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.

My Friend

Have you ever had one of those special people in your life who has helped you in immeasurable and intangible ways to grow up? I have, and his name is Dillard Kilby. He was from the small north Georgia community of Persimmon, just outside of Clayton near Lake Burton. When I was a teenager singing Handel's Messiah for the first time, I had to stand on a stack of hymn books so I wouldn't appear as small as I really was next to Dillard. When the books began to slide (which they did because I can't stand still while singing) Dillard would reach over and grab a handful of my shirt or choir robe and slowly pull me back to the upright position.

His family was in the original Foxfire books (Wellborns and Kilbys), famous for such arcane things as inventing the FIRST steerable car headlights for the winding mountain roads. Tucker takes the credit, but Grandpa Wellborn did it. He also enjoyed making banjos out of most anything, most notably pie tins and cigar boxes.

Dillard spent a lot of time mentoring me through my teens. Dad always said he got me from puberty to adultery! He'd take me into the mountains to meet his family and eat copious amounts of food with them and drink homemade moonshine with them from worm buckets and Mason jars. He let Charlie and me hunt squirrels on his land, and he spent an inordinate amount of time and energy pushing his daughter towards me. Lucky for her it didn't take.

He moved his wife to North Carolina and built a log cabin for the both of them. He built it. By hand. Dillard was that kind of fella. And knowing him, it was built well enough to last for a very long time.

Well, my best old friend Charlie e-mailed me today to let me know Dillard had died. I wept. Not for any suffering that may have come Dillard's way, but for the times I could have had with him but didn't. There'd always be next week. Well, next week has come and gone, and all I have left of him are some Christmas cards, pictures and memories of a true friend who had nothing but my best interest at heart.

That's why I called Charlie. I just couldn't let that happen to us, so we made plans for me to go see him and fish for a while the week after Easter. It's only week-after-next, but it feels like forever away. That's cause I really need to see my old friend. For both our sakes.

Smellin' Fishes

Pretty, isn't it? Doesn't it look a picture that should hang in an art gallery or a private collection? Well, it does belong in a private collection -- mine. See? This is a molecular picture of cholesterol, the same kind that got my attention earlier this week. That's because I got to a point where I couldn't catch my breath after the mildest of exertions. No, there weren't any other of the classic heart attack symptoms: no pain radiating down my arm and jaw, nausea, pressure on my chest or chest pains. I just couldn't catch my breath.

So, I went to my doctor who is also my friend to 'see what condition my condition was in.' It was the first time we've fought, and it was over whether I could drive the two blocks to the hospital or ride the meat wagon. I drove, taking an envelope full of nasty things about the inside of my body to the admitting person. Turns out I know her niece, so we hit it off just fine (good thing this niece was in her good graces). In the meantime I let slip what I was doing, and the phone started to ring. A lot of folks were wishing me well, but my good friend, SC, spoke the important ones that helped me to get through the next day or so.

Others called my buddy, Elf, who had my phone. He kept the world informed, especially Bob. That was most important to me that Bob was kept apprised. When I called Fishing Buddy Charles, he asked if he should come to see me. I said 'No' pretty emphatically. I had just settled in to the room when he arrived with Dr. Fahrenheit (because she holds so many degrees) in tow. Since Elf was already there, the party fell into full swing. We laughed and made general horses behinds of ourselves until everybody's cheeks were hurting from smiling and laughing. They are all good, special friends.

But, that's not what I'm here to talk about. The heart cath found some blockage that, although small, was significant enough to affect my breathing. That's what got me to thinking. Not only is life short, it's fragile. There are so many things that can go wrong in a human body, it's a miracle we keep going at all. That's when I figured out a few truths:

• I don't have enough time on this earth to sweat the small stuff.
• I need to love hard the ones I love and cut the wannabees loose.
• I shouldn't have to put up with the life I'm living now.
• I need to slow down and smell the fishes.

So, that's what this is all about. Life should be about watching bobbers getting pulled under water. Life should be about a fly hitting the water before its line and totally fooling a bass. Life should be about lazy hours in a boat on the water, whether a fish is caught or not. Life should be about making red wrigglers live up to their name while impaled on a hook. Life should be about a trout, lightly breaded with cornmeal, sharing a plate with wild rice and asparagus. Life should be about sparkling eyes that hold all the promise in the world that can still be seen when two cheeks are touching.

