10,000 Islands Christmas

I could smell the ripeness of the exposed marine life as I began to stir – the scent of marine borers, alive and decaying matter mixed. Christmas morning didn't bring hot cocoa and a warm fire. Not this year; this year it brought a low tide and a favorable forecast. There was anticipation but not from gifts awaiting under the tree but from fish awaiting under the mangrove roots.

The wind had been 10-15 knots out of the west for the last two days, churning up Barfield Bay like margaritas in a blender, choppy and unpredictable. I jumped the 17-foot Maverick tunnel hull up on plane and rode the chop, standing up at the helm. The water slipped over the gunnel each time I fell out of rhythm yet the cool sting of the salt water spray felt fresh and invigorating as opposed to harsh and punishing.

Upon reaching the end of the no wake zone in Goodland it occurred to me that I had recognized and obeyed the dreaded "Slow Speed Manatee Zones,” an act I had previously disregarded. How could I have forgotten standing before a judge in a federal court room in Fort Myers after receiving a fourth violation? "How in the hell does a West Indian Manatee know where it's safe and where it isn't?" I pleaded. The judge didn't think much of my argument.

I banked around Tripod Key and began the backwater route that served as the mental illusion for the "relaxation techniques” I had learned at marriage counseling several years earlier. They didn’t help one bit with my marriage, but it had always worked to ease my mind during stressful times. I imagine every point and every turn I pass along the way. “I can navigate these waters blindfolded,” I would often claim. Could that statement be a bit of an exaggeration? Possibly. Be that as it may, I can navigate these waters in the dark with the occasional shine of a light no problem. The meandering mangrove route is forever ingrained in my mind.

Buttonwood Bay is my favorite spot in all the 10,000 Islands. Buttonwood is dangerously shallow at low tide with jagged oyster bars lurking around every turn. Not knowing their locations could easily result in ripping out a lower unit. Good luck if that happens because no one is coming; I speak from experience.

Fishermen are creatures of habit and I began my pattern at the same spot where I always had, a spot I named simply, The Oyster Bar. I quietly unfastened and released the trolling motor, easing it down into the tannic water. I began trolling parallel to the bar making calculated casts as close as possible without getting hung on the rough shells. My lure fell into an eddy created by two adjoining oyster points – “Bang! Hello Mr. Redfish.”

Pushing a button on a lanyard around my neck, I engaged the Power Pole, a shallow water anchor. I could hear the buzz of the mechanism and a crunch as the fiberglass rod was shoved into the broken-up oyster shells and detritus that had flowed from the Everglades for thousands of years. I was then fixed in place, free to work the area thoroughly.

There was a deep point on the west side that, at times, held big gator speckled trout. With a strong flick of the wrist, I made a long side armed cast out across the point and let my jig sink to the bottom before making slow twitches of the rod tip. On my second cast I felt the tale tale slight bump of a speckled trout taking the bait. I swept the rod to the side as to not jerk the hook out of the fish's soft mouth. Sure enough, the specs were there and hungry.

The sky had begun to redden but I had one more spot to try. “I hope I have enough water to get out,”I thought as I pulled the trolling motor up, ran down the wide gunnels, and jumped down onto the bench seat. The trim was set just right and with speed the Maverick danced on top of a light chop that had formed in the bay. A few seconds later I cut the engine and hurried to the bow, snatching my baitcaster along the way. I could see activity as the boat rode its own wake, coasting towards the mouth of Whitney River. I tossed the jig up current and let it fall, sweeping past the point of the river mouth. “Bang!" The big red nearly jerked the rod out of my hand. After several minutes I horsed the fish alongside the boat, popped the jig out of its mouth, and boxed it. A perfect way to end a perfect day.

The sun had fallen lower on the horizon, the sky resembled the tin roof on an ancient barn, rusted red. The bay had calmed, reflecting the same color off of the water, making it difficult to distinguish surface from sky. One swift punch of the throttle and I began the journey back in the fading light. The evening was still and calm, the air crisp, and the water glass. There was no movement in the trees, no ripple of nervous bait, not a soul for miles.... I caught the blurred reflection of a "Slow Speed Manatee Zone" as I bypassed Goodland, speeding through the Everglades, in the dark.