Manatees Revisited

Recently on a cool, early morning the group went to one of our favorite manatee haunts to see if we could see more of them and maybe get close enough for an encounter. We were bunched up getting into the river, but soon turned into one long paddling string. We were safe, though, as the smudge pots (motorboats) weren't out yet. I think it has something to do with excessive partying the night before.

Anyway, we were enjoying our paddle, some paddling in groups and chatting, while others paddled alone to enjoy all nature had to offer that day. Then we spotted it. There was a buoy with a radio on it moving upriver from us. We knew the buoy was attached to a manatee who was on the river bottom feeding on eelgrass. We cautiously approached and were rewarded with about a half hour's worth of steady feeding under our boats interspersed with gentle rising and mammalian breathing. As always, we drifted with the animals, correcting our positions only slightly with small paddle strokes.

We were on our way back to the landing when we encountered another group of manatees working its way upriver. Again we stopped and drifted. This time we were joined by a motorboat and its occupants while watching. We got into a conversation with the boater who said he believed the section of the river with manatees should be off-limits to motorized boats. When asked why he was there in his, he answered, "Because it's legal for me to be here." He added that when the state finally gets its wits about itself and closes the rivers to all but paddlers, he'll get a canoe or kayak.

So, we were brought face-to-face with the solution to the problem. It's not against the law to ride in the manatee's habitat in a boat whose engine will almost surely cut, maim or kill the gentle mammals, but until it is, boaters and jet skiers (motorcycles of the water) will legally continue to have dangerous encounters with manatees.

So, voting Floridians, get up off your positive flotation devices and start to raise a stink to the legislature about the problem and its obvious solution. They pass silly and non-consequential laws every year. Why not pass one that does some good for a change?

But, that's just my opinion......

Perfect Paddle

It was a perfect morning; It was chilly, it was raining and the wind was blowing. Yes, it was the perfect morning for keeping almost everybody off the river. So, we went paddling on the Wacissa. Putting in was different this time, as no one was already there. So the joke became, "Where in the world are we going to park?"

With rain gear on and paddles to the ready, we headed out onto the main river. That's where we started counting alligators. They were everywhere. They were probably everywhere before, but the boaters racing away from the ramp kept them hidden. They were of all sizes and all degrees of indifference to us. Some would slowly submerge while others slid off logs amidst splash and bubbles.

Big Blue was devoid of human inhabitants. But, there on the float was an alligator stretched out taking in the sun. Because we were quiet and did not make a move towards it, the 'gator was still in its spot when we left. Paddling out the back way we leisurely picked our way through obstructions and rafts of water lettuce, constantly amazed at the birds we saw.

Some were difficult to recognize, as they were immature, and their plumage was not what we normally associate with their species. There were coots and herons, grebes and ducks. Also there were egrets and storks and a plethora of smaller wading birds. They were wading on lily pads and mats of other plant life that were in water deeper than my height, so the birds were actually 'in over their heads.'

My favorite is the great blue heron. In its world, it is the quintessential hunter. Coiling its neck for a strike, the heron ever so slowly stalks an unsuspecting fish or frog. And with a lightning-fast move, it has its prey in its beak and has flipped it around to better facilitate swallowing it. It is pure poetry in motion as it feeds itself from what seems to be a never-ending bounty.

Alas, like all good things, this paddle came to an end. The rains stopped, so the skies cleared. Almost immediately the booze-soaked and befuddled Society of the Crimson Napes began to appear with their obscenely loud air boats and their never ending consideration for others on the water (just a little sarcasm).

So, we packed up and headed about 100 yards to the blueberry farm and picked about a gallon each of the delicious fruit. I had the least, as I had been eating as I picked. I could hardly let the blue herons outdo me, could I?

Summer Fruit

Some days it's just too danged hot to fish. If you don't get to the water by daybreak, you have to wait until 8:30 or 9:00 p.m. for sunset. In between is pure murder. For the last few days the temperature where I live has walked both sides of the 100-degree mark. Along with an almost saturated atmosphere, the days can be brutal.

