One Fish, Two Fish, Redfish, Bluefish: The Old Man and the Bay

The jolt through the line was unmistakable.
"Reel it up!" my Dad said.
I cranked on the handled and retrieved a small fish out of the churning olive green water.
My dad held the line in front of me and the fish twisted and flipped on the end of the hook. "That's a littler snapper," he said.
My five year old heart pounded as we stood on the bridge in the Keys and I was hooked.

Thirty some years have passed since that earliest memory of fishing with Dad. There were many trips early on and more fond experiences, but now neither one of us has a boat and it had been a couple of years easy since we last soaked a line together.
My brother and I haven't fished together since double that easily and the three of us probably not since we lived in Homestead together 19 years ago.

So for Dad's 60th I figured what better way to spend it than the three of us on the water again. I got a hold of Capt. Goeff Page and after a laborious schedule matching with my brother and I a date was set.

Of course Dec. 2nd would have to have a 60% chance of rain and wind expected at 30+ mph, but still Capt. Geoff said we could have luck if we get out early. Considering that Capt. Geoff has made quite the name for himself doing what he does I put my faith in his judgment. And it paid off!

We slipped into Joe Bay and it didn't take long to see why Capt. Geoff picked this spot.


First cast and my brother, Chris (AKA Weasel) had a fish to the boat.


And then another.

Dad chipped in with a catfish.

And I with a flounder.


Capt. Geoff was pretty impressed with Chris's hot hand and joked about teaming up for the Redfish Cup.




Chris definitely had the hot hand for the reds.



Dad was the only one putting bluefish in the boat. He landed three or four like this.







Dad and his two sons enjoying the water.





I was a short but productive trip. We probably boated 10 reds, 3-4 blues, 3-4 trout a flounder, and a bunch of other stuff. We lost a bit more. All but one blue were caught on artificials. It should be noted that even though Chris put on a good show it was Dad who caught the slam: catfish, jack, ladyfish. A trash can slam!
Happy Birthday Dad!

ZAP!

