Ahhhh......

As I sit basking in front of a blazing computer screen, I have a choice to make. For our weekly chat, should I present timely and useful information (for the first time) to help us cope with the horrid weather, or do I escape into the mists of time, reminiscing of memorable fishing trips from long ago? I think I’ll do the responsible thing…

The salty air hung heavy like a barber towel, saturated with the aroma of fish, rotting salt marsh and creosote. A steady wind came from the ocean, providing periodic but insignificant relief from the oppressive southern humidity. Not that it mattered anyway, because it was time to fish.

Granted a two-hour reprieve from family obligations, I left our unremarkable condominium and drove to a long, low bridge over the Intercoastal Waterway. I first noticed the bridge while driving the family to yet another of the 42,000 tourist attractions that must be visited during a one-week tour of duty in Florida. The bridge was like most other coastal spans except there was a wooden walkway beside the road, crying to out to a visiting fisherman like a Siren to the ancient mariners.

Parking in the small sand lot at the landward side, I shut off the engine and listened to it gurgle and die then stepped into the glare of the summer blast furnace. Grabbing the travel rod that had been carefully concealed under the spare tire before leaving home, I slowly strolled out onto the bridge. It was 2 p.m., time for mad dogs and Englishmen to be cavorting under the sun while their families took a siesta in a dark and air-conditioned concrete high rise. The sun flared in the Prussian blue sky and even the ever-present gulls hung wilted on the bridge railing. The heat was a physical presence, like the wind and the blue-gray water that swirled around the pilings as gravity pulled the bay full of life back temporarily to the sea.

While slowly sauntering on the walkway, I saw that the tar was oozing from the weathered boards underfoot as I realized how alien the entire tableau seemed to a corn-fed bass angler. It takes judgment, developed by experience, to decide how and where to catch fish and I had little saltwater experience. Failing local knowledge, I decided to rely on the time-tested technique of traveling anglers everywhere: watch one of the locals.

The board walk was dotted with a few fishermen, most of whom didn’t seem too savory or successful Observing the collection of anglers, I noticed an older fellow who held a battered discount-store fly rod with a spin cast reel hung underneath by electrical tape. He was different from the other, better-equipped fishermen mainly because he was catching fish, big silvery sea trout.

It required patience and good stalking skills to creep close enough and observe his technique while still seeming oblivious. His rig and tactics were simple; with one exception, he would not be out of place catching bluegill from an Indiana farm pond. The secret was a medium-sized live shrimp dangled below a bobber.

After making this discovery, I gathered my gear and walked back to the car. Inside it was unbelievably hot and the upholstery gave off a faint burnt smell as the first cool waves from the dash vents fought ineffectually against the heat build-up.

The bait store was just a block from the causeway. As I entered, the leathery-skinned owner was laughing on the phone then hung up to wait on his only customer. His accent made it seem likely that he was retired from New England and had bought a bait shop as a retirement nest egg. With sufficient humility on my part, he gave me a few tips on the finer points of the game and I left the store with a new Styrofoam bucket full of potential appetizers and returned to the now vacant pier.

For the one of the few times in my angling career, things were indeed as simple as they appeared. I stood alone squinting into an afternoon sun the color of freshly turned brass and pulled heavy trout from around the bridge piers as if I actually possessed a modicum of skill. Two dolphin even stopped by to chat for a few moments.

That evening, the table was piled high with crispy fillets, shrimp purchased right off the dock and even three blue crabs that were foolish enough to attack a sumptuous meal of chicken necks tied inside a drop net. Setting on the balcony later that night, feeling almost like a character in a Jimmy Buffett ballad, I fell asleep watching the sea disappear toward Cuba in the moonlight.

The preceeding message was brought to you by the Society for the Relief of Cabin Fever.

-30-

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