Chasing Nature

On its best day, cerulean skies drape the dancing passage of light while fisherman, tourists and palms cling to rocky outcrops that pierce the foam of warm azure tides. Minutes ago, shelled swim-baits that lined the tanks of exaggerated fish stories, now play in motion to bubbles meant for their travel. As the sun slowly grows hot, summer consumption swells the Florida air and soon my Shrimp will clamber the occasional relief of flowing saltwater. I think it’s a good day to oblige their needs.

Tailgate opened and coffee in hand, the familiar sounds of the jetty take hold. Egrets squawking, Gulls calling and the dry rustle of Cabbage Palms foster the nests of hungry young Starlings that fill the sandlot. If you listen carefully you can hear the weight of feathers breaking the humidity as small gaggles of Pelicans zip overhead. Early morning “commercials” headed to the reefs, haul piled-in tourists looking to brag. Chances are, four hours later I’ll laugh to myself as droves of returns yield stringers of puny Key West Grunts and pale patrons high-fiving their new — legendary fish tales.

As I line-up my St. Croix, the “Snowies” are anticipating behind me. I succumb to their begging and reach in my bucket to find the Shrimp that didn’t make the trip. Before the pieces even hit the ground, a stunning whirl of white and yellow snaps up the morsels mid-air. Back to the tie, I’m intent to settle the score with a local monster Snook that skillfully knows the rocks. Power Pro to forty-pound flouro tied to a 2.0 circle with a mid twelve-wrap bimini — probably should do the trick. As quick as I’m finished, “Catcher” lands on the tailgate looking tattered and famished. She’s an old scrappy Snowy with a hobbled foot and her white plumes usually run red with fight. Over the years I’ve freed Catcher many times from the jumble of fishing lines. I guess you could say I’ve earned her trust. Today she rewards me with the enticement of offering her a hand-fed Shrimp.

The stacked boulders I casually walk, stopping every few to peer the water. The Mangrove Snapper abound this time of year. Every shadow seems to hold a few. Fire Corals set deep in the trenches glow where schools of Sargeant Majors dodge and hover. I look up the jetty and see the familiar seasoned “saltys” jostling part-timers and snowbirds. Mark has already spotted me and delivers the morning report, “You just missed it, the Blues and Macs were getting blistered on the inside with Pilchards and Greenbacks. It was totally crazy.” I smirk and keep walking toward the awaiting mission at the end of the jetty. Out at the markers, I see Dolphins corralling Mullet back to shore. Gleaning the beach to the north, Tarpon chasers gather in flocks of skiffs and walk-abouts waiting to jump the elusive silver kings.

I find my usual tarmac footings and judge the tides. Casting artillery of weighted Squid, newbies to my left and right, work frivolously to summons a bite. Peering the chaotic sound behind me, thankfully, the one annoying cast-netter is undoing the Gulf side of the jetty. With their long beaks and dangling pockets, the “brownies” approach like swimming bumper cars waiting to steal a fisherman’s prize. Undaunted, I reach in and grab the biggest pick. Texas rigged, through the horn — free-lining the bug deep between two flying Skimmers. Beyond the rips a Loggerhead breaks the surface and continues his day. The steady drift of tide-wash draws the Shrimp into the zone.

Twitch, twitch — let it lay. Again. Spring-boarding, the shill heads to the surface. A shadow moves in and shines his presence. Ka-toink! I reel back and realize it’s the behemoth I sought. With the smoking sound of my Penn — down the jetty my line flares off. Ten minutes in he gives way, grandstanding his shouldered prowess for one more head-shake. I lurch to the rocks and pluck his startled life from the surf. Holding nature, I smile and say, “Nice toad, he’s about forty.” I gently revive him in a pool while the subtle sound of the ocean flows over his gills. He gives a kick that splashes my face — back to the teeming caldron he calls home, the Venice Jetty.