow.
Tides are everything this time of year. I’m watchin’ the last quarter of the outgoing in the morning, then the first two hours of incoming after lunch. That’s when the bait’s movin’ and the predators are huntin’. Pay attention to the moon too—new and full moons mean stronger tides and bigger pushes of water across the flats. Mark your calendar for the 20th; we’ve got a full moon and a 1.8-foot swing. That’s prime time for sight-fishin’ everything with fins. I keep a laminated tide chart in the console, dog-eared and coffee-stained, right next to the bug spray and the spare push-pole tip.
Weather’s a fickle mistress in November. One day you’re in shorts and a T-shirt, next day a norther blows through and you’re diggin’ out the Patagonia puff jacket. I watch the Marine Forecast like a preacher reads scripture. If the isobars squeeze tight and the arrow points south, I’m on the water before the roosters crow. Cold fronts push bait tight to the mangroves, and the fish stack up like cordwood. Last front dropped the temp ten degrees overnight, and we had bonefish tailin’ in water so shallow their backs were sunburned. Sight-fishin’ don’t get no better.
One last thing before I let you go. The flats are fragile as a prom queen’s ego. We’ve got seagrass die-offs in Florida Bay, red tide rumors floatin’ like bad gossip, and every weekend warrior with a drone thinkin’ he’s the next Flip Pallot. Do me a favor—pole quiet, pick up your trash, and if you see a beer can floatin’ by, snag it. This ain’t Disneyland; it’s our backyard. Treat it like the cathedral it is. I’ve been fishin’ these waters since Nixon was president, and I’d like my grandkids to have the same shot at a 10-pound bone on fly.
So there you have it, folks. November on the Key West flats—cooler mornings, hungry fish, and just enough breeze to keep the no-see-ums honest. Grab your rod, kiss your wife, and get out there before the snowbirds clog up the ramp. The ghosts are waitin’, and they don’t check watches.
Tight lines and bent rods!
Capt. Mike Bartlett