That's what life should be. It should not be all the crap and drama that we live with daily. There oughta be a law that everybody has to fish at least two hours a day. That same law should make it a crime to give up the location of a sweet spot, and the fisherman shouldn't be allowed to tell the truth about how many he caught.

And everybody needs to have the time to stop and smell the fishes. Thanks, Charles for teaching me that.

Why I Don't Hunt

Back in the 1950s every boy in south Georgia pretended he could shoot like The Rifleman. My across-the-street-neighbor, Bobby, and I were no exceptions. We rode our 'horses' made of a stick and string for reins all over the neighborhood 'shooting' each other with stick guns and worn out toy rifles. In the back of our minds we knew our dads would someday teach us how to do the real thing.

Most of us started out our real gun experience with BB guns, mine being a Daisy pump model. Bobby had a Daisy that was a replica of a cocking repeating rifle. In the movies and on our TV, that had only one station with all three networks on it, I always saw guns that looked like Bobby's. Nobody had a pump action model whether he wore a white hat or not. So, I felt a little slighted. That is until I found out I could hit targets farther away than Bobby's gun could reach. Dad knew what he was doing.

But, I shot a .22 before I was big enough to handle a BB gun, and this is how it happened. One day Bobby's dad took us out to his business that we always called 'The Place.' It had a real and legal name, but we didn't bother with that. In any other venue it would have been called an abbotoir; In south Georgia it was a slaughterhouse. That day we had a cow to kill.

Bobby's dad called me over to where he was squatting, holding his .22 rifle. He held it while I aimed and pulled the trigger. All that hamburger on the hoof never knew what hit it. I was so proud of myself. As a reward, Bobby's dad told me I could go watch the hog butchering. What a treat!

If you've never seen a hog butchered, you're in for quite a show. I wasn't so interested in the blood and guts as I was the machine that removes the hair or bristle from the hog. The workers first dip the dead hog in scalding water. Using a hoist, they pick it up from its bath and drop it on a machine that constantly rolls the hog. When its legs came around the hog 'jumps' into the air and is caught by the machine accompanied by the squeals of delight from a 5-year old boy. Pleasures were simple for me over 50 years ago...

But that's not what this story is about. While I was growing up Dad would tell me stories of the Winchester Man, a travelling salesman for the Winchester Rifle Company, coming to town when Dad was my age. Once he'd gathered a crowd he'd toss steel lug nuts into the air and shoot them. Dad could hear the shot and the bullet ricochet off the nut. When he did miss, the Winchester Man would say, "I must have shot through the center!" Who was going to argue with a proven good shot?

I wanted to shoot like that, and in my boy's mind I thought I could learn it in an afternoon. Dad took me to a secluded spot and taught me to hold the stock tightly against my shoulder, position the bead on the end of the barrel into the 'V' of the sight, to let my breath out slowly and to squeeze the trigger. That was also the day I found out it takes boxes and boxes of shells just to get up to mediocre status.

The real fun came when Dad introduced me to shotguns. Because they shoot multiple pellets that spread out as they leave the barrel, shotguns resemble today's cameras: point and shoot. If the gun is aimed in the general direction of the target at least a pellet or two will find its mark. I had found my weapon of choice -- a single shot breakaway 410 gauge. I was an official hunter now.

I begged Dad to take me quail hunting. Now, those of you who remember your first quail hunt know what's coming. Did I mention we didn't have a pointer (bird dog) or access to one? The only thing I noticed different about our hunt from what other boys had told me was Dad didn't bring his shotgun. When I asked him about this he replied, "It's your hunt." He knew what I didn't.

We walked, stomped and shuffled through the woods that one of Dad's friends owned. The palmettos were about two-thirds my height, and there was plenty of underbrush for me to fight and for quail to use as cover. We were stomping around when all of a sudden I stepped into the middle of a covey. They came up all around me, feeling almost like they were flying up my pants legs!

Did I mention Dad knew something I didn't? It was just as he envisioned it:

• The quail went one way.
• I went the other way.
• My shotgun went yet another way.

