Some weekends start with a dull groan. Some start with a bang. And some start with 500,000 lbs of liquid oxygen and hydrogen igniting in a fantastic, internal-organ-shaking, controlled explosion.

Bet my Friday night was a bit more ‘moving’ than yours was, huh?

At 11:57:38, my family and I watched the space shuttle take off from Kennedy Space Center. We were about as close as you can get without dodging smoke clouds, debris and terrified animals – so close that, once it cleared the pad, we felt the launch as much as heard/saw it. An incredible experience I’ll always cherish, as I got to share it with my youngest two kidlets – my son yelling “YEAH! GO!GO!GO!” was the highlight for me. After the excitement wore off and I was driving home, serenaded by the sounds of EVERYONE in the van snoring, I realized the entire evening only had one small drawback for me – I knew I had to get up at 0430 the next morning. See, I finally got invited to go fishing…

As most of you know, we moved to Satellite Beach, Florida, about a month or so ago. Since that time I’ve battled mortgage agents and banking figures for the privilege of giving them money every month for the next 15-30 years, and engaged in a ferocious war against boxes stacked throughout my house. Thankfully we defeated the mediocrity and ambivalence of the banking and mortgage community (why on Earth they fight so hard to restrict my ability to give them all my money I’ll never know), and have the cardboard menace on the run now – we’ve conquered and laid claim to all lands but the garage. I plan on storming the last stronghold of the hated enemy when things cool down.

Just before we actually moved in, the master builder for the community came by to do our walk through. Bill Segall, a 58 year old guy with a mountain of experience in the construction arts, has one of those faces you know is about to break into a grin at any moment. Engaging and entertaining, with little eyes smiling out from behind small, wire rimmed glasses, I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t instantly like him. At one point in the walk through, Bill made a comment about fish possibly lurking in the pond right behind my house (a pond I cannot get to/fish in, by the way), and we struck up a conversation about fishing.

Bill’s been freshwater fishing Florida’s canals and backwaters for decades and told me the one thing I was dying to hear; “I love going fishing but can’t seem to find anybody that wants to go with me.” I think Angie’s ‘Oh my God, here we go’ exasperation rumbled the walls..

After a couple weekends of bad timing, we finally got things squared away and agreed to meet at 0500 the next morning on the way to the ‘Stick Marsh’ for the day’s fishing. A quick cup of coffee from the local 7-11 and a half-hour’s drive down US1 brought me to our designated meeting place, where I found Bill sitting on the front of his boat, smoke from the day’s first cigarette circling around him in the pre-dawn darkness. “Bout time you got here, rookie.”

Pause in the story for a Matt Walker tangent here:

Ever seen that movie Gran Torino? In it, Clint Eastwood’s character attempts to ‘man up’ a shy, withdrawn kid from the neighborhood. The initial scene where he takes the kid to visit his barber, to teach him how ‘men talk to one another,’ is one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. But it is true – when we get together, especially when we’re having a good time, men verbally jab at each other. Generally, the insults and derision center around the activity of the day, but everything is fair game once you’ve established friendship. I once had a guy insinuate my ‘midget hands’ and small stature were best suited to do nothing more than clean his backside at the end of cabbage soup day. I told him he could deep throat a running chain saw. We’re best of friends, to this day.

Ok, back to the story:

When Bill started off that way, and followed it up by preemptively apologizing for his language and the fact he was going to verbally rail on me, I knew this would be a good day.

The Stick Marsh is, basically, a huge area of land that was purposefully flooded to allow for water runoff to be cleaned before returning to the St John’s River. Innumerable canals – also fishable and filled with Bass, bream and gators – accept runoff from farmland and suburbs alike, feeding into the marsh for the north-flowing St John’s to pick up later. When things are just right, the locks and dams on the canals open and close, creating moving water over the many submerged roadbeds and ditches. A recipe for fast and furious action, if you know where to be.

When we arrived the scene was picturesque and promised a great day on the water. Bill brought his Triton up to plane moments after turning into the marsh area and rocketed along the tips of the small waves to our first destination – a small dam allowing water from a canal into the marsh. I know, for some of you, a ride in a top-flight bass boat is a lot of fun, but it’s also a harrowing experience if you’re not used to it.

Bill was used to it.

Bill likes driving his boat at top speed down canals that are about 15-20 feet wide. Looking back on it now, I think Bill is secretly in training to break the water speed record. Either that or he’s nuts.

Anywho, after arriving at our destination, we saw bass literally hurling themselves out of the water right at the base of the dam. They had apparently either schooled shad into the box and were feasting away on them, or were frantically attempting to accelerate their evolution into land mammals before 5 September (so they could watch the Bama game). Guessing the first option was probably what was going on, we tied on rattle traps and casted like mad for the dam only to see our casts falling about 10 feet short of target.

20 minutes or so into the fruitless casting, Bill uttered a phrase I’m quite familiar with, but cannot put into print here, and trolled us over to the bank. Climbing out and tying off the bow line, he rambled up the rocky embankment over to the dam’s edge, where huge signs reading “No Fishing Between Signs” hung on either side. Not dissuaded, Bill simply monkeyed down the embankment a little and flipped/softball tossed his trap up to the dam. Within seconds he had his first fish.

BTW, Florida bass are stunning. Dark green, with striking black marks down their side, and healthy, every catch looked every bit like something out of a magazine.

Bill flipped, tossed, and threw his way into four more fish. I, wary of the thought an alligator could leap out of the water and grab me (since I was standing right at water’s edge) did not fare as well getting my trap up to the strike zone.* After enduring relentless assaults on my manhood due to my inability to catch a single fish, we made our way back to the boat for other ‘hot spots.’

More of a tour that day than anything, we broke the sound barrier heading to numerous spots across the lake, dodging alligators, turtles, birds and something swimming across the canal I haven’t yet identified. We fished a lot, explored some areas we probably weren’t supposed to be in, and cussed at each other the rest of the morning. When the sun grew tall in the sky, and the clouds behind it climbed to unimaginable heights (flashing white warning bolts far in the distance), we called it a day and shot back to the launch.

While I held the boat off on the bank while Bill backed his truck down (I suppose my inadequacy on the lake didn’t give him a warm fuzzy about my ability to back down a trailer), I took note of an elderly lady sitting at the end of the pier, with a 40-ish guy standing beside her. Slumped in the chair, big sun hat covering her head and huge, circle sunglasses hiding her eyes, it was obvious she couldn’t get around very well. I struck up and conversation with the gentleman beside her. He said, “She used to take me when I was knee high almost every day. It’s only right I’m out here with her today.” Amen, brother.

Bill shared a lot of insight with me throughout our time Saturday. He took the time to try to put me on fish, explained how the dams and locks work, and did his best to ensure I had a good time, and I’m grateful to him for it. In a lot of ways, he reminds me of my own Dad.

And Bill, I’m here to tell you: THAT compliment doesn’t come easy from me.

I’m sure we’ll hit it again soon, and I’m certain I’ll eventually get my fly rod out after it. Until then, tight lines to everyone and remember to take your parents fishing.

*Please see my write up on crocodiles in Australia. You’ll understand this fear better.

Matt

This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 15th, 2009 at 7:00 am and is filed under Other Fishing, Trip Reports. The author is Matt Walker. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.