Let me tell you something. I have a high pain tolerance. I know there are plenty of people who say this, but for me it is true. Some examples would be: I’ve been Tasered three times. I’ve had my face dowsed with pepper spray. I once slipped and ran a bow saw over my arm. I went two years with a torn bicep tendon hoping it would fix itself. When I was a kid I suffered through the night with appendicitis thinking the pain would just go away. Through all these things and many others I never cried or screamed or curled up in the fetal position (though the appendicitis was close). I’ve always been able to control and deal with pain. That was until…
One of the great things about the state of Florida is the water. Might even be the greatest thing. With hundreds of miles of shoreline it is easy to find a place to slip into the water and go fishing.
My father-in-law, Eddie, finished his last day of radiation. He had been dying to go fishing and asked if I’d go wading with him to kind of celebrate the end of the treatments. Of course I am game for it and happy to see him back doing the things he loves.
We cruise up to the Skyway with four dozen shrimp and wade into the water and scurry up the grass. The pinfish were in full force, but we still managed to land a few trout, lady fish and a couple of needle fish.
About two hours into it I see the birds dive-bombing schools of bait and something running under them causing the greenies to go skipping across the surface believe it better to take their chance with the birds. This is about a hundred yards from where we were at. I show it to Eddie and he tells me to head over, he still doesn’t quite have the energy. The thought of snook or reds or even big trout in a frenzy nearly send me into one so I start making my way over there.
Along the way I see plenty of mullet jumping and I hope that’s not what’s really busting out of the water.
ZAP! Just like that. I jump out of the water and dance a little jig. Never saw it or felt it, but I knew exactly what happened. I looked down and on the front of my ankle where the leg meets the foot there’s a small puncture wound trickling blood.
Now I’ve read on here many stories of poor suckers getting stung by stingrays and how terrible it is. And I admit that I’ve rolled my eyes thinking how bad can it hurt? I mean with my pain tolerance I could handle it. Suck it up losers!
I take a deep breath and two more steps. Yeah, BS! The pain intensified rapidly and I hobbled as fast as I could back to Eddie.
"Eddie!" I yelled and waved him over. He waves back then continues fishing. I trudge along a few more feet thinking he can't hear me. "Eddie!" once more.
"Yeah?"
"We gotta go!"
"Why?"
Now I'm bent over with my hands on my knees. "Stingray!"
"Where?"
"My foot!"
"Oh!"
We head back in. I can tell you that was the hardest 200 yards I’ve ever waded; thought a couple of times I might just fall out.
He's up to the truck before me and starts loading his gear. I get up there and toss my crap in the bed of the truck. The pain is radiating from the site up my shin to the knee cap and down my foot to my big toe. I look over and he's trying to change out of his wade boots into his Crocs. His hip has been bothering him so he struggles to slip them on and drops one, struggles to bend over and pick it up, then starts fighting to get it back on again(1). Are you kidding me?! I'm resting my head on the bed of the truck trying to focus all my energy on the pain.
He finally comes around to open my door and starts patting his pockets. Then scrunches his face(2). This cannot be happening! Then his eyes pop open and he starts fishing the keys out of his pocket.
In the truck and on our way to Manatee Memorial I thought about the different things I’d read like meat tenderizer and whatever else and thought the only way to stop this pain will be with a lot of drugs. It took every fiber of my being to focus on the pain and not freak out. The only way I can describe it is extreme cramping, like someone was taking the tendons in my leg and twisting them until they started to knot up. I messed with air and tried every position I could, but nothing I did relieved the pain.
Next thing I know we're passing the exit to get to the hospital(3).
"Eddie, where are you going?"
"Oh, crap."
See, now I know he's screwing with me.
He turns around and starts heading back toward the Skyway and... misses the frig'n u-turn to start heading back to the exit for the hospital(4)!
"You're killing me!"
Eddie whips the truck around in the direction of the hospital.
We arrive and he's kind enough to drop me at the door. I hobble in and the guy at the desk asks me if I want to see a doctor. Why else would anybody go to the ER?! He tells me to fill out some form which I manage to scratch STINGRAY across and toss on the counter.
Sitting there I imagine people think I have Tourettes, because ever few seconds I squirm around and blurt out obscenities. Thankfully there was no one else in the ER. I sat and writhed in pain wishing someone would run out with a giant needle of lidocaine or something. And I hate needles!
Eddie shows up and has a seat next to me. "Anybody see you yet?"
"No."
"Looks like it really hurts."
"YA RACKIN' FRACKIN' NAZIT-TRAP! Yes it does."
After about fifteen minutes the guy at the desk asks eddie if I had been seen yet.
"Yeah, I think someone has(5)."
"WHAT? NO! NO ONE HAS SEEN ME!" What did I ever do to him? I gave him two lovely granddaughters. I... Oh, now I get it. Like it's my fault he has a hot daughter.
Finally, they tell me to sit in the nurse’s office and she says we need to soak it in hot water and I’m thinking screw the water bring me drugs! But I’ll be damned if the pain didn’t go away instantly once the foot was in the tub. Hot water, who knew. Okay some of you knew, but where were you when I needed ya? Hell, if I knew that I would have busted the radiator cap off that truck.
As I sat and soaked it a nurse brought me a couple of Lortab and I’m not sure I need them. But as soon as the foot came out of the water the pain came rushing back. Foot in hot water once more! Between the pills and a now somewhat kind of decent pain tolerance I was able to survive the ride home. A couple of naps and ice and I was more than able to cope.
For all you who have suffered with this I say I am sorry for ever doubting you and now I can feel you pain. For the rest of you all I can say is SHUFFLE YOUR FEET!!!
I tell you what, you can forget all that water-boarding crap; stingrays.

Tides of Time (A Short Story)

Isn’t it something when you grow older and develop that life of your own? The job, the wife, the kids; makes me think of the song Cats in the Cradle. It had been too long since I went fishing with my dad. How the time had flown and something that meant so much to me as a kid became nothing more than distant memories.