Dad's job that day was to catch my gun before it hit the ground. He did it perfectly, sat down and started to laugh. It wasn't a derisive laugh (like I get from my wife), but it was infectious. Duly chastised I finally began to laugh with him. But the day was not a total loss, as we finished the day with a pocketful of birds because I got lucky a few times and a handful of stories.

Dad's gone now; he died at 94. Whenever I think of him (which is often and daily) I remember some of the lessons he taught me that helped me to become a man. Not the least of these was, "Never go quail hunting without a dog!"

Thanks, Dad. I'll stick to fishing.

Hammerheads and Oysters

Like I said last week, fishing with Uncle Lester was a real trip. On one of our trips to see them Dad and Unc went out alone while Ron introduced me to the game of golf (and I've not forgiven him yet). They repeated the rituals of the day before and of procuring bait. I don't know if Unc took his 'extra bucket' along, and I surely didn't ask. They added something different this time by taking along a couple of oyster rakes.

Dad said they settled into fishing and chumming (throwing chunks of fish overboard to attract predatory fish) while talking and having a good time together. One topic led to another, and soon they were swapping fishing lies, making each other laugh and generally enjoying each other's company. Such was their relationship.

While all this was going on they were catching fish. They pulled in a couple of mackerel that they tied with a rope to the gunwale. Their heads were in the water with most of their bodies high and dry. They were at the mouth of the St. Johns, so they had a shot at passing ocean fish as well as fish in the river. Those were the days when you didn't have to go offshore to find game fish like mackerel. But now, they were in a groove; they caught a lot and kept some. If the fish weren't big enough to feed at least four adults, they released them, so what was left was of pretty good size.

Here's where the story gets a bit muddled. It seems as though after they had three or four good-sized keepers tied to the gunwale, the blood in the water caught the attention of a hammerhead shark cruising nearby. Pretty soon it shot past the boat, taking a hunk of mackerel with it. Dad and Unc were stunned. They went to trying desperately to untie the fish from the cleats on the side of the boat before the shark came back for another round of sushi.

They weren't fast enough, though. The shark came back and took hold of one of their fish and, instead of biting off a chunk, it started diving with its mouth full. This caused the boat to nearly flip over (Did I mention Dad said this shark was nearly as long as our 1961 Chevrolet Impala?). Unc did the only thing he could do. He grabbed the hatchet he carried (for whacking sharks he'd caught on the head) and cut the line, leaving a big gouge in the side of the boat. The shark left with his meal, rope trailing behind, and the boat righted itself so violently both men had to hold on to keep from getting thrown overboard. Neither of them wanted to be in the water with that shark so close.

Shaken, they called it quits for the day, as they had been able to salvage a couple of their catch to take home. Unc was upset about the damage to the boat while Dad was just glad they were still alive. But on their way back they passed Unc's favorite oyster bed. Determined to make a good day out of this, they stopped and raked a croaker sack full of oysters. Now their spirits were higher.

On they came home where we were treated to multiple tellings (and versions) of the shark story. But we helped clean the fish and got the charcoal going. Soon the neighbors started showing up, and a full-on party was under way. They brought out the oysters to the delight of almost everyone (Ron and I thought that anything that looked like it belonged in our noses didn't belong on our plates.). That's when the real Unc showed up.

He went up to one of his neighbors with a fresh oyster and bet him $5.00 he couldn't eat it and keep it down for three minutes. Now, this guy had already knocked back almost a dozen of the slimy critters, so he took the bet, and down the hatch it went. Unc stood there and watched the man. The neighbor watched Unc. Finally, Unc said OK, you win, 'cause you're the third man that's eaten that oyster today. Uuurrpp!! Up came the oyster, and Unc got his five bucks.

At least that's the way Dad and Uncle Lester always told it.....

Fishing With Unc

Not all my fishing has been the fresh water fly variety. In my youth Dad and I went ocean fishing every Christmas with Dad's brother-in-law, my Uncle Lester. He was married to Mom's sister, Aunt Grace and was mom to my cousin, Ron. Dad and Unc were best of friends, visiting each other often and always playing pranks on each other.

