How Dare You

I watched George as he sat across from me, elbows on the desk in my office, weathered face bordered by a thick white mustache contorted in thought as he made his marks. When he finished, he stood up, handed me the chart, and said, “There ya go, Bo.” A native South Florida Cracker, he said: “snuke,” instead of “snook,” more like “nuke” than “book.”

You see, George Smith was one of the greatest sportsmen I’ve known. His list of accolades is too long for a short story, inventing the willow leaf spinnerbait being among the least impressive. For George to share this knowledge with me was huge. 

Many years later, I understand that chart is among the greatest gifts I’ve ever received. I still have it somewhere, along with a slate turkey call with a wooden strike tied to it he gave me. The marks George made were like pieces to an actual scale jigsaw puzzle. Each spot I learned made the picture a little clearer. These were my directions for the 10,000 Islands.

I studied it, memorized routes and landmarks - it’s all downloaded in my mind. Armed with the Golden Scroll shoved under my leg, referencing it along the way like a “slide rule” version of the modern GPS map, I ventured out. When GPS mapping systems became standard equipment, I found that I barely used them. Since then, I have used the technology to expand my knowledge, but I learn the terrain.

Anyone with a skinny water vessel can follow a GPS track anywhere. That would take some of the pleasure out of it for me. There is nothing more serene to me than moving freely through that maze of mangroves without having to think about which way to turn. Negotiating hull-ripping oyster bars hidden at high tide and avoiding hazards at every turn by memory, not glued to a screen, is liberating. I tell people they’ll never learn the area until they turn that thing off – part of the time.

There are many thousands of acres yet to learn… I don’t know if anyone can learn all the 10,000 Islands. But the little swaths here and there that are still a bit uncomfortable, I make a point to travel whenever possible, adding another piece to the puzzle. I’ll try to find my way, and should I get turned around - a slightly lesser version of being lost - I’ll reference the GPS. Well, my GPS hasn’t worked for about eight months … I haven’t been too concerned about it. If I ever need to know my location, I use my phone. This finally sets the stage for what happened a few weeks ago in what ended up being the Dismal River.

This instance was particularly confusing in its simplicity, just a slightly different route from point A to point B than usual. Once you begin to question your location, things become disorientating; perception is skewed - depth expands and contracts, and time is warped. Pretty soon, the only way to know which way is up is to follow the bubbles, a fail-safe for SCUBA divers. However, I knew that I knew where I was. I just didn’t know it yet. My location was on the tip of my tongue like lyrics to a song you can’t think of the title for. So, I kept riding, looking for my landmarks. After a good try, I backed down to idle in a wide body of water - some river. I took my phone out and pinpointed my location. I looked left and right, then behind me… I’ll be dang. I knew it! In an instant, my bearings returned the Dismal River. In that vertigo-like state, I’d traveled twice the distance that it had seemed.

Suddenly, I heard a vessel approaching from behind and moving fast. I made sure I was not in any blind spot and that I was safely over to the right side near the entrance to a small bay that had a sand/mudflat at the mouth. Suddenly, the boat was upon me, passing too close on my starboard side. In passing came a muffled yell through a neck gaiter. I didn’t make out what the operator said, but I didn’t need to. I heard the arrogance and sarcasm ebbing and flowing through the wind and the sound of our outboard motors as he sped by, a fly-fishing guide outfitted with all the latest garb in matching saltwater camo. I can always spot the guides. They’ll look a little different from everyone else aboard, in this case, just the one passenger, appearing slightly out of place.

The comment had something to do with the fact that I was looking at my phone; Get off your phone, you idiot, pay attention to what you’re doing…something like that. Like I was among the hordes of personal watercraft that have launched an amphibious assault on Marco Island with reckless abandon and nonexistent common mariner courtesies. That topic deserves its own story.

I looked around to see who he was talking to. There was nobody else. “I know he’s not talking to me…he must not know who he’s talking to. This is MY Point Break.”The Hell’s Bay Luxury Poling Skiff settled in its wake well inside the bay, presumably looking for tailing redfish. “Someone ought to tell him,” I thought as I followed him, pushing a nasty wake.

I wasn’t on Instagram, or FaceBook, or TicTac, or Slipchat. But what if I was? What if I was texting my high school girlfriend, who I ran into at the Marriott the weekend prior, reminiscing about things only first loves can? Who is this guy to bludgeon my serenity? The wave runners are bad enough.

As the distance closed, I began seeing red, fighting mad. “What was that?” I hollered once I was within hearing distance. He pulled the buff down and said something about letting me know that he was passing. I could tell that he wasn’t accustomed to being called out for being rude; most people that are prone to being a-holes aren’t. I proceeded to tell him that he was full of S and that he was being a smart-ass. The conversation got heated, so I moved closer, thinking, “Good grief, this is going to turn into a good old-fashioned dust-up like on the Homosassa Flats during the tarpon record craze of the ’70s…” Stories of Billy Pate and Tom Evans came to mind. He’s yelling, I’m yelling… Then my forward momentum was stalled. I looked behind and saw the mud in my wake. 

In my agitated state, I hadn’t noticed that I’d drifted on the sand bar; a good thing in that the confrontation was stymied. I’d like to think that it wouldn’t have gone any further, but that would have depended on him. I was committed to my ignorance; we’re talking pride and ego here. I trimmed up the motor and jack-plate and eased away not as quickly as I’d come, churning up the bottom. I must say, the prospect of running aground after such a display was the worst part by far. I don’t fear any man, but humiliation scares the hell out of me. 

Players of the same game just opposite sides; I’d be willing to bet if we meet again, we’d share a good laugh. I’ve made more than a few friends through conflict, trivial variety especially. As a matter of fact, Capt. Saltwater Camo, if you read this, hit me up at jedmls@mac.com. Let’s go get a beer.

As this story concludes, it occurs to me that I should probably go ahead and get my GPS fixed.

Jon Edward Edwards is a local author and avid sportsman.