The inability to sleep was pure torture. Not from a tired sense, but more so because of being awake and waiting. What would we catch? What would we see? Every trip into the Florida Keys gave my growing mind something to feed upon.
“Well, we’ll see how the weather holds out,” he would say as we turned in for the night.
The weather. I found it odd that all I wanted to do was marvel at Mother Nature and yet it was she which created the greatest obstacle. Worrying about the green blobs drifting across the radar screen would get me out of bed every time. I sat for an hour, or so, studying the storm reports before he would get up.
“Clear skies, slight breeze coming out of the east,” I would be at him as he turned the coffee pot on.
“How long have you been up?”
My eyes would find a spot in the linoleum. “Just a little before you.” I didn’t tell him I watched the American flag while they played the national anthem before the screen went to snow.
“Uh-huh,” he would reply with a smirk.
“So are we going?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said as he laughed and rubbed my crew cut.
And that would be it. I’d dash out the door to get our gear together and load the little refurbished johnboat. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was just right for tooling about the mangroves surrounding Key Largo. This particular day he was going to take me to a new spot.
Not much was spoken, not much needed to be said. He had taught me well and we were focused on the task at hand. Fishing was not our hobby, it was our obsession. He didn’t ask corny questions about my youth and I didn’t give him answers that would appease him. I knew he loved me, and I hoped he knew I loved him too.
We turned onto U.S. 1 and headed south past Bojangles’. A little further down to Jack’s Bait and Tackle for eight dozen shrimp for eight bucks. Past The Last Chance bar and into Key Largo.
Dad liked to take Card Sound Road around and south instead of staying on the highway for reasons I couldn’t tell you. It was for the most part a desolate ride. I would just stare off into the darkened mangroves catching glimpses of the moon on the water.
I would think to tell my dad how much I loved him and how much I admired him, but still we would ride listening to the tinny sound of Buffet on the AM radio. We shared this bond, this love for the water. Nothing needed to be said. Or maybe it was because I was getting older and it wasn’t cool to say I love you. Maybe it was because I was getting older and I could see that my hero was not made of steel.
His hand on my shoulder, “Wake up, we’re here.”
I snapped up and looked around; didn’t even remember going over the Card Sound Bridge. He had already backed the boat into the makeshift ramp. I jumped out, causing hundreds of fiddler crabs to scurry back into their holes, and grabbed the bowline while he lowered the boat in. Standing there as he parked, I inhaled deeply taking in the smell of the saltwater. A slight breeze came off the little bay and my shoulders shook from the chill in the air.
Dad climbed over the bow and to the transom lowering the motor. Primed the bulb, pulled the choke, and tugged on the cord. The little fifteen Evinrude started up with a whine and a two-stroke cloud drifted off the water.
The short ride across the flats left me shivering up front, but soon he idled down and was hunting for his spot.
“There, see the beer can in the mangroves?”
I could barely make it out, but sure enough right at the mouth of a cut in the mangrove forest was a sun-bleached can stuck on a branch. It looked nothing more than a piece of jetsam that got snagged in the stilted tree, but in fact it was the marker he used for his honey hole.
He motored up and told me to tie off to one of the branches. “We’re a little early; the tide hasn’t started moving yet.”
“Well, we could try!”
“Sure, why not,” he said as he opened the cooler converted to bait-well. He pulled out a good four inch shrimp and handed it to me which I quickly skewered and tossed overboard.
In a matter of seconds I felt the tugging at my line and reeled it up to reveal the fierce shaking of a channel cat. I cringed and the grimace on Dad’s face said it all as I dangled the slimy critter in front of him.
He grabbed it with a rag and popped the hook out. “Watch out,” he said and tossed the fish up in the bow.
“What did you do that for?”
“Just watch.”
“Can I have another shrimp?”
“Let’s wait for the tide; I don’t want to be wasting shrimp on catfish.”
I looked down and watched the catfish wriggle its body side to side when I heard something in the mangroves. It got closer and closer until I saw its eyes aglow from the white light on the transom.
The raccoon stood on a rocking branch watching me for a moment then climbed down on the boat, snatched the catfish up and climbed back into the mangroves.
I smiled at my dad and he gave me a nod.
A few minutes went by and the back of the boat began to swing out of the cut. Dad grabbed a couple of shrimp, handing one to me and hooking the other to his rod. We dropped them over and within seconds we had snappers on. Over the next few hours it was hook, toss, catch, repeat.
The cooler was teeming with fish, the tide was done, and so were we. I’ll never forget that day.

Today I was up early checking the weather; cloudy with a slight chance of rain. The house was quiet as my wife and kids lay in their slumber. I finished my cup of coffee and put the mug in the sink then hit the road.
As I pulled my boat into the driveway my dad’s house was still. I picked him up and not a word was spoken. The ride down Card Sound Road was quiet, not even the radio. I whipped around and backed the boat in the ramp; no help, no problem, he taught me well.
I stood there breathing the salt air, watching the rippling bay. We loaded into the boat and took off. My windbreaker flapped in the wind as I spied the cut in the mangroves.
The boat tied off, we waited in silence for the tide to move. Once the transom shifted around I went and sat by him.
“We made this trip many times when I was younger; it was always one of my favorites,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t take the time to do this sooner, but, you know, life gets in the way. I hope you know that I love you and always have. Thank you for making me who I am today.”
I couldn’t fight back the pain in my throat any longer as I spread his ashes. Tears rolled down my face as I watched his remains become absorbed by the brine.
He lives through me in my love for what he loved.