Once again it is almost June. It is amazing how this happens every year at the same time. The grass is almost five feet high in most parts. The wind ripples through it in waves, an ocean of grass hay. It is a really beautiful time of year here. The fresh scent of earth, grass and sky permeates everything. For the last three years I have cut and baled the hay. This year I will let it go to seed. This is a permanent pasture, never having been tilled and is getting to be a rare thing these days.
Inside the shop sleeps Theresa. My ongoing build of the classic wooden yawl, so beautifully designed by Albert Strange in 1913. The form molds are all positioned and the ribbands are the next step. However, for now, she is doing what she does, dreaming whatever she dreams, awaiting my return. For I am not there. Every so often, it happens more frequently these days it seems, I get an irresponsible itch to grab whatever tackle is close at hand and go off on an extended fishing trip. The cause of this reoccurring affliction is never at first obvious and usually not apparent until I once again find myself knee deep in salt water. At some point on my first day, I had the necessary epiphany. Too much routine. Half a day in the field and half in the shop. Field, shop, field, shop. This retired life is pure hell. There’s just too much structure. So having had enough of this, I snatched up my fishing bag and a couple of favorite rods and headed to my old stomping grounds as a kid, the northwest coast of Florida. I know… I know fishing is not boat building, but sometimes one has to reconnect. It couldn’t be helped, had to be done. I’ve punched out.
The area from about St George Island south through Apalachee bay is called the Forgotten Coast. The coast south of here to about Crystal River should be called the Never Found Coast. There is almost no way to get here but by boat. Much of the land, if you can call it land is tidal, hundreds of square miles of tidal marsh and swamp. The explosive crash of an alligator leaping from a bank, the call of a pileated woodpecker is thrilling but between the thrumming cicadas and a single mosquito is a primal silence that is almost religious. This area is little changed from when I fished it as a kid in the mid 60s. It is the least populated part of Florida and if you stay away from Crystal River and Steinhatchee you will pretty much be alone with only an occasional shrimper or a boat or two. People don’t come here for the beaches as it is a fairly inhospitable place. Which suits me perfectly. It is the edge of civilization, still primeval, quiet, away from packs of giggling girls with their phones, out of range for jet skis, the destroyers of peace and silence.
Closer to the Gulf is a maze of sloughs and islands extending 200 miles or more. These islands are a paradise of an ecosystem. One can wade for miles across shallow flats towing a kayak behind and cast to large game fish such as reds (red drum), specks (speckled trout, but not really trout), jack crevalle, and occasionally, snook and tarpon. My Dad and I spent countless days exploring this area and doing just that. Those were the days before kayaks were popular, however. We fished with light spinning rods and flyrods. My old Mitchell 401 reel and my seven foot fiberglass Diawa were state of the art in those days and they gave a feel that is not matched, in my opinion, by any rod these days. I’m not saying they were better, certainly not, just different. And it felt right to handle these rods, (whatever that means). My flyrod, however, is a different story. My #9 weight Loomis or my St Croix is very different and in every way superior to my old whippy #8 South Bend which I fished with until I was in my 40s.
I have a compendium of memories about this place and they mostly all revolve around my dad. We came by boat out of Mobile Bay or trailered a boat. We fished from the boat or anchored and waded. Once we sailed a Cheoy Lee sloop, a boat that belonged to a friend of Dad’s. Our course was a long leg Southeast out of Mobile Bay. Then East to The Big Bend area and then we worked our way north and south along the coast. This is where I learned to love night watches. Ghosting along at two knots refusing to start the engine, the sea around us ablaze with phosphorescence. The glow of Pensacola far behind us, the brilliance of the night sky encouraging revelation after revelation about life, the world, my future and every manor of earth-shattering cognition possible to a kid not even out of high school. It was my watch and this was where I belonged. Dad came on deck about midnight to see if I was okay. I was well beyond okay. I never wanted this to end. Dad stayed in the cockpit for a while and we talked, not about college (thank heaven) and he didn’t give me any instructions, to my astonishment. We talked about regular stuff, just as if we were two regular people, not as father-son. Then he went below saying “see you in a couple of hours.” We had no jack line rigged. I wasn’t clipped in. And I had no life jacket on. But there were two guys below sleeping and the boat was mine. Perhaps these were the days when responsibility and common sense, (or luck) prevailed. I was fifteen, my future was hot and I was on fire.
To wade in areas like this you must learn a certain dance called the stingray shuffle to avoid a catastrophic encounter. Stepping on one of these will put you in serious trouble. There are also sharks, sometimes big bull sharks, which patrol the cuts between islands and they will come up on the flats if you are carrying fish. These are not really dangers they are just things to know. The life here is amazing. As I walk there are schools of small fish everywhere, small crabs, snails, conches. Birds are diving and soaring, ospreys, eagles, pelicans, anhingas and skimmers. My Dad taught me all of this, as all dads should. I suppose his dad, my grandfather, taught him. And I have taught my kids as best I could. We fished side by side hundreds of times. Sometimes I look to my left and I can see him, sunglasses down, tying a knot. Sometimes I see him there in the dark of the cockpit, a vision of his past, a vision of my future. In an intuitive leap I think I understand it now. This must be the thread that bonds father to son generation after generation. He sees me as his past. I see him as my future. And that look is always there. A look that says, “better get moving, finish something”. This Father’s Day will be 17 years since our last fishing trip but the visions never quit. There’s no point in saying one more time how much I appreciate all that we did. He already knows. As all fathers do.
As I look around, I think I’ve got time for a few more casts. I tie on a red and white Mirrolure, Dad’s favorite, to give it a try. Then I’ll have to get going.
I’ve got a lot to finish.
Dave Ahrens,
