But the moon and the water had worked together to provide me with a sight I found to be so heavenly that I wanted it to be part of me. The measureless motion of water heading to the Gulf of Mexico flowed past me and I felt the motion in my body. The waters were full of hyacinth and ribbon grass torn from their anchor, the water's rich black texture contrasted against the shimmering surface. How can something be so clear close to the hand, and so dark in the panorama of the living sheet of liquid that poured past me? Where I stood was a good spot; a quiet spot where water spun small swirls, and rolled short-lived curls in the surface. It was a wide place where the red mangrove limbered itself to the edge of the riverbed. Here when the tide was peaking, the water invaded the mangroves and nourished the sandy river bottom. The soup of life thrived here. From the smallest crab to the smallest trout, the babes of the sea would grow here until they could venture beyond the maze of mangrove roots out into the vast oak stained river.
It was because the children of the sea and their older kin lived in relative security beneath the jade mangrove leaves, that the larger fish came here. The snook, a fish with hooked jaw and a brown racing stripe down its middle face into the escaping tide. Snook, like assassins, are swift, lethal, striking with loud ferocity. The speckled trout, is named for its spots and its mouth, a silver fish, with soft flesh. Trout have to be on the ice or in the pan for fear they would turn soft too quickly. Mullet lived here. I think a mullet is frustrated because it has seen its cousin, the flying fish broach the blue waters of the gulf and skim for great distances above the water, flying from wave top to wave top. Being the shape of a bullet, the mullet can only emerge from the water in short powerful bursts, always attempting and always failing to fly as far as its cousin, the flying fish. Sometimes overcome by the futility of flying, the mullet simply jumps and flops back in the water, resigned to the fact that it will never fly like its cousin.
Other fish are here, mingo snapper, mighty red fish, croakers, gars, pinfish, and many others. One fish lives here in the summer, one they call the king. The king tarpon is a silver fish when it comes directly in from the Gulf. But after living in the tannin waters of Charlotte Harbor and the Peace River, it becomes a golden toned king, befitting its image as the supreme ruler of this water. The tarpon is fitted with armor like large scales, the size of silver dollars. To own one of those scales is quite the prize. It's bulldog appearance befits it image as the bad boy in the stream.
This was morning, and I had traveled to this spot because I wanted to catch a trout, or a snook, or anything else that would rise to my bait. All the hunters of the shallows were indiscriminate about what they ate as long as they could catch it. That was to my advantage and so I came with spinning reel in hand with strong line and my favorite lure, a blue rebel. The lure was blue on top, a bright blue, and its sides were silver to attract fish with the reflection of the light from the sun or water. It was white on the bottom and its hooks had been bent back in place a number of times with needle nose pliers. It was well used, and many a snook, trout, and river bass had been landed with the lure. It didn't dive quite right because a wanton fish had taken a small piece out of the side, most likely a snook. But it attracted fish because it had the peculiar habit of sinking to the left and wiggling back to the surface when I waggled my line.
I stood where the river met the mangrove. Straight ahead of me, the flowing coffee colored waters moved with the intent of an elephant, the river’s size belied its quickness. Only by watching a hyacinth or some other object in the water speed toward the salty waters, did one get a real sense of the hurried nature of the water. To my right was the mangrove and further to my right a creek emptied into the river. I was at a point across from the edge of the mangrove. A good place because where waters meet there are often fish. I could throw my lure sidearm across the creek and to the edge of the vegetation that dipped just to the water surface. With a little more time the tide would be out and I could see the skinny knees and gnarled legs that made up the thick trees in the water. But now was the time to fish, as evidenced by the busy motion under the mangroves.
Old adversaries were facing off, trout and bull minnow, snook and pinfish. Life and death struggles ensued just beyond me. I unhooked my rebel lure from an eye on the rod and let the lure hang. I watched it twirl and unwind, checking out the swivel that attached the twenty pound test line on one end and the thin wire leader on the other. My lure of choice, dented, and marked crooked treble hooks dangled and waved in the air, waiting to be launched into the sky toward the mangrove. I threaded the line on my pointing finger, tripped the bale and brought my arm back. The air was still, no need to throw low on the water. Instead I arced the lure toward the middle of the mangrove and watched as it dropped down into the water, just outside the reach of the branches. It slipped underwater and bobbed to the surface, sending circles of water ever expanding away from the landing.
