Story by Liz Johnson
Photos by Elizabeth Wheless
MANTEO, NORTH CAROLINA—From the boat ramp underneath the Pirate’s Cove bridge, the Roanoke Sound stretches out like glass, whitecapped in the wind. The glistening water reflects the early April sun back toward the sky, endlessly bright.
I’m perched at the front of a 2008 May-Craft motorboat, clinging to the edge of the boat as it surges forward toward the middle of the sound. I face backward to spare my eyes from the wind, squinting from behind borrowed prescription sunglasses. I’m mesmerized by the way the wake arcs upward and shatters, spindrift skittering across the surface.
The boat (as well as the sunglasses) belongs to Captain Bryan DeHart, a part-time fishing guide who’s spent his whole life on these waters, which he knows like the contents of his own tackle kit.
Raising his voice to be heard over the wind, he describes the view: the bridge that stretches across Oregon Inlet, the masts that jut up from the Wanchese Marina and the glossy hulls that face skyward in front of Bayliss Boatworks. In the distance, the black-and-white-striped Bodie Island Lighthouse cuts through the horizon.
His great-grandfather, DeHart tells me, was a lighthouse keeper there, and his other great-grandfather was the first fisherman to guide a charter out of Oregon Inlet. Growing up on the sound, DeHart’s got salt in his veins, he says. “I couldn’t help but love to fish.”
***
DeHart cast his first fishing line when he was just 2 years old, right here in Manteo. Though the details of that first trip with his grandfather may have faded from memory, fishing has been a part of DeHart’s life ever since.
DeHart spent much of his childhood in the nearby community of Mann’s Harbor before returning to Manteo when he was about 13. He taught himself as much as he could about fishing by listening in on conversations at the tackle shop and experimenting with his own Zebco 202 reel and beetle spin lures.
Rod and reel in tow, DeHart would bike from creek to pond to shore of the sound, catching crappie, largemouth bass and perch. A few years after his family moved back to Manteo, DeHart got his first real boat, a 16-foot Carolina Skiff he shared with his younger brother. All of Roanoke Sound was now within his reach, and it felt like the world.
When college rolled around, DeHart left the coast for UNC-Greensboro. But the Outer Banks kept calling his name. After graduating with a degree in commercial recreation and tourism management, DeHart started a fishing guide business in Manteo in 1994.
Fishing, DeHart says, is all about knowing the right spots. But guiding? That’s all about the people. With both the necessary fishing know-how and the people skills, DeHart is a natural in the guiding business, spending each day doing what he loves and sharing this passion with others.
After 10 years of full-time guiding, DeHart took a step back from fishing to become a real estate agent, a position that earned a year-round income and allowed him to support his wife and four daughters.
But DeHart has always felt at home out on the water, whether he’s catching up with longtime clients or showing first-timers the ropes. It’s an experience he wouldn’t trade for any other career, so he’s found time to balance both.
***
This is my first time on the sound, as well as my first time casting a fishing line. With Captain DeHart’s deep Manteo roots and easy way around the boat, I know I’m in good hands.
I’m struck by the quiet beauty of this area that I’ve somehow spent so little time in, despite living in North Carolina my entire life. Cormorants skim the water, gulls perch on branch-shrouded duck blinds. The tide slaps softly against the side of the boat, and the sun sparkles against the surface of the water that stretches farther than I can see.
Morning’s almost over, but it’s still early in the fishing season, and there aren’t many other boats out yet. When DeHart spots boats he recognizes, he dials the captain’s number, and they exchange notes on the weather forecast and the fishing spots that show the most promise.
The reports are much the same: nothing’s biting anywhere.
But otherwise, with a slight breeze and clear skies, the conditions are ideal, and DeHart’s confident we’ll find something, given time. He cruises gently through the shallows, scanning the water with one hand shading his brow.
He explains what he’s looking for: turbid water is a sign of red drum stirring up the soil on the bottom. On a calmer day, nervous waters could give away the movements of a school of fish just below the surface.
He shakes his head, unsatisfied.
“You get that gut feeling, like, ‘This is where I’m going fishing,’” DeHart says, “and I ain’t had it yet.” The engine revs, and we soar forward again.
Finally, we drop anchor in one of his regular spots. The Garmin in the center console has hundreds of these locations plotted on a map: the places worth coming back to, the ones imprinted in his memory from almost 30 years spent guiding.
DeHart fetches the rods from the back of the boat, then opens a large cooler and pulls out a stiff-bodied mullet from the bed of ice. I lean forward to observe as he demonstrates how to properly filet the fish into bait-sized pieces.
Next, DeHart shows me how to hold the rod in my right hand and flip the bail with my left, reminding me to check over my shoulder before I let go. The line uncoils with a satisfying whir as the bait and hook sail through the air, and I grin at the small splash it makes in the distance.
Now, we wait. The fishing might be slow today, but the time passes easily. DeHart shows me how to attach a hook and sinker to a leader, the proper knots to tie and how to pull the slippery fishing line tight.
He tells stories of the friendships he’s made out on the water, the people he’s been fishing with for almost over 20 years. These people are the reason he continues to make time for guiding.
***
UNC football player and outdoorsman Brian Anderson had heard that Captain DeHart was something of a household name in the eastern North Carolina fishing world. When a mutual friend put them in touch, they hit it off instantly.
In 2021, Anderson featured DeHart on an episode of his YouTube channel called Tar Heel Sportsman. After 12 windy hours on the water, they took their catches to a local cafe and cooked up a meal of fried drum, which they ate with North Carolina-grown vegetables.
One of Captain DeHart’s long-term clients, Evan Boyle, was about 7 years old when he fished with DeHart for the first time in 1997. Even at that young age, Boyle knew that DeHart was someone he wanted to fish with again.
As the years passed, the Boyles and DeHart became family friends as much as they were fishing buddies. When Boyle’s father passed away unexpectedly in 2002, DeHart took the family out on the sound to scatter his ashes.
As Boyle got older, he and DeHart became increasingly daring in their adventures, staying out until midnight to reel in 150-pound tarpons and battling against 30-mile-per-hour winds to catch red drum and speckled trout inshore.
As much as Boyle loved the thrill of these catches, he also cherished the hours spent talking with DeHart about everything from sports to religion to the future.
Now in his 30’s and living in Colorado, Boyle hasn’t missed more than a couple years of fishing with DeHart.
“I’ll always come back and fish with him,” Boyle said. “As many times as I can.”
***
Suddenly, one of the rods resting at the front of the boat jerks and arcs downward, and we leap into action.
I grip the rod, white-knuckled, as it bends toward the water. DeHart talks me through how to reel it in and when to let the fish run, a delicate, urgent tug-of-war that ends with me guiding a two-foot red drum into an outstretched net.
The fish stares up at me, eyes unblinking, as DeHart expertly removes the hook from its gaping mouth.
The drum is sleek and silvery, tinged red on the sides and spotted with black where the body tapers to the tail and fades into translucent Carolina blue.
When DeHart places the fish in my hands, I’m surprised by the weight of it, its muscles taut beneath the cool skin mucus that sticks to my fingers.
I feel a surge of pride as DeHart snaps a few photos, the lighthouse in miniature behind me. I’m also a little relieved when he takes the squirming fish out of my hands and eases it back into the water. I watch it dart in a tight circle beside the boat before disappearing again into the sound.
The afternoon wears on, and we drop anchor in a couple more spots as we gradually make our way back toward Pirate’s Cove. As early in April as it is, we’re both pleased with the number of bites we got.
But then again, hearing DeHart’s stories, casting the line and admiring the beauty of the sound, I think I’d have been just as pleased even if nothing bit at all.