On one of these trips to see them in Jacksonville, Florida Unc took us king mackerel fishing off the St. Johns River. I soon found out that this was a different type of fishing just in the preparation it took. When Dad and I would go to a local pond, we might take a sandwich or crackers and maybe soft drinks. Not so for ocean fishing. The night before we fueled the boat and packed a cooler with snacks, sandwiches and soft drinks, as the next day's tides required us to leave before daylight. Uncle Lester went through his checklist:

• Food
• Water/soft drinks
• Rods/reels/rigs
• Paddle
• Life jackets
• Extra coolers for fish we catch
• Bait bucket
• Extra 5-gallon bucket
• Old newspaper

With everything pronounced ready and in the boat, off we went -- Dad, Unc, Ron and me. Ron and I had worked ourselves into fever pitch by the time we pulled out of the driveway. Ron and I were as good friends as Dad and Unc were, doing everything together we could on each visit. This included but was not limited to playing baseball, getting into trouble and fishing.

Anyway, off we went in dawn's early light. We put in the river at an old fish camp that had seen better days in the 1930s and '40s near Mayport and headed for the mouth of the river. On the way out we passed the biggest ship I'd ever seen that Unc called 'Connie.' It wasn't until years later when I was in the navy that I'd get to know the aircraft carrier Constellation. He ran us in real close so we were under the curvature of her bow looking up at the massive anchor. Before we were out of her lee, I knew I'd be a sailor one day.

Then we ran out to find a shrimp boat. After locating just the perfect one, Unc passed up to it our bait bucket with a five dollar bill inside. Back it came minus the five dollars but full of by-catch from the shrimp nets. Now we're ready, I thought.

But I was wrong. We had to find sea birds feeding now. They fed on small fish the were chased up to the surface by larger predatory fish. Fish we were after. After sighting the birds, off we went towards them. Dad drove while Unc rigged and baited our hooks. Finally, we got to fish.

We threw out our lines and began the age-old ritual of waiting for a bite. Ron and Dad and I were fishing. Remember the extra bucket and newspaper? Well, Unc was carefully lining that bucket with paper. Afterwards he went to the bow of the boat, dropped his pants, sat on the bucket and proceeded with his daily constitutional.

By now the unanchored boat had settled itself into the swells, wallowing back and forth (port and starboard) every time a wave passed beneath us. Then the wind shifted, and we got a whiff of what Unc was doing. Ron and I started gagging. Pretty soon we were engaged in full-on barfing, one of us on each side of the outboard motor. Dad was laughing near to tears, and Unc laughed so hard he nearly fell off his bucket!

Finally he finished, as did we. Unc cleaned his bucket with seawater (all the while explaining its contents will go into the eco-system) and we quit chumming and went to fishing. Now I don't remember who caught what, but I do remember catching one mackerel. It was far larger than anything I'd ever caught in a pond, so I thought it was huge. It probably wasn't as mackerel go. At day's end we had caught enough to feed us and the next door neighbors that night.

That's a day that neither Dad nor Uncle Lester ever let Ron and me live down. Although it started out pretty crappy (as it were), the day ended by all of us having fun on the water while fishing.

Maybe next time I'll tell you about Dad and Unc raking oysters, fishing and losing their catch to a hammerhead.

Showoff!

And then there's the time the fishing got in the way of showing off. Dad and I were at a small Baptist retreat in the mountains of north Georgia perched on the shores of a beautiful mountain lake named Lake Louise. I was in my mid-teens, so I don't remember whether the lake was stocked. But, there were fish in it.

I know this because I know a lot about Dad. Dad loved to fish. He carried tackle always in the the trunk of the car. When he received a call to pastor a church, he'd always go to the town to check out the fishing and availability of fishing buddies first. He figured if God wanted him there, He'd provide fish for Dad to catch. Shoot, when Dad went to the bathroom for any length of time he'd take a repairable piece of tackle with him. And, he didn't like to fish unless he knew there were fish there to catch. So, when Dad said, "Let's go fishing" that day I knew I'd get to do more than just wet a hook.

Lake Louise is big; in fact it's too big to work the shoreline in just one day. So Dad set out to find us a boat. The retreat had lots of canoes, but no fishing boats. Since Dad a a little pull at the Baptist Convention level, a jonboat appeared for him.

