We spent
most of our spare time either fishing or fighting, or finding a way to either
fish or fight. And if I wasn’t fishing, or fighting with siblings, I was
reading my favorite novel, or watching my favorite movie, or my thoughts lost
in some far away place. Still, competition seemed to be a way of life in our
house. Dad, mom, two sisters, a brother and me, along with any number of
visiting relatives from all over the state in worse financial need than we were,
lived in our tiny two bedroom house with one bathroom. School days were the
worst — mornings introduced by giggling sisters, a pushy cousin, hair spray,
and the smell of perfume as we waited in line by the bathroom door. Mom would call
to us for breakfast, reminding we were going to be late.
Looking
back, I think all the outside activities; camping, fishing, and others, were
simply because there was more room outside of the house than inside. Of the
many fishing trips my father planned, one has stuck in my mind all these years.
My room
was dark as I was jolted from sleep by my father’s no nonsense baritone voice,
“Grab the gear, and let’s move.” He said. “We’re going to be late and I told
you I was leaving a five.” That’s how my day started. My dad was the type that
could wake up and move along as if he’d never been asleep.
My
brother, still sleeping and would probably continue to do so, received a punch
in the arm. “Dad’s not gonna wait,” I said. He yawned, stretched, and then
rolled out of bed.
On this
morning, we ate dry cereal straight from the box while riding in the backseat
of our station wagon heading north on Highway 41 toward Everglades City. My
brother fell asleep as soon as his belly was full, and I sat up between the
seats talking to my dad.
“How long
before we get there.”
“An hour
and a half,” he said.
“Who we
meetin’?”
“A guy I
work with and his boy.”
“What his
name?”
“Paul
Violet.”
“Violin?”
“No.
Violet like the flower.”
“Oh,” I
said, and settled back into the seat.
If my dad
could have his way, his days would be spent fishing and camping rather than
breaking his back working in construction. Our family and many friends camped
in the Everglades or in Chokoloskee, a small fishing town on the west coast of
Florida, and part of the ten thousand islands chain on most every weekend and holiday.
Some of
the kids owned small boats, we would navigate the rivers playing hide and seek
among the mangroves, small creeks, and hidden coves. On lazy summer days, we
would fish under crystal blue skies, trolling the edges of the mangroves in
search of snapper, grouper, and if lucky, hook up a large tarpon. It was a rare
day to come back empty handed. With over a million acres of water, there was always
somewhere new and different to explore and experience. Our plans, on this
summer day, were to head for the Chatham River and our mouth’s were set on
enjoying grouper or snapper cooked over an open charcoal flame.
As we
pulled into the lot, I saw my dad’s friend and his son backing their truck and
trailer onto the boat ramp. My got out of our car, ran over to help. Rob and I
got out, unloaded our fishing equipment, and the rest of the cargo. Mr.
Violet’s son walked over and helped us carry everything to the docks.
“My
name’s Tom,” he said over his shoulder.
I smiled
at him, and said, “My name is Steve, and this is my brother Rob.”
Tommy was about my age. “Where do
you live?” I asked.
“Homestead.
Where do you guys live?”
“Hialeah,”
I said.
Since we
were staying overnight, my dad walked to the Park Ranger’s office to register,
me in tow. The ranger sat behind a small desk in the center of the room, maps
of the backcountry on the walls as decoration, along with pictures of fish and
other fishermen. I glanced over his desk; coffee cup, papers, a telephone, and
a nameplate — Officer Manuel Martinez — I noted. Dad explained we would be
staying in a small cabin on the Chatham River. “Not a problem,” Officer
Martinez replied. “See you Sunday.”
The
morning held a low fog as we muddled out into the channel leading to
Chokoloskee Bay. The old Mercury motor smoked, but moved us along. Once into
the channel, Rob, Tommy, and I sat on the front bow with the salty air blowing
against our faces and our legs dangling as the cold water splashed our feet as the
motor turned up to a fine tuned hum behind us.
We moved
into one of the rivers and continued through a winding path of tea colored
water lined with mangroves as the sun climbed into the sky. After traveling for
about what seemed like an hour, we stopped to fish in one of the tidal pools.
“Looks
like a good spot boys,” my dad said. “Grab your rods and let’s catch dinner.”
We
climbed off the bow and took our place at the back of the boat. Dad and Mr.
Violet took their place on the bow. In about ten minutes, my dads fishing pole
doubled over and the whoopin’ and hollerin’ began. Don’t ask me why, but that’s
what we did when we hooked a fish. After a five-minute fight, and fish
acrobatics, he landed the prize.
“What is
it? Rob asked.
“It’s a
fish moron,” Tommy said.
“I know
that, Stupid” my brother shot back. “I mean what kinda fish.”
My dad
reached down, unhooked the flapping ribbon of scales, and tossed it back in the
water.
“Hey,
what was that about?” I asked.
“Ladyfish,”
he said. “Ain’t good for nothing but catching.”
After an
hour of fishing and about thirty more Ladyfish, Mr. Violet said, “Let’s head toward
the campsite. We stowed the gear and he turned the ignition key. The motor
sputtered to life in a cloud of blue smoke. We sat on the cooler at the stern
and enjoyed the ride. There was turn after turn through the river and it seemed
we spent our time leaning one way or the other. Soon the boat motor fell silent
and we coasted along coming to a stop. Mr. Violet was the first to cast, and
the first to catch—another ladyfish.
We boys
stood and fished off the back of the boat and after a few minutes, my brother
pulled in a blue crab. We laughed keeping our focus on the water for snapper or
grouper because no respectable angler would choose to catch a crab on a fishing
rod.