That's when I turn to another of my favorite things. I like to go to the farmer's market and load myself down with fresh-off-the-farm fruits and vegetables. Today I went and found ears of sweet corn, shelled butter beans and peas, okra, cucumbers, tomatoes and much more. On the same table were blackberries the size of my thumbnail, nectarines, watermelons, cantaloupe and peaches. Yes, I said peaches.

Peaches hold a special place in my life, as they are the oldest known smell to me. As a consequence, I like to hold a slightly firm, but fuzzy peach up to my face so I can drink in its nectar-filled essence in my nose. It sometimes is so heady, I get dizzy. I hold it such that I can put my mouth on the cleft at its top and begin to lightly nibble the fuzz until the first of the juice runs into my mouth. Now, some people like to peel their peaches, but I have no preference. Eating the skin is just as good as eating one that's peeled.

After a while I reach a point when all caution and deliberateness are thrown to the wind, and I just dive in. This ensures not only that I get the maximum pleasure from its taste in the shortest amount of time, but I manage to always have its juices drip down off my chin and onto my clothes. Although I don't care, these drips sometimes make for embarrassing moments when I get around others later on. But I rarely notice, as the moment with the peach in my mouth, with its exquisite feel and taste, overcomes all else.

And then, after I've eaten my fill, all that's left is the pit. Now back when I sailed merchant ships I learned how to carve pits from an old salt. It provided me countless hours of entertainment while I practiced my skills as a carver. Although I don't remember their sequence now, there are only 10 cuts to make (in order) that result in a monkey holding its tail between its legs. I do so wish I remembered that one!

But after I'm sated, my favorite dish to make with the surviving peaches is cobbler. I know, it's not the least bit good for me, but it tastes so good.

And it reminds me of how much fun I have eating a peach.

Little River Adventure

The Little River between US90 and Lake Talquin near Talahassee was the scene of the next big adventure. JW, her friend D and I started what was supposed to be a 9 1/2 mile 'go with the current easy paddle' at 10:30 a.m. About 15 minutes later I flipped at one of the first snags. It was a combination of current, wind and inexperience that did me in. Maybe not in that order, either.

The boat dumped me as it went sideways to the current and wind, fetching up against the tree blocking the way. I was pushed up against the underwater limbs and got snagged on one. I was disoriented and started to panic before I remembered the old surfer's trick of letting out a few bubbles to see which way 'up' was. In the murky, muddy water I followed the bubbles.

D and J were on me in a flash. I knew I'd lost my shoes and probably my dry bag. Unfortunately my dry bag had my keys, wallet, phone and snacks to ward off the effects of diabetes during the trip in it. I was devastated, but there wasn't much I could do about any of it on Sunday anyway. The only option was to cry, and I didn't take that one. So we emptied the boat of water (that's when I decided not to tell them I'd been stuck in the tree underwater) on a sandbar and kept on going. Only later downstream did I discover my dry bag with my toes, jammed up into the bow. And everything in it was safe and sound and dry.

I immediately tied the bag to the boat! But the real funny part was that my hat and sunglasses stayed put on my head. It's funny what happens or doesn't happen 'in the twinkling of an eye.'

From there the trip kept getting longer and longer. We paddled; we went over, through and under obstructions; we paddled until we were dog tired. But, by then we'd reached the lake, thinking our adventure was just about over. But, nnnoooooo. Finding our take-out point took over and hour on a wind-blown lake with waves and rain. I was so tired I called Fishing Buddy Charles (FBC) hoping that he was on the lake that day. Alas, he wasn't, but he offered to drive from our home in GA to come and rescue us. He's that kind of guy.

But, all was not lost. We saw loads of turtles, a few 'gators and ospreys and their nests. The wild birds were awe-inspiring as well as breath-taking. And, we all ended up with stories to tell about the day.

Afterwards, we cleaned up at J's, and I cooked chicken cordon bleau while J made a killer spinach dip. We were so hungry we cleaned it all out. D had brought over a FL DOT map that showed where we had been, and figured out our 9 1/2 mile trip was more like 13. Remember I said we put in at 10:30? Well, we had hauled out, totally exhausted at 3:30 p.m.

What a day!

Paddling

As much as I love fishing, I've now discovered a new passion: kayaking. I'd had a canoe before and had enjoyed paddling around in it. A couple of months ago I traded it for two kayaks, an 11'6" model to tool around in and a 12-footer that's broad of beam from which to fish. Yep. One canoe turned into two kayaks. I've never traded horses, but so far I've done well with boats.