For you yankees, foreigners or both, a jonboat is larger than a canoe, flat-bottomed and usually made of aluminum. Unless you stumble upon a new one, it will be dented and scratched -- generally beat up. It may even have a patch or two on it. This boat was no exception. It had started its life shiny and green, a green caught somewhere between John Deere and Kelly. But that had been a long time ago. Now it was mostly the color of dented and skint aluminum, its paint scratched off by untold encounters with trailers, pickup truck beds, stumps and branches too numerous to count. There even looked to be a couple of patched bullet holes in its bow (snake in the boat?).

Few boats are complete without a motor. This one came with a fairly new-looking fuel tank and hose that was firmly attached to a 10-horse Evinrude that looked as if it had been the auxiliary propulsion system for the Ark. There was no shroud, so we got to hear every noise it made. That also meant we had to manually wind the starter pull rope around the starter every time we pulled it -- that is after we found it lying on the bottom of the boat underneath the fuel tank. Bottom line, though, it ran. It moved the boat through the water out into the lake and away from the bank.

We found a promising looking cove and started to cast. Our flies were the type that enticed either bass or bream, so we felt pretty certain we'd catch fish that day. That's when the trouble started. We were just outside the range to make the fly look as if it had just fallen off a branch into the water. So, Dad asked if I needed the boat closer to the bank. Wrong question to ask a teenager with an ego. I promptly replied that I could handle it by feeding more line on each cast. Dad started to do the same. After a few casts, we had some serious line in the water. Pretty soon Dad said, " See that branch hanging next to that stump? I'm gonna lay my fly right under the branch." Which he promptly did. He raised the tip of the rod, gave it a little flick and forcefully brought the tip back to the 2:00 o'clock position. Without hesitation he cocked his arm over to the right, making it parallel to the water, and flipped the rod tip back to 10:00 o'clock.

It was poetry in motion. It was the perfect balance between man, rod, line and fly. At that moment my dad was the Monet of fly fishing. By placing that fly in the exact spot so far away from the boat, Dad presented the perfect lure to any waiting fish. Unbeknownst to him, he'd also thrown down the gauntlet in front of me.

With a circular motion I executed a near flawless 'pig-tail pickup' with my fly. Doing this can sometimes cause a fish to lunge out of the water to catch the fly as it rises. Not today. I desperately stripped line in the backswing and let it 'shoot' through the rod when my tip went back to 10:00 o'clock. But I was on the other end of the boat, so I had to make both my swings across my chest, making my cast a left-handed one but using my right hand. My fly landed within two feet of Dad's. Luckiest cast I've ever made in my life. Dad let out a whoop to encourage me, but one look from him let me know I was in for a contest.

We both knew that at the end of the day only one of us would have familial bragging rights. That set us both off; no challenge went unanswered. The flies were zipping past our heads on the backswing as we were finishing up our forward swings. Pretty soon we were both standing -- one at each end of the boat.

Did I mention we were in a jonboat? While we were busy trying to outdo each other, we didn't notice how much the boat was 'working.' The ends of the boat were twisting with each cast while the center stayed relatively calm. Remember those patches? It was only when we were ankle deep in water that we noticed something was amiss. But neither of us was willing to stop before the other. Our stubbornness and pride nearly sank us and the boat! Finally we looked at each other in mid-cast and called a truce.

But that's not the end of the story. In all this testosterone-crazed competition we were catching fish.... fish that were just getting in our way or slowing us down. We'd land them and either throw them back or just toss them on the floor of the boat. Well, now the fish had water and they were flippin' and floppin' and splashin' all over the boat.Oh, for a video of that moment!

Dad started the motor and I went to bailing. By the time we got back to the dock we had a relatively dry boat, a mess of fish and no clear-cut winner of the impromptu contest. Oh yeah, we fed a lot of folks fish that night.

Winter Story Telling

Another favorite winter pastime is telling fishing stories. Now you've got to know that a fisherman lies only when his lips are moving. But this is a story I told recently that really (my lips aren't moving) happened to my dad and me. We went fishing and landed a whopper, but neither of us caught it. This is how it happened.

You'd have never heard this story if I hadn't asked Dad to teach me how to fly fish. I wanted to learn mostly because fly fishing is a constantly moving work of art. Stand back and watch a fly fisherman work his rod and line and try to tell me it's not a thing of beauty! Well, I wanted to make this art, too.

