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Recently, I watched Fury, the World War II film starring Brad Pitt about a battle-hardened American Sherman tank crew fighting their way through Nazi Germany in the final months of the war. Throughout the movie, the crew repeats the same phrase:
“Best job I ever had.”
At first, it sounds almost sarcastic—a line delivered in the middle of exhaustion, chaos, and war. But the more I heard it, the more it stuck with me. Somewhere beneath all that grit, there was pride. Brotherhood. Purpose. And I couldn’t help but think about how much that phrase applies to life offshore.
Now don’t get me wrong. There are days that test every ounce of patience a captain has. Days spent buried in a bilge replacing pumps in 105-degree Louisiana heat. Days untangling braided line from a prop because somebody wasn’t paying attention. Days when fuel disappears faster than your wallet can handle. Days when the Gulf turns into a washing machine and beats your crew half to death before daylight ever reaches the horizon.
But those days are the exception. The other 95 percent? It’s hard to put into words.
I’ve worked offshore on drilling rigs. I’ve played and coached football in the brutal South Louisiana heat. I’ve shoveled horse shit, worked cattle, and spent summers building fences with my grandpa under a relentless sun. On my days off, I’m still turning wrenches—respooling reels, replacing line guides, changing oil, and checking drags to make sure everything is ready for the next trip. Every one of those jobs taught me something—work ethic, patience, toughness, humility.
But none of them compare to easing away from Coco Marina before sunrise.
The coolers are packed with ice. Diesel hangs in the air from nearby shrimp boats and crew boats. Twelve hundred horsepower hum beneath me while a crew full of anticipation wonders what the day might bring.
I wave goodbye to Tine at The Barge—the sweet lady who is the staple of fishing in Cocodrie and lights everyone’s day up with a smile. The mainstay.
“See you somewhere between this afternoon and tomorrow morning, my baby. If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow night, send the Coco boys and Rusty to come find me—or just bring me some gas.”
She laughs, shakes her head, and we idle out toward open water.
The guys ask what music we’re listening to on the ride out. Truthfully, they’re getting the same playlist they’ve gotten for years. A little Riley Green. A little George Strait. Maybe some No Ceilings or Slightly Stoopid if the mood is right. Either way, we’re jamming.
Because there’s just something about that run offshore.
The silhouettes of shrimp boats and oil platforms against the horizon. Pelicans gliding inches above slick water. The orange glow of a Louisiana sunrise slowly climbing over the Gulf. Meanwhile, half the crew is stretched out on bean bags trying to sleep off the consequences of deciding that a few too many beers at 2 a.m. sounded like a great idea before a fishing trip that starts at daylight.
I let them rest. Soon enough they’ll be awake and getting their feelings hurt by amberjacks on slow-pitch gear anyway.
Sometimes I sit at the helm and wonder if moments like these are what make God smile—a group of hardworking people simply doing what they love. Most people only experience scenes like this through paintings hanging in seafood restaurants or videos scrolling across a phone screen.
I get to live it.
And every time I do, I find myself thinking the same thing:
Best job I ever had.
Anyone who’s fished with me knows I bring a competitive edge offshore. I don’t care if we’re fun fishing, tournament fishing, or taking first-timers to catch snapper for the fryer—nobody wants to catch fish more than I do. I want fish in the box. A lot of them.
On tough days, it eats at me. I want every crew that steps aboard my boat to know we’ll stay until we run out of fuel, daylight, ice, or options before I quit trying to make it happen. Because when everything finally comes together, there’s nothing else like it.
Maybe it’s dropping jigs into cobalt-blue water and coming tight on a fireback or marble grouper that few people will ever see in person. Maybe it’s firing a popper beneath glowing rig lights at midnight while yellowfin tuna explode on the surface around the boat. Maybe it’s dragging lures across offshore banks searching for the razor-toothed wahoo everybody dreams about. Or maybe it’s pulling up to a floater, finding tuna crashing bait, and watching all four rods fold over at once because you happened to have exactly what they wanted swimming in the livewell.
That’s the magic of offshore fishing: chaos one second, perfection the next.
Some of my favorite moments aren’t even about the fish. They’re about the people.
The dad bringing his son offshore for the first time. The group of buddies who save all year for one unforgettable trip. Guys trying to cram fifty bags of fillets into a truck at the dock while reliving every hookup, every missed fish, and every fish story before they’ve even left the marina.
Or the customer who says, “Cap, we’re only after one species today,” and somehow, by the grace of God and a little luck, everything falls perfectly into place.
Those are the rides home that make it all worthwhile.
The fish box loaded with tuna, snapper, grouper, tilefish, and maybe even a bonus swordfish. Salt drying on the cowlings. Tired smiles around the cockpit. Makin’ Grocery pointed north toward the Houma Nav with another successful trip behind her. Home Sweet Home by Motley Crue pouring out the speakers.
Those are the moments that make me want to gather everyone together the same way I once huddled some of my best friends on a football field and simply say:
“Thank you, God, for the best job I ever had.”