Dads
fishing pole bent over once again, and once again—a ladyfish. My brother Rob
caught another crab, then another, then another. Tommy felt a light tug on his
line and slowly reeled in a crab. Then it was my turn. Dad and Mr. Violet
continued their skills with the ladies.
We fished
several other spots, as the sun crested past noon reaching into early
afternoon. Much to our dissatisfaction, we’d filled two large coolers full of
blue crabs with only a few fish.
Mr.
Violet said, “Let’s head for the cabin.”
“Looks
like crab for dinner,” my dad said.
The sun
was still high, but we needed to settle in and prepare for the night. When the
sun sets in Chokoloskee, it’s dark—really dark.
Mr.
Violet navigated further into the mangrove jungle winding the boat through the
massive tea colored river. From the stern, I watched the wake and the low-lying
blue smoke left from the puttering motor and imagined being Bogart piloting the
African Queen through the waters while watching for the Empress Luisa. Tommy and Rob rode the bow with their feet dangling in
the water. We arrived at the cabin about thirty minutes later.
I turned around and saw a simple one-room
shanty perched on stilts about three feet above the water line with a long dock
running across the front. Our front yard was the river and the backyard nothing
but acres of mangroves. On the far end of the dock, about twenty feet from the
cabin, was a small square structure with a slanted roof.
“What’s
that?” I asked while pointing.
“The
toilet,” dad said.
I looked
at the other boys with a raised brow and said, “The what?”
My dad
looked over to Mr. Violet and shook his head laughing, and said, “Toilet,
outhouse. You gotta go, you go in there.”
Of
course, being curious boys, we clambered out of the boat to check our newfound
treasure.
“Open the
door,” Rob said.
“You open
the door,” Tommy answered.
I opened
the door.
Inside the
small space, we saw a plywood platform where one would sit, however this seat
had a hole cut through it.
“I guess
that’s were ya go,” Tommy said, as we all looked down the hole which gave us a
view of the water below, and a couple of snapper.
“There’s
the fish we been looking for,” my brother chuckled out.
My dad
called the site, primitive. He was right—no water, electric, TV, radio, air
conditioning—a square room with beds hanging off the walls, a table with six
chairs, and open cabinets with canned goods. Someone had fashioned a cooker at
the other end of the dock, and dad filled a large pot with the fresh water we
had brought with us. Bringing the water to a boil, we tossed the crabs into the
pot and then with cooked crabs piled high, we sat on the edge of the dock and
ate our dinner.
The next
morning we set off for another fishing spot. Dad and Mr. Violet deciding the
outside waters would hold more luck. We traveled away from the mangroves for
about an hour and stopped. Then we moved on, and moved again. About the fourth
time, Mr. Violet turned the key to move once more, and the old motor just gave
a grunt. My dad looked back at him, and then to us, and then to Mr. Violet.
“That didn’t
sound good.”
“Nope.
Sure didn’t,” Mr. Violet said.
They
stepped to the stern and pulled the cover off the motor, tapped a few things,
and tried again, receiving another grunt from the motor.
“It’s not
the battery,” Mr. Violet said.
“Yeah.
Sounds like the lower unit is jammed,” dad said.
“That
don’t sound good,” Mr. Violet said while looking over at us.
We
decided the only choice in the matter was to continue to fish. Since we were in
the bay, we’d keep a look out for other boaters and wave them down.
As the
noon sun crested, we saw a boat in the distance. Mr. Violet discharged a hand
held horn, but the other boat was too far out to hear us. We settled back to
fishing.
July in
Florida is a particularly hot time of year, and on this day, it was a perfect,
cloudless cobalt blue sky with a small southern breeze — a Chamber of Commerce
day — perfect for the tourist trade in south Florida. The challenge was, we
were stuck in the middle of the bay, no food, little water, and no shelter — under
the burning sun.
If fate
would find fortune upon us, the light southern breeze would push us toward the
line of the Keys islands, unless we were too far west which means, if not
found, we could end up near Cuba, depending on the wind, tide, and currents. As
I sat there gazing out across the bay, I couldn’t help but think of Hemingway’s
Santiago and wishing we had our own Manolin to watch over us. And I looked at
my father and remembered the line from the book, "Everything about him was
old except his eyes and they were the same color as the sea and were cheerful
and undefeated." And I knew we would be fine.
As the
day moved on, the sun creating a red glow on the horizon, our backs burned with
the memory of the day. We prepared our beds on the floor of the boat not knowing
what the darkness of the bay would bring.
As we
settled in for the evening with only a glow of sunlight left, my father raised
his head and cocked his ear to the distance. Mr. Violet sat up and asked if he’d
heard something, and my father placed his finger to his lips, and then pointed
to the horizon.
In the
distance, we could see a small dark spot moving toward us, and then the flash,
the unmistakable flashing blue light of a Florida Wildlife Officer’s powerboat.
It was Ranger
Martinez pulling along side of us and tossing a rope. My dad tied the rope to
the bow hook, and our rescue began. At the station, Mr. Violet asked how the ranger
how he knew we were out there.
He
pointed to my dad and said, “He told me where you boys would be, and it was
getting late. I ran over to the cabin and you were gone, so I figured—don’t
know why—you fellas headed out to the bay. I did a crisscross, and I don’t know
how, but I spotted your boat.”
Arriving
at the dock, we were tired and worn. It had been a long day. As we prepared to
drive home, the ranger stepped toward our car and my father rolled his window
down to thank him again. I sat in the back seat and marveled, as a young boy
would, at the brown uniform, the belt with all the gadgets attached, and his
weapon. I noticed his uniform, even after a long day, was crisped and neat, and
I thought about how one man can protect so many.
“Thanks
again, Officer Martinez,” dad said to the man who saved us from a horrible
night.
“My
pleasure sir,” he said, and then looked at my brother and me, but around here,
everyone just calls me Manny.”