06/07/2026
Everyone knows Myrt for golf.
The tee times.
The shortcuts.
The local secrets.
The kind of man who can get you on a course before sunrise, off the 18th by lunch, and seated somewhere with cold shrimp and colder beer by 1:15.
But what most people don’t know is that before Myrt Reynolds became the unofficial mayor of Myrtle Beach golf…
He was briefly, accidentally, and against the advice of several responsible adults…
A fishing legend.
The story goes like this.
June 3rd, 1987.
Myrt showed up at Harbor View Marina wearing golf shorts, boat shoes, and a shirt loud enough to be spotted from another zip code.
He had one sandwich in a paper bag.
Two beers in a cooler.
And a tee time later that afternoon that, according to Myrt, “was not going to move itself.”
The captain that day was an old salty local with sun-baked skin, a perfect smile, and the kind of golden-boy charm that made no sense on a man who supposedly spent four decades yelling at the Atlantic.
He looked familiar.
Nobody could place it.
The boat was called Click Bait.
Which, at the time, was just a funny name.
History would make it prophetic.
They pushed three miles offshore just after sunrise.
The captain wanted to keep going.
Myrt said, “No need.”
The captain said, “You seeing something?”
Myrt took one bite of his sandwich, stared out over the water, and said…
“Nope. Just got a feeling.”
Now, depending on who tells the story, this is where things get cloudy.
Some say Myrt dropped a line and hooked up immediately.
Some say he whistled at the water first.
Some say the fish jumped clean out of the ocean, saw Myrt, and simply accepted its fate.
What we know for sure is this:
At approximately 8:17 AM, something hit the line so hard the captain spilled his coffee, the radio cut out, and a pelican allegedly changed direction mid-flight.
Myrt fought that fish for 42 minutes.
Not standing dramatically at the back of the boat.
Not screaming for help.
Not asking for a harness.
Just sitting on a cooler, calm as church, holding the rod in one hand and the second half of his sandwich in the other.
The captain kept yelling, “That ain’t a flounder!”
Myrt kept saying, “Not with that attitude.”
When they finally pulled it up, nobody said a word.
Because floating next to the boat was the largest flounder anyone had ever seen off the South Carolina coast.
Twenty-two pounds, five ounces.
Flat as a welcome mat.
Wide as a screen door.
The size, according to the newspaper the next morning, of “an El Camino.”
By noon, the fish was on ice.
By 1:30, Myrt had made his tee time.
By 4:45, he was telling a foursome from Ohio that the secret to Myrtle Beach was simple:
“You gotta know where to cast, where to play, and where they don’t ask too many questions.”
The captain still talks about it.
Mostly because nobody believes him.
The map still exists.
The newspaper clipping still hangs on a wall somewhere between a neon beer sign and a dollar bill signed by a man who may or may not have been in Molly Hatchet.
And Myrt?
Myrt never really talks about the fish.
He’ll just smile, adjust his hat, and say:
“Biggest thing I ever caught was a 10:42 at Dunes Club for a guy who called me at breakfast.”
So yes…
Need help planning golf?
Fishing?
Golf AND fishing?
Call Myrt.
Local knowledge.
Local connections.
Local legend.
Since 1983.
