Things I will miss

I spent a couple of days over the Fourth of July holiday scalloping at a friend’s house in Hernando Beach at the mouth of the Weeki Watchee River. Being there made me think about what I will miss about Florida when I make the final move to the north Georgia mountains.

I will miss being on the water in a boat heading offshore or up the inland waterway just before dawn to go fishing. In the summer at that hour the air is cool, but pregnant with humidity. You navigate by the lights on the bridges, the dimly seen channel markers, and the low, dark shapes of spoil islands and the land. In the distance, to the west, thunderheads rise high into the night sky over the Gulf, their billowing shapes revealed by the constant flashes of lightening that flicker within them. Sometimes, faintly, you can hear the low rumble of thunder far off over the water.

I will miss being on the water as the sun comes up. Dawn begins with a pale, barely discernible aura on the eastern horizon. As dawn progresses, the stars begin to disappear one by one, and you start to see the vague outlines of islands and structures on the shore. At a certain point, when the sun is still below the horizon, low lying clouds to the east and the high tops of thunderheads over the Gulf are illuminated with a ruddy glow that slowly turns from pink to reddish-orange. At that moment the day seems glorious and wonderful and full of promise. When the crescent top of the sun's disc cracks the horizon, the world is bathed in light, and the magic of the dawn disappears.

I will miss drifting over a grass flats on a slow moving tide casting top water plugs for sea trout, retrieving the lure with slow twitches to simulate a wounded bait fish. As you reel the lure in, a quick swirl behind the plug lets you know that a trout has risen to investigate. Sometimes there is a popping slurp and the lure will slip sideways a few inches as a trout hits it from beneath. The best, though, is when a trout hits the lure so hard that it flies into the air with a loud rattle and the body of the fish arcs into the air.

They say that the Great Plains is big sky country, meaning that the sky is visible from horizon to horizon. The same is true of Florida when you are offshore on a small boat. All you can see is water and sky in a 360 degree panorama. I will miss that.

I will miss the sound of fishing line ripping off a reel after your bait has been taken by a big fish. The sound causes everyone in the boat to be galvanized into a flurry of activity. One person grabs the rod, sets the hook, and announces, “It’s a big one.” Others in the boat grab the remaining rods and quickly reel them in so the lines do not tangle. As the fisherman fights the fish, the other persons in the boat shout advice or encouragement. “Keep the rod tip up.” “Don’t horse it, you’ll break the line.” “Tighten your drag.” When the fish is drawn closer it makes a number of runs, pulling line off against the drag of the reel. The number of runs, their length, and the way the fish is fighting gives experienced anglers a clue about what type of fish it is. “Sounds like a kingfish to me.” “No, it’s fighting like a big cobia.” “Bullshit, it’s a shark.” When the fisherman finally draws the fish close to the boat, everyone gazes eagerly over the side to be the first to see it and call out its size and species. When, at last, the fish is cut free or brought into the boat, the person who caught it wears a broad smile, while the others in the boat comment on his luck, his prowess or lack thereof in fighting the fish, the fish’s size, the length of the fight, and whether they caught a bigger fish the other day. In some ways, this part of the catch is ritual, and, I imagine, not far removed from the type of banter exchanged by our hunter-gatherer forefathers after a successful hunt.

I will miss camping on small spoil islands along the inland waterway in the winter. You reach them by boat. Because you have a boat, you can bring creature comforts—large tents, inflatable mattresses, collapsible chairs, a radio, a couple of bottles of good wine, a flask of good bourbon, a grill, and a large cooler with good food. After dinner, as the darkness descends, it begins to grow chilly. You slip on a sweat shirt and sweat pants, light a small fire, and settle comfortably into your chair, sipping your drink of choice and enjoying the tranquility. When it comes time to go to bed, you snuggle into your sleeping bag atop a cushiony air mattress and listen to the gentle slap, slap of the rippling waves on the island’s shoreline only a few yards away until sleep overcomes you. Hard to beat.

Yes, there are things I will miss when I move from this place. Hopefully, north Georgia will bring new and better experiences to savor.