One thing I learned very quickly is that there are far more recreational kayakers out there than canoers. So, there's a whole new group of people to meet and splash about with. Speaking of splashing.... I went on a trip on the Wacissa River to see the blue springs with my friend and co-worker J -- who already knew how to paddle. I didn't. So, I had the paddle upside down and was nowhere near correct form while I was chasing away any water critter that could feel flailing vibrations or hear my poor attempts at paddling. I was beating the river, but it really beat me.

It went like this: We put in together and immediately started a conversation about the animals we were seeing along the banks. It didn't take long for J to leave me in the spray while I tried to figure out what to do. It got so bad I almost decided to trade both of the kayaks for a jonboat! But, a cooler head prevailed.

We got off the well-traveled part of the river and into a side creek where J spooked a white-tail and, later, a 'gator that was basking in the doppled sunlight that filtered through the canopy. After some hard paddling and near-poling, we were rewarded with a smaller blue spring that was devoid of humans. Let me tell you what this was like. The water is crystal clear. One is tempted to stick one's head in and drink deeply of its 68 DF purity. The algae growing here is an aqua-marine color that defies description. It's not uncommon to be able to see down 35-40 feet. Fish that live there will school up under the kayaks for shade and protection. We came up on an alligator turtle that was far too large to fit in my kitchen sink. Its head was almost six inches long!

But, on a recent trip to the Waculla River, J and I were treated to the sight of a manatee. On the bottom it looked for all the world like a big blob of modeling clay. But, it moved as it grazed, and I could see the scars on its back from the propeller it had unfortunately found one day. Then, it surfaced to breathe. I've not been more excited to see a killer whale within arm's reach of my boat than I was to watch this gentle creature break the surface and breathe. God talked to me at that moment and told me how insignificant I am in the grand scheme of things.

Alas, lightning and the Society of the Crimson Napes drove us off the river for the day. This gave me pause for thought -- and I'm not saying this just because I have a kayak. But, why in the world do we allow motorized boats on rivers that are home to slow-moving, docile, unsuspecting creatures like manatees? As we pulled out we saw a jet ski lowered into the water at the ramp. The most beautiful sound of the day accompanied it as the owner tried unsuccessfully to get it started. I could only imagine the consequences of its hitting that beautiful manatee just upriver from us. WE NEED TO GET RIGHTEOUSLY INDIGNANT ABOUT THIS. So, is the paddling lobby that much tinier than the outboard motor industry's lobby?

Food for thought.

Catch and Release

A debate is raging among fishermen about the fate of fish caught for sport. What should happen to them after they're snagged, played, landed and photographed? Do we break their backs and throw them up on the bank or remove the hook as gently as possible and release them back into their element? Well, it depends on who you talk to.

A lot of fishers contend that once the fish has been landed it is permanently injured. They take into consideration the damage the hook does and how spent the fish usually is after giving the angler such a good fight. They even argue that by the mere act of touching them, we sear the oils and goo off their skins that protect them, leaving them vulnerable to most anything an ichthyologist can imagine. They have a point. And just think of the concept of the treble hook.

On the other hand, there are those who believe a good fighter should be allowed to reproduce. Even though the fish are spent at the end of the fight and have a rip in their jaws, lips or worse, the angler who releases them believes he is helping the species to survive. As a small child I asked my dad about that. I know he knew better (He held a master's degree in the 1950s), but he had to answer me, a five-year old curious boy in a way that I understood. He asked me if I had ever heard a fish scream. When I answered in the negative, he nodded his head and told me if it didn't scream, it didn't hurt.

So now I have to extrapolate that argument to life. I have not been at this writing for about a month now because I moved out of my home, leaving my wife in charge of our house and its well-being. There are big reasons for doing so that do not need airing in this venue, but, strangely, it has had a positive impact on both of us.

My friends ask me if women in my life are 'catch and release.' It surely seems to be that way. In aggregate I have close to 30 years of marriage. But, it's not to the same woman. Hell, it's not even to the same couple of women. So, I must be practicing catch and release.