This was the best time in the fishing. I knew that somewhere under the water, a fish, maybe a snook, maybe a trout, might have noticed the lure. It may have turned and with the quickening pulse of a predator, expanded its gills and floated upward toward my lure. If I waited long enough, I could get the fish to strike... if I worked the lure right. If I waited too long, the artificial sense of the blue rebel would be exposed and only a young or juvenile fish might make a hasty attack. I rolled the slack in, careful not to move the lure toward me and away from the dark waters under the mangled trees. Then like one had felt a tick in their arm, I sliced the line out of the water. The transparent link between myself and my lure dripped water as it rose just off the surface causing the lure to dance and dive beneath the surface.
As the lure rose, I saw in my vision, some distance to the left, back toward the entry to the river, a tell-tale movement. The water bowed up, but it didn't break. The thought occurred to me that the motion reminded me of a child crawling beneath a blanket, his movement identified by forward motion and by the blanket lowering and rising with the child's movement. The uprising disappeared. I twitched the lure again. The lure zagged right and went down, then waggled and floated up to the surface. The pressure point in the water appeared again and a streak of gold, maybe silver beacon-ed its position and disappeared. The fish was large, and the bright color indicated it was most likely a snook. It seemed too large to be a trout and too bright to be a red fish. I anticipated the struggle that would come, the work I would have to do to keep the fish out of the tangled roots opposite myself. If I could just make the lure do what the fish wanted I would have it, or at least the fight.
This cast was nearly over. The lure had made its way down the edge of the foliage and the water had carried it along at a good angle. Soon it would be at the exodus of the swamp and float into the river. No slack remained, and it was time to twitch the lure one more time. There was no time. Just as I pulled the lure, it dove beneath the surface awash in a cacophonous loud vision of water and sound. My line stood at attention, my rod bent to the river and the fish swallowed my lure and began its run to the river. It was a big fish, its pressure and power muscling my line. My drag, set moderate so as to only slow a fish, began to click and soon it was a whirl of sounds as the fish took my line on a ride. I pulled back on the rod, setting it up as straight as I could to turn the fish.
There was no turning, or stopping, or even impeding this fish. I felt the tension in my rod and I put both hands on the stock. I could hear the gears strain and lose the test of wills. Then as often, things do, I felt myself apart and watching the scene unfold in a slow procession of frames. It was no snook and it was no great redfish, it ran too swiftly and too straight. It was however, in the middle of the river, a long ways from me and pulling more and more line off my reel. At that moment I knew the line would break, instead the line went slack. I thought the fish was gone. But it wasn't, it was there and I could feel the line slide along the surface of the water. . This fish was going to surface and jump.
I began to reel my line as fast as I could, but it wasn't fast enough because the water before me, a stones throw away, exploded in foam and wave. The fish rose out of the water, and then I knew it was a king tarpon. Its mouth flew open, gills extended, bright, red, flush, with purpose. The color was bright silver, and its length was as long as I . It was a master of flight, head arched, dog lip dropped and its tail fin slapping the air with the power of a fish not used to being turned. It rose vertically and snapped its head toward me, its large luminous eye seemed to find my eye and for an instant we were linked in time by fortune or misfortune. I grabbed that moment and banked it because it was a moment when two creatures met, from different worlds with each one’s intent, to own the other or to escape the try.
The tarpon fell to the water, long side meeting the river. The resulting entry was of the magical nature, with water like a fountain rising upward all around the king. Its entry finished, the waters fell and drop for
drop I heard the water settled back into the black river. It was then that I felt the line slack. The king had thrown the lure as it launched on its desperate flight, jackknifing the lure high into the air. It fluttered and tumbled back to the water.
I stood there for a while, overwhelmed by the suddenness of battle and the silence that followed. The river rolled on, the mangrove fluttered in the rising wind. I had seen the king and the king was gone. It never occurred to me what I would have done if I had been fortunate enough to land the tarpon... But of course I knew my tackle would have given in before that happened. It was silly of me to think like that, no one at home would believe I could catch a tarpon, much less hook one. I looked at the river and the creek and the sand and the sun now rising above the opposite bank. Herons and egrets, king fishers and ibis milled in the trees and on the waters edge, others circled in the sky. In the water the play continued with fish and prey, water and wind, time and tragedy, a salty leaved red mangrove serving as the stadium.
I reeled my line in, all the time wondering what I could say to anyone. It was no use, no one would believe this boy had hung a tarpon. I reeled the last of the line in, watching my lure now half submerged in the water, waggle and work convulsively back to me. And in an instant I remembered, there is fortune for those who believe. On the lure, unbelievable, inconceivable, and wondrous there was an offer. I pulled the lure to me out of the water, and carefully, as if I was handling fragile life, pulled the king tarpon scale from the treble hook and laid it in the palm of my hand. One King tarpon dollar, paid in full.
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