Little did I know how much hard work and practice goes into learning to fly fish. The basics are a lot like this:

1. Hold the rod/reel in your dominant hand.
2. Strip out a few feet of line with your other hand.
3. Swing the rod at about eye level, ending each half of the swing at an imaginary 10:00 and 2:00 o'clock.
4. Strip out more line and feed it into the line that's going out in the 10 and 2 movement.
5. On the last swing, let all the stripped line out, hold the tip of the rod at 10:00 and allow the fly to daintily land on the water before the line does.

Sounds easy enough, doesn't it? Well, if you've ever tried it you know how agonizingly frustrating it can be.

Dad 'let' me work on this technique until I could consistently hit a ball cap he'd placed in the front yard about 20 feet from the driveway (where I was standing). I was not allowed to stand in the grass or get any closer to the hat. After about three years of this, he let me try my hand at fly fishing. Don't get me wrong. I was fishing all the time, but I was perfecting my bait casting and cane pole techniques while I waited.

Dad and I had gone to Blackmon's pond. Mr. Blackmon, who owned the pond, was family to me by extension. My best buddy, Charlie, was Mr. Blackmon's nephew. Since Charlie and I were inseparable, he became 'Uncle' to me.

Anyway, Dad and I went to Blackmon's pond for a hands-on lesson on the water. Even though I had practiced lo, these many years, I could still stand improvement in Dad's eyes. That was partly because I was using Dad's split bamboo rod his brother (my real uncle) had brought back from Japan after The War. You know, World War II. It was real limber and thus difficult to control. I just couldn't get the fly to drop first (refer to #5).

Well, I was tired and frustrated. My right arm hurt. Dad couldn't figure out why his excellent instruction hadn't produced a superb fisherman. We began sniping at each other as only a teenager and his father can. He jabbed; I parried. I jabbed; he parried.

Finally I just threw the rod down, proclaiming in my best teenager's angst, "Well, nobody's perfect!" Little did either of know the stars had just aligned, producing the only modern miracle (predating the '69 New York Mets' World Series win by five years). Everybody knows about the Mets because they did it for TV.

The rod lay on the ground. The fly lay on the water's surface, looking for all the world like a real bug. At least it did to one 3 1/2- to 4-pound largemouth bass. The fish came out of the water, mouth agape, swallowing the fly whole.

We both stood there dumbfounded as the fish raced away, taking up the slack line in the water. Did I mention the rod was a split bamboo number (irreplaceable) that had a reel on it that predated my ancient brother?

At the same time we both thought that thought. Dad lunged for the rod; the bass came out of the water and 'danced' on its tail; I ran for the car trunk that had the net in it, as we were using 2-pound test line. Luckily for me Dad caught the rod before it got to the water. He played the fish for a while and then insisted I land it. Almost reverently I took the rod that transferred every twitch the fish made to my hand, up my arm and to the part of my brain that true fishermen posses. Trust me ladies, compared to this feeling sex can be overrated. But that's mainly because the fish don't talk back and we can pretty much go fishing whenever we want. Dad scooped it up with the net as we both let out a whoop Mom might have heard back at the house.

This could have -- and should have-- been the end of the story. But it wasn't. Although Dad would have driven through town with this bass splayed across the hood of the car to show it off, we just took a picture of it and gently released it back into its home, free to fight us on another day. To this day I still don't know how much the fish weighed, but Dad swore the negative weighed two pounds!

But what really happened that day concerns our relationship. That was the day we bonded as men. Fishermen.

Dad's gone now. He lived until almost 94, and we talked about that day every time I saw him. We shared that father/son moment for many years. As an aside, I asked Dad for a motorcycle for my 15th birthday. Instead he gave me a hand-made Heddon rod that has that old reel he bought in the 1940s on it, killing fish even today.

Thanks, Dad.

Winter Rod Building

One of my favorite new things to do in the winter is to build rods. You might ask, "What's so much fun about building a fishing rod?" Well, I did and quickly found out there's an art form to it (which I have yet to master), quite a bit of tedium and whole lot of satisfaction.

