Fishing wasn’t Captain Bunting’s first profession—or even his second. He was a healthcare and software executive, and later (to present day) a stay-at-home dad. So, when the opportunity presented itself, it only seemed fitting that he share his love of the water with those in and visiting our community. And thus, SeaRiously was born.
Being on the water has always been my passion. My escape from reality. My peace—even on the days where you do more fishing than catching. It has been that way since I was a kid. And it is that kind of “SeaSperience” that I strive to share with families through mentored-focused excursions. With that in mind, our philosophy is simple—we believe that:
We’ve had pleasure boats in the past that we’ve named, but when the time came to build a brand and make it into a business, I wanted to pay homage to both my wife’s profession and that of my own, previously. Or so we thought…
‘SeaSection’ felt like the obvious choice, but my wife isn’t a gynecologist and she was quick to shoot that concept down. But we liked the logo that had formed around that with the SEA letters and octopus tentacle. We went through several iterations with other words, but nothing stuck. That is, until my (then 9yo) son mocked my frequent use of the word seriously—questioning one of the naming options by responding with “SeaRiously?” And it’s been a perfect fit for us ever since.
I have spent my entire life fishing the waters of the Pamlico Sound, Morehead City, and the greater Wilmington area. For most of that time, I had my eye on earning my Captain’s license. It felt like a personal milestone, a way to say I had truly mastered something that mattered to me. I never viewed it as a profession, though. It had nothing to do with what I studied or what I did throughout my career.
My career, for all its practicality, was never my happy place. It was work, nothing more. It paid the bills, but it never gave me joy, and I eventually realized how important that joy really was. When the chance came to change direction, I took it. I wanted to teach. I wanted to share experiences on the water. I wanted to help people create memories they would carry with them.
That is where I finally found happiness.
As a native of eastern North Carolina, it feels like the ocean is simply part of who I am. Some of my earliest memories are standing in my granddad’s boat while it sat parked in his driveway, holding a toy fishing rod and pretending I was out on the Sound reeling in something big. When I got older, I spent countless hours at his dock on the river, fishing and crabbing, sunburned and barefoot, without a care in the world. Those days shaped me.
As I moved into my adolescent and young adult years, I fished alongside my dad. Both he and my granddad believed in “take a kid fishing” long before it became a slogan. They lived it. I suppose that is where I learned the value of time on the water. It was never just about catching fish. It was about being present, learning patience, and building memories that stick with you long after the tide shifts. I have carried that same mindset forward with my own children. I make sure the tradition continues, because that time together matters more than anything else, and those memories are priceless.
Life is about creating and living experiences worth sharing. At least, that is how I see it now. It took me a while to learn that. For me, the water became a map toward real and lasting self-improvement, and if I am being honest, toward healing. It was the antidote to the fuss and noise that rules so much of daily life. The water was fun, no doubt, and it was a passion. It was also an escape. I loved it, but there was still something missing. There was a kind of joy I could feel but couldn’t quite name.
I found it when I began to see the experience through someone else’s eyes. The look on my kids’ faces. The look on my retired buddy’s face, who becomes a big kid the moment we push off from the dock. That was the moment things came into focus. Sharing the water with them gave them a chance to experience something new. It let them see the world differently, from the waterline instead of the shoreline. It helped them learn skills they could carry for the rest of their lives. Watching them take what I taught and go do it on their own was the joy I had been missing.
That was my why.
