Into The River

Into the river. My life seems brighter. As the boat glides into the Little Manatee River, my spirit lifts with the diaphanous mist over Moby Bay. Blackened mackerel are on the palate. And they are back even though it’s been a very cold-hardened winter. So cold for so long that sea grapes have been bitten off at the roots and I fear many of them have not survived. There was also a record die-off of snook this year. The population seems crippled, but hopefully not as bad as everyone fears. Scientists say there is a difference between East Coast and West Coast snook and must be careful not to mix parent stock of the fry they release as this may also have a deleterious effect on the population. I have noticed, however, that cardinals are here in great numbers this year. I am sure it’s because the cold in the Carolinas has flushed them south. One morning I saw six pair of them dancing from the palm trees into and around the dead hibiscus bushes that now adorn my yard. Also dead sea grapes and snow-on-the-mountain. All reduced to sticks.

Into the river. I lay my rods on the deck as I creep under the Hwy 41, rusted-out train trestle, too low and too narrow for many to navigate. I cringe and hope I don’t hear the hull grind over something submerged. I glance to the north end of the bridge and see a group of Latino men standing along the shore wearing work boots, work pants and tattered shirts. Fishing. Hand-lining hook and line wrapped around a plastic bottle. And the scene is now permanently etched in my mind as if I saw it in a NatGeo magazine article of some Third World Country.

Rods up and throttle’s up. I’m on plane and ducking below my windscreen because of the cool morning temps. I round the first bend of the LMR and glance at my GPS. It reads 22.2 mph. This has been a recurring triad for me. So much so that I noted it in my fishing journal to remind me to look up the meaning. It seems every time I open a book, it opens to page 222. I glance at the clock, it reads 2:22. I wake up at night, it’s 2:22. It’s 222 miles to Miami. So I did look it up, Googled it. 222 is a triad that means “I’m on the right path.” On the right path, what ever that means. If only I could believe in such bull shiz with a “z” (Bubba Army). If only I could believe in things unseen. I do know however, I know for a fact that God does take Angels. Because I happen to know one. And thinking about him brings tears. And I think of him all day and every night.

Into Tampa Bay. I head to Manatee Marker 222 (jk). I head out the channel that runs along the sand key beach line and I’m quick to see a few birds diving. Not many, but a few. I close in to casting range. But the splashing isn’t very intense and quickly dies off. I cast several times, reeling quickly for a fast retrieval, but no takers. I’m thinking I’d really love that blackened mackerel and I try a few different jigs I’ve rigged up. I didn’t get a hit and this was the only sign of mackerel for the whole day. Most are probably still further to the south. But they will be coming soon. I slowed the retrieval and picked up a few short trout. They were short but welcomed as I haven’t caught a fish in nearly a year. But then I hit into one that actually pulled drag and did some nice head shaking. He went in the cooler at seventeen inches and later turned into a nice cedar planked trout with butter and eaten quickly with only the fingers.

The fishing was really slow so I went on down to see Billy (Ramp Dog) at the CRB boat ramp. I ended up spending a couple hours talking with him about many things from fishing to music and then finally, my son. And just prior to his packing up for the day he said, “This is as close as I’m going to get to talking about religion, but…” He hesitated and looked straight at me, “Everyone and every thing dies. That’s the only way I can put it. Every one and every thing dies.” I found myself wondering for a moment why he would say something so cruel to me. I know everything dies. But children aren’t supposed to. I found myself quickly upset by his statement. But then he went on to say, “So with every body and every thing doing it, every one of us dieing in the end, it can’t be all bad. It just can’t be. How can it be if everyone does it?” That made some sense to me and I thought about that for the rest of the day. And it did make me feel somewhat better. Sometimes it bodes well with me and sometimes it doesn’t; like the other night when I was cursing and kicking things off my deck into the dark green water of my swimming pool. But sometimes I wonder if it is coincidence or some divine plan why people cross paths when they do. I’ve wondered sometimes if some people are really people. Or if they were meant for just me to see. What if the sole purpose of someone’s existence is to cross paths with another at a particular time? I say this because I’ve had complete and perfect strangers make impressions on me that have absolutely changed the course of my life. Why did I happen upon them at that moment when if it were a month prior, it wouldn’t have meant anything at all? So I’ve been thinking that something good has to come from all this. There must be a yin and a yang. So if the yin is my hate and despair, my sadness and hopelessness, my darkness, then the yang must be something pretty darn good. I just wonder how long I’m going to have to wait for my yang. It seems lost horizons and confusion has set its course.

Back to the report: The wind picked up while I was talking with Billy. It really picked up and it blew hard from the west. There was no way I was taking my boat outside the manatee zone a mile-and-a-half off shore. So I went the back way up Little CRB and found a slot red at eighteen inches. I thought about substituting the red for the blackened mackerel but then thought it a shame to keep a lower end slot red with most of its weight being in their head. And, I had the cedar planked trout to look forward to.  So I set the little guy free and watched as he swam off. It wasn’t his day to die. The wind was howling out of the west and an osprey was trying to make way only to be swept backward by the stiff wind. He then turned and made a stab at it from another direction. I found myself thinking I could relate to that. Even though it’s all about the fishing, it’s not all about the fishing.

One more day on the water.