My family was more established as Floridians. As a boy the water of the Gulf was a huge playground, sometime I wonder how we got away with the shit we pulled. I wonder all the time how I survived and did not become dinner for the local Lamiopsis and Antigonia.
Some of the retarded stuff we would do:
Attempts to anchor our boats with weights, not the metal kind, the plastic wrapped cement filled variety. They were not heavy enough to nor would the ropes be long enough to prevent our canoe, yes fucking canoe, from coasting away as we dived in shallow water exploring sand bar reefs or digging for scallops.
Never watched the weather report the days we went out.
Never actually told anyone what we were doing or where we were going.
This has me wondering if nature has a way of weeding out the less than stellar genetic varieties and somehow me and my brother slipped through.
If we had lost or boat I wonder how long I could have treaded water before being saved. Honestly though we canoed out there in the first place I bet we could have swam back if it came to it.
Everyone knows sharks live in the water. And those sharks have symbiotic relationships with other creatures. Little fishes that wait for scraps and others that clean off bacteria. I was out on a boat with my buddy Jimmy. We were having no luck. Until I caught a giant Remora Fish big enough to crack my fishing pole in half. I Remember Jimmy exclaiming, “That must have been one big shark to have that guy cleaning its mouth.”
I pictured jaws and as Jimmy cleaned the remora for bait I decided I had done enough fishing and started preying the laws of displacement would keep our ever filling canoe from sinking.
Seriously how did I survive?
There were stories of dumb asses catching hammerhead sharks off Hudson Beach all the time. The sharks would drag motor boats miles before the line would snap leaving them far away from home and no decent evidence to show for the catch that got away.
We thought our parents were in the dark to our intentions. We had no doubt. Even today I certainly wouldn’t give any child of mine the same freedom to explore, as I think of it now, Florida’s dangerous shark filled graveyard.
The canoe would be put in the water of the Pithlachascotee at Jimmy’s father’s dock about a block from my childhood home. The three of us climbed in, aware, if we toppled over, beneath us lay the sharp barnacles of the oysters no one ate, due to the rivers pollution level.
Pushing off we headed under the bridge on U.S. 19 and past the Chicken Wing place with the girls in white and orange who would wave as we passed.
It was a mile or so stretch to the island from the dock and none of us appreciated the work, the middle seat was the choice locale, no paddling and usually won by a quick rock, paper, scissor contest, I never won and always choose the rear to guide the craft to our own personal campground.
We usually camped on the weekends, fished by day and raided crab traps, not even knowing about the legalities of such actions. Never had a fishing license and years later I heard an owner of one of those cages could shoot immediately anyone caught raiding them, but honestly I have never heard of someone being shot over crab meat, still feel bad about those indiscretions now though.
We sparked a fire at night to roast the hard earned sea's bounty, from roaring flames we ate with greedy singed fingers. We slept under stars on a speck of white sand provided by our own little island a mile off the coast of Pasco County called Durney Key.
I haven't set foot on the island in almost two decades, but still can remember the sparkling rays of sun bouncing off the greenish blue waters. Flying fish leapt for dinner, or for whatever reason they leave their watery homes visiting ours briefly. Houses on stilts built as fish camps were where we fished. We rowed out to each hoping that the owner would just one time neglect to lock their windows and doors so that we could get inside for a closer look at their magical world on stilts above the water.
We cast their docks and caught pinfish and grunts. Not big enough to eat, but we would clean them anyway and add them to the feast.
We had days of hide and seek, pretending to be in Vietnam, I was the green beret.
We dug as deep as a plastic oar will allow looking for buried treasure.
As the days went on the camping trips became more and more elaborate. First a tent would be packed then real wood from my mom’s stock pile against the house, then pots and pans, sleeping bags and changes of clothing snacks and reading material. From starting out with nothing at the beginning of the summer we became a small caravan of comfort at the end.
The canoe would ride low in the water and waves occasionally splashed over the sides making the trip out more agonizing with the fear of capsizing or going under. So we decided to do something different the final weekend.
Our last trip to the island was enough adventure to have us never return. It was near the end of the summer that separated seventh and eighth grade. We had stocked up with so much we had to bring Jimmy’s paddle boat, like the ones you rent on a lake for a lazy summer day, and a real row boat. This time we had enough room for my dog Shadow.
The paddle boat required two people to operate and with my brother and Jimmy paddling as hard they could progress was slow. Slow not only because of the physical engineering of the craft, which meant for slow meandering around smooth bodies of water but also with the added weight of our camping gear the nose of the craft keep dipping below the surface.
I had the canoe and a dog that was afraid of water, always had been and now she was trying to wedge her body under the rear seat I was propped on. She wiggling and whined I felt bad for her but never considered taking her home.
Drenched in salt water produced by our bodies and the gulf we finally made landfall on our little oasis. Night was steadily approaching and with a load of rock claw and blue crab somehow finding its way into our procession we settled in. It wasn't long before the wind began to pick up and the normal explosion of color announcing the end of a Florida day was covered by black clouds.
When the rain started we had given up on the tent and instead propped up a piece of plywood that had managed to find itself on the island. It wasn't bad sleeping on wet sleeping bags and munching on cold crab meat with my dog whining and hugging its tail between her legs running out to the beach as if the way to leave the hell were there she just needed to find it. She was not about to swim for it over the choppy water that threatened to swallow our little island right from beneath us.
Shadow Howled until the next morning.
The sun crept up in the west and we packed our stuff back into our boats, leaving crab shells as evidence. We thought about leaving stuff behind, we were tired and bickering back and forth by the time we were ready to try the journey home. Just as we were about to cast off Jimmy’s father came roaring up to the beach in his boat, a twin engine thing that skirted over the water leaving a white train of foam in its wake.
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