Really good custom rod builders leave their touch on almost all aspects of the rod. They build the cork handles from small cork rings, wrap and epoxy the guides, but most of all they show off their skills in wrapping by making all manner of designs and colors in thread just above the handle. Me? I'm still learning to wrap the guides onto the rod blank so they will just stay on; fancy will come much later.

The tedium comes in the wrapping and aligning the guides. I wrap mine loosely enough so I can move them just a hair if they're not in alignment. So far, they've all had to be moved somewhat. Building a rod is a whole lot like learning a new language or how to play an instrument. The builder gets better and better with more practice.

The satisfaction comes from catching fish on a rod built with your own hands. Sure, I can get a whole outfit at Wal-Mart for less than I pay for a rod blank, but somehow the store-bought rod just isn't the same.

I'm just starting out, so I get my rods in kits. They come with a carbon blank, guides, handles and butts, glue, epoxy and thread. The first thing I do is find the rod's spine. This is accomplished by placing the butt on the floor and the tip in the palm of my hand. When I press on the tip, the rod bends and rotates until a beautiful little curve shows itself. The back side of the curve is the spine. I mark it and go to the next step.

Next, I ream the handle to fit the blank and wrap tape around the blank where the reel seat will mount. Then, I ream the cork foregrip to fit. Next, the blank is laid on the floor and positions of the guides are marked in wax pencil on it. I then glue and slip the handle on, then the reel seat and finally the foregrip. This is put in a homemade vice contraption designed to keep all the components aligned and tight until the glue dries.

After all this dries, I mount the rod on the rod supports and wrap the guides onto the spots specified by the wax pencil marks. This is what takes the longest, as I sometimes have to stop and start all over again, especially on the smallest of guides. The rod in the picture has six guides on it, and I had to wait for my binocular magnifier to arrive so I could see to finish the guides near the tip.

When all the previous steps are accomplished, I chuck the butt in a rotating vise and apply clear epoxy to the windings. This covers them and protects them from the elements as well as strengthens them for a lifetime of hauling fish from the water. After a day of drying, the rod is ready to accept a reel and head out to the local pond for testing. When it passes with flying colors (catches fish) I sign it and apply an American flag decal.

So far I've made spinning and casting rods for other people. My next one will be for me -- a travel fly rod. And I'll build it, too, if FBC lets me stay off the water long enough.

Looking For Lead In All The Wrong Places

Looking For Lead In All The Wrong Places

Fishing Buddy Charles, forever after referred to as FBC, called me yesterday to go hunting for lead. Not quite sure what he was up to, I went along. Actually we rode in my truck down to one of the busy streets here in town. We parked, got out and started walking the street slowly looking for wheel weights that had come off unsuspecting folks' cars. There were a lot of bare spots, but there were places especially near traffic lights that were a bonanza for us. In about an hour-and-a-half we filled a one-pound coffee can with weights and pieces of weights of all sizes. The mother lode was near the dumpster by the tire place (We should have looked there first!).

All our time was not spent looking for lead, though. We seemed to squeeze in a few fish stories that no one else would ever believe, and we found a couple of ponds that are downtown but can't be seen from the street. When it gets a little warmer we're going to check them out. Still bragging about the size lead weight we'd found, we stopped for a milk shake and puttered on home. I didn't give it much thought after that.

Well, today FBC came over and said, "Let's make an anchor for your kayak." Yes, I had traded my canoe, BOB, for two kayaks. So I followed him around the corner to his house where he'd already buried a soda can in the ground. Suspended by a pair of vise grips was an eye bolt that had various nuts and 'wings' attached to it. It was then bent out of shape so it wouldn't slip out under a strain. In another coffee can sitting on the ground were the weights we'd scavenged from the street. Around this can FBC built a fire. This was to be a melter, not a smelter.

Since it took a while for the fire to get hot enough to do its job, we stood around the fire warming ourselves and reliving yesterday's lead hunt. Finally FBC figured it was time. With a huge pair of well-worn and charred channel locks, he lifted the can from the fire and brought it over to the buried soda can. Gingerly he poured the molten lead into the can, filling it almost to the top. The excess he poured into a mold that made ingots. He pulled the extremely hot can from the ground to let it cool in the ambient temperature. While it cooled, he dropped the ingots in some water so I could inspect them (It gave me something to do with my hands for a while.)

