“Hoot Owl”

Is this really happening, I wonder as the series of surreal events unfolded around me. From an airboat in a canal, deep within the Florida Everglades on the Miccosukee Indian Reservation, I watched Ronnie’s airboat turn upside down and sink – in about the amount of time that it took to write this sentence. Jolted from my trance-like state by the alarm in his voice, I came around to the here and now. “Get over here!” Ronnie, my dad, yelled as he and his passengers dog-paddled in the alligator-infested waterway. 

A marvelous morning of largemouth bass angling it had been. Tossing and flipping mostly watermelon-colored soft plastic baits threaded on weedless hooks, we ripped lip after lip … a saving grace after the previous night’s series of surreal events left the trip in jeopardy of becoming a complete bust. Yet, at this point, the saving grace morphed into a diabolical and potentially Major League Baseball career-ending disaster. 

Our guests at the Hoot Owl that weekend were members of the Texas Rangers Baseball Organization. At that time, the Rangers’ spring training facility was in Port Charlotte, and a life-long friend of mine, Ken Guthrie, happened to be the bullpen catcher.

An interesting anecdote is that Ken had made headline sports news during the prior baseball season; albeit news doused in controversy. As a joke among friends, Ken had thrown a ball to outfielder Rusty Greer in which he had written a profanity-laden message. This message included a term that may or may not have had certain racial undertones – “redneck.” It depends on who you’re asking. Those of us from the Deep South consider it a term of endearment. Rusty immediately began throwing the ball around the outfield without noticing said message. When the inning started, Juan Gonzales (another outfielder), unaware of the harmlessly intended sentiment, flipped the ball to an awaiting fan. The fan turned the ball into the San Diego Padres officials, claiming the message was intended for him or her - I can’t remember which. This was odd considering the term was particularly associated with southern white males, of which the fan was not. Ken was forced to explain the story and was lightly reprimanded. The rest is history. 

The weekend started interestingly enough with two madmen in fan boats wearing spelunker helmets outfitted with one-million candlepower headlamps racing through the Everglades approaching the boat landing. The two madmen being Ronnie and his partner in the Hoot Owl camp, George Smith, R.I.P.

Another fact worth mentioning is that George invented the willow-leaf spinnerbait, according to Roland Martin, in a 1969 edition of Bass Master Magazine. Also, I would be amiss not to mention that George taught me much of what I know about the 10,000 Islands. 

Myself, Ken, an All-Star starting (left-handed) pitcher, a shortstop, and the bullpen coach loaded onto the two airboats and sped into the dark of night toward the famed Hoot Owl camp. Those who loaded onto Ronnie’s “sled,” as the type of airboats are called that are designed to slide through the sawgrass, had unwillingly just reduced their life expectancy significantly. Not that Ronnie is a poor operator. On the contrary, his exceptional skills were the only reason there had been no loss of life.

Turning into an indistinguishable break in the foliage, we came to a narrow path overgrown with vines and limbs blocked by a chain that spanned from two cypress trees. Killing the engine, Ronnie stepped down and unhooked the chain. In a tree to his right was a stop sign that had to be as old as we were – an oddity amid the swamp. Grabbing handfuls of branches, we pulled ourselves into the century’s old cypress hammock that opened into a shallow lagoon. In the center of the lagoon was the two-story behemoth of a camp built out of pressure-treated lumber on pilings, all material being brought in little by little via airboat. Not your typical camp, the Hoot Owl had all the comforts of a reasonably modern home. 

Excited was the only way to describe the vibe, which intensified when Ronnie asked if anyone wanted to go gator hunting. As the baseball players loaded onto Ronnie’s airboat, Ken’s and my protests were drowned out over the deafening noise. We looked at each other as if to say, “This isn’t going to be good for anybody.”

Several anxiety-laden hours later, the crew came limping (literally and figuratively) back to the camp. The mood was now somber as the pitcher was holding his elbow – the left one. Whether or not they were successful in their gator hunt, I can’t say … As such activities were forbidden on the reservation. However, what I can say is that Ronnie had hit a cypress knee, throwing the pitcher into the front of the airboat. 

The next morning everyone was okay, including the pitcher, who seemed to have made it unscathed – pitching arm intact. We all breathed sighs of relief as we loaded up into the airboats and headed for the canal to fish. Unbeknownst to us, the encounter with the cypress knee had punctured a hole in Ronnie’s airboat, which we couldn’t see due to the airboat’s surface being entirely decked over. And thus ensued the horror of witnessing the airboat flip upside down, sink, and professional baseball players swim in a canal crawling with gators. 

I don’t remember hearing much about the pitcher after that. I can only hope it wasn’t because of our little adventure. But as we rode through the Everglades taking the crew back to the boat landing, I remember thinking, This is going to make one hell of a story.