A hint smoke from the morning fire fell across the camp on
this cool October morning. The sun would
peek above the horizon soon and launch a flood of orange tint across this river
of grass called the Everglades. The songs of
the crickets and katydids echoed across the clearing as I stretched my tired
body.
The sleeping cot was uncomfortable, so I decided it was time
to rise. I pulled on my pants, slipped into my boots, and unzipped the canvas door.
I stepped onto the dew covered grass and could see a small campfire, surrounded
by carefully laid stones, dance off the deep rutted lines of his face.
The coffee pot hung across a wired grate just above the glowing
embers and a soft morning haze hovered above the moist earth. The light from
the campfire reflected his silhouette across the grassy ground as it danced
along the edge of the sawgrass clearing. An old stump, cut from a large
loblolly pine, felled long before we arrived served as his seat. I approached
him with respect and caution.
“Good Mornin,” I yawned through a full stretch, “What’s for
breakfast?”
In his uncompromising, resolute manner, he glanced up, raising
his head just enough to see me, and said, “You catch it.”
I looked away, as if embarrassed by my silly question,
knowing beneath this shield of unrelenting armor beat the heart of a gentle
man.
I watched the radiance of the flames echo the years of hard
work evidenced on his leathered skin. He came of age at just twelve years
riding the rails through the Depression, surviving in a world when he should
have been playing stickball with friends. In his life, there were no handouts,
no charity. He earned his way as a steeplejack, a farmhand, a factory worker. He
turned to construction, working on skyscrapers and building monuments to rich
men of power and authority. He labored hard each day in sweltering sun to
support his family. I knew this weekend meant a lot to him.
He raised a steaming mug of coffee to his face, his arms
immense, defined by years of demanding toil, stretched; nearly bursting sleeves.
In silence, I turned, picked up my fishing rod, and headed toward the path leading
to the dark water.
Ahead, my eyes gazed over the vast expanse of river grass as
streaks of red, blue, orange, yellow, and gray, the creation of dawn, exploded
toward heaven like a celebration. Cool air brushed my cheeks while walking in
silence through a foot worn path. Sticks and grass clicked gently beneath my
feet warning the fish of my approach. In grand anticipation, my thoughts focused
on the hunt and I couldn’t wait to wet my line with first cast.
Nearing open space by waters edge, my ears focused on the
sound of an Osprey’s call. Gliding gently overhead, a dark figure cast against
a bluing sky, his sharp eyes spied the earth searching for sustenance. A Great
Heron walked the bank, his intense gaze never leaving the water; long thin legs
pushed his elegant frame through the stream with stealth, as if floating across
the surface. He shared space with two small Purple Gallinules paddling behind
as if to chase the big bird along in his quest. I stopped and watched.
Without warning, the magnificent creature shot his head into
the dark surface with lightning speed returning with a small fish wriggling at
the tip of his massive yellow beak. The prey wriggled in desperate attempt to escape
the infallible grip of death. A meal foreordained to satisfy the need of the
Great Heron as the cycle of life in this wonder called the Everglades moved on
without approbation. He flipped his graceful neck toward the dawning sky flinging
the tiny morsel into the air and then catching it perfectly headfirst. I wanted
to applause as if watching the circus juggler toss his art into the air but
watched in silence. The vigilant bird glanced in my direction and in single
motion of a slight bend of powerful legs, wings spread across the great waters.
With a a graceful push of the air, he sailed off.
Replacing the Great Heron’s presence with my own, the Gallinules
showed their displeasure cackling as if I was intruding on their territory. I
glanced toward them paying no mind. Soon, they accepted me and continued to
glide across the smooth black water. I studied the surface, looking for the
right spot to grace my first cast.
The gentle current moved quietly and unwearied northwest
bending gently through grass and small cypress knees lining the rocky banks of
this was a natural stream. Beauty untouched by man, flowing long before I
arrived, it carved life through limestone for thousands of years under the caressing
hands of nature. This was a natural world where man was the intruder.