But, unlike fish, my wives all have vocal chords; they have emotions. This combination allows them to scream and cry. So, please don't try to tell me that taking the hook out doesn't hurt. Or they'll get over it even if they swallowed all the bait and are hooked deep inside. Sure, they will live, but they'll be scarred and hurt for life everywhere I touched them -- even if my touching at the time was with good intentions.

So now with all this pent-up emotion inside me, I must go fishing to get my heart rate back to normal. I doubt I'll bring any home. Ironic, huh?

Cold Water and Trout

Since I'm going to see my old friend Charlie this week, I thought it best to tell about our fishing trips along the Tallulah River in north Georgia during the late 1960s. Those were carefree days in that time when car and house doors weren't locked at night and everybody's momma looked after everybody's kids. Those days are so long gone....

Anyway, Charlie's family bought a rustic cabin on Lake Burton near Clayton, Georgia. It was a two bedroom, no bath number with a huge room that served as living room, dining room and kitchen. The living room was dominated by a massive stone fireplace made from local stone hand carried from nearby streams. Its mantel was a split log so big it was supported by what looked like the ends of two power poles. When we went there, which was almost every weekend, the family shared the bedrooms and I slept in a bunk built into the living room. It was all cozy, and I felt like a member of his family.

Outside a steep hill fell away from the house to the driveway and little goat path that ran around the lake. It was this hill in later years that we pushed, shoved and cajoled a cast iron bathtub up when it came time to add indoor plumbing to the house. I remember being on the downhill side of that tub praying to God that Charlie, his dad and two brothers wouldn't let go. It wouldn't have taken much for that tub to flatten me as it picked up gravitational aided speed! But they held, and we got it successfully into the cabin.

As nice as that cabin was, Charlie and I preferred to sleep in a tent alongside the river. Our spot of choice was the Tate Branch of the Tallulah River near the community of Persimmon. It was primitive camping, but we didn't care. We'd explore the river on foot, usually walking and jumping from rock to rock for hours each day. Our imaginations ran as wild as the river so we fought imaginary battles, rescued damsels and were generally heroes to and for each other. It was the perfect idyllic setting for two boys to play in. Of course, it was dangerous as hell, but we didn't give that any thought at all.

When it was eating time we'd do one of three things. Since it was such a truck into town, we'd go back to the cabin or 'drop in' on Ma Kilby at Wellborn's store or catch our meal and eat it there. If we went to the cabin Charlie's mother would load us down with some of the world's finest food (It was there I learned to eat onion rings, but that's another story), and in return we performed some chores around the house. If we went to Ma Kilby's she fed us 'till we couldn't move and would send some more off with us. She wouldn't take money or chores from us, so we really liked going to her place. If we stayed on the river, we ate trout and whatever we brought along.

Back then we called it catching instead of fishing. That's because the hatchery at Moccasin Creek would run a tanker truck along the river very slowly while a ranger stood atop it dipping trout out of the water inside and tossing them out by the netfulls into the river. CB radios would start hummin' as soon as the truck left the hatchery, letting everybody know the fish truck was on its way. It would have probably been more sporting had we tried to catch them in the air, because these fish were raised on pellet food. We fished with niblets corn that looked like the pellets (If you got hungry while you were fishing, just grab a handfull of bait!). It didn't take much for them to hit the bait and begin their journey to our frying pan. It's because of this I didn't catch my first wild trout until I went to Montana.

But that wasn't the coolest part. The coolest part was breakfast. Before the days of fancy mesh gear bags we'd bring our perishable foods to the river in an old orange sack or onion bag. These were flimsy mesh bags that we'd stuff with bacon, condiments, sandwich meats and above all eggs. Now the water was cold. I mean cold. It didn't take but a few minutes of wading in it for my feet to go numb -- and that was in July. So it was effective at keeping our food chilled.

But it had another, more interesting effect on eggs. It congealed them. That's right; the eggs in the morning were as solid as boiled eggs, but raw. So we started a new game: Which one of us could peel a raw egg before it began to run? Of course this was played out over the frying pan, but it was fun just the same. I don't think we ever made it all the way, as our body heat worked against us, but we had a blast doing it. Of course, none of our friends back home believed us, but we never brought them along to see. Something like that was saved for best friends to share.