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?