I stood at the banks of a gentle tributary flowing south
from Lake Okeechobee creating a meandering
passageway to the river and beyond. To the west, a small village may have worked
the land to survive, finding this small torrent to traverse between trading
posts or other villages throughout the boggy vastness, south to the Miami River
or across the county seat to Chokoloskee Bay. The Tequesta and the Calusa
Indian tribes spreading across the Atlantic coast from north of Palm Beach to
Miami and on to the Keys with a village on Cape Sable at the southern end of
the Florida peninsula in the 16th Century. They built their villages, cared for
their families at the mouths of these rivers and streams creating what would
become their history. Throughout the area, on inlets from the Atlantic Ocean to
inland waters, on barrier islands and the Keys they hunted, traded, living
among natural beauty.
Today, nothing much is left of these great tribes except
some artifacts and shell mounds. Lost in the details in the name of progress as
the new pioneers came to conquer and build cities with concrete monuments to
their own existence these peaceful people destroyed, their spirit kept alive by
our writings; pieces of existence swallowed by mother earth.
With arm outstretched, I cast my line with perfect precision
across black water to a small stand of river grass. A small ripple against the
bank indicated a fish and I felt this would be a good start. My first cast came
up dry, but I knew there were fish in the shallow. I could see the small swirl again
and it was the key to my breakfast. Cautiously, I laid my line across the black
water. Too close and spook the prey. Too far, the cast is wasted. It had to be
perfect. I had to be perfect.
I cast my line in a different direction as if to say, “I
don’t care that you are over there.” After giving my prey a period of relief,
and with hope, lapse of memory, I reeled in and prepared to cast once again; this
time the exact spot, forcing my prey to react.
I felt the pressure of the lure as the rod passed my head. As
the lure rounded, I felt the flip of pressure in my attempt to release the
trigger perfectly without force. I watched the lure float through the air as if
in slow motion, the sun’s first rays hitting it with brilliant reflection, floating
through the morning dew as if carried by a magical hand. My line drifted across
the air above the black water guiding my tasteful treat in all its glorious
colors across a small limb only to dangle mere inches above my prey’s grasp. I
closed my eyes in pure exasperation.
I gave the line a tug, a small tree branch waved as if to
say, gotcha, now go away. I pulled the line straight, leveled my rod stepping
backwards. I heard a snap sound and the unmistakable zing of line without lure
flying towards me at the speed of light. Covered in monofilament, wrapped
around my cap, feeling dejected without my breakfast, a hand touched my
shoulder.
“Whatcha doin?” he said.
“Fishin’, what else?”
“Squirrels?” he said.
“Yup, but he got away.” I mustered all my strength to show I
had not failed to catch breakfast. I was just, delayed.
He kneeled down to look at my rod seeing the line had
stretched beyond use. Without condemnation, he silently took up his rod. “Mind
if I give it a try?”
I looked up at this big man standing next to me and said
with confidence, “I don’t think the squirrels will mind.”
With an unyielding look of determination, a fierce focus on
his face I had seen a hundred times, steel blue eyes threw a gaze across the
black water. His arm glided gently to his side as he flicked his wrist with the
precision of a master, landing his lure in the perfect spot.
Hitting his target, the line softly followed and stretched
the expanse falling onto the surface. I watched the lure dive below the surface
in a splash and bob upwards. Then, within a split second, another larger splash
of water and the tip of his rod curved forward as if bowing to the water. He
pulled back and his muscles bulged through the shirt.
A large Bass erupted through the black surface leaping into
the air, reflecting its acrobatic talents. A few glorious minutes of gallant
fight, and this masterful creature submitted to the power of man.
He held the creature by its lower jaw, removed the lure with
a twist, and handed it to me.
“That’s one,” he said with a grin across his face.
His flawless casting continued as I watched the lure float
across the water landing with perfection each time.
My father and I walked back to the camp that morning with
the warm sun at our backs and our future ahead of us. With camp in sight, a
hint of smoke from the embers wafted toward the morning sky. I placed our bounty
on a large rock and he pulled his long knife, sharpened by years of delicate
use, from a tattered leather sheath. With the skill of a surgeon, he prepared our
catch. A well-worn and seasoned skillet was waiting for the abundance provided
by nature, a pot of grits slowly bubbled.
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