After peeling off the remnants of the soda can, I had a brand new 9-pound kayak anchor! The only investments we had in it were our time, some scrap lumber used for firewood, an eye bolt and a soda can that had been scavenged from the trash. Now I'll have to buy some line (rope for you lubbers) and put a cleat on the kayak. FBC suggested I tie it around my leg in a hangman's noose. Very funny.

If you're wondering why I'm telling you all this, it's because there is a multitude of things to do to get ready for warmer fishing weather that doesn't involve cleaning and reloading reels. My favorite is hanging out with FBC. The anchor was just icing on the cake.

Winter

"Winter. Ugh! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!" My apologies to Edwin Starr. That's the song most fishermen sing when it's 'too cold' to go fishing. That doesn't count, of course, those hearty souls who drag a hut out onto a frozen river or lake, cut a hole in the ice and jig for whatever's got the energy to strike.

Those of us down south use this time for maintenance in much the same way a gardener pores over seed catalogs in February. I was brought up by an avid fisherman who spent his bleak days cleaning reels and loading newly waxed line and repairing chewed-up, well-used lures.

Here's how it would go: Dad would call me in from play on the appointed day. Funny. It was never too cold to go outside and play, but it got too cold to let me even near the water. I guess it was because I always found a way to get immersed -- or at least wet. Some days I'd come in and find the reels, tools and oil already spread out on an old, soft towel. Other times there'd be spools of line, wax and empty reels.

Cleaning reels was my favorite. Dad broke down the reels in 'exploded view' order. My job was to dab oil on a piece of old tee shirt and carefully -- no -- tenderly wipe them off, removing rust and lubricating moving parts. It was work for a pre-teen; actually it was tedious work. But, that wasn't the fun part.

We, Dad and I, filled up the time talking about fishing trips we'd taken that year. We'd tell and retell stories of getting on a bed of bream or discovering the lair of a particularly large bass. We'd talk and drink cocolas (Cokes for you yankees, foreigners or both), laugh 'till it hurt or even cry -- always wiping away each other's tears.

When we'd done all we could, Dad reassembled the reels and tested them. Only when they passed both our approvals would he declare them ready to fish. The two I remember best were an early 1940s Pflueger Supreme bait casting reel and his mid-1940s fly reel he bought from Reeder-MacGahee's. The bait caster sits on my shelf now, retired but still loaded with Dad's last bit of woven line. The fly reel, however, is loaded and screwed to the butt of my fly rod ready to help bring home supper.

Those were good times back then. Father and son fishermen bonded over shared experiences, becoming closer than best friends ever could. It's what made winter worthwhile.

Why We Fish

January 17, 2010 -- Way back when the early men carved hooks of bone, chased down prehistoric insects and impaled them on the hooks, fishing was an integral part of the survival of the human species. I can only imagine how the conversations went in caves all over the land:

"Where are you going now, Grog?"

"Fishing," he answered his mate, Brooda.

"Why do you have to go fishing now? The bones need taking out, the cave needs a good sweeping and the baby needs his grass changed," demanded Brooda.

"I'll be back back with supper if the tiger doesn't get me," said Grog, his eyes rolling and his step quickening to get out of the cave. He grabbed his stick with the sinew tied to one end and the hook to the other.

Flash forward to now:

"Where are you going, Honey?" asks Linda.

"Fishing," answers John as he loads his rods, reels, creels and assorted high-tech tackle into his 4-wheel drive.

"Why now?" whines Linda. "You know good and well my mother is coming tomorrow to stay for a week, and the grass needs mowing, the windows need washing and you promised to paint the guest room before she gets here."

"I'll be back later," John says. "And if I have anything to do with it, it'll be later," he mutters under his breath.

Throughout man's history, fishing has been a bone of contention between human mates. Men view it as a survival necessity, while women see it as an abandonment of duties and affections. Since it is both, I'm not about to step into that smelly goo of an argument. Instead, I'd like to tell you of some of my fishing adventures and misadventures, talk about gear and upkeep and maybe even show off a recipe or two that I've tried and enjoyed.

So, sit back and enjoy (I hope) as I reminisce a life full of the joys of fishing.

--RL