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S an old proverb goes, “It is the unexpected that happens.” This ancient
saw, seemed to find illustration when some one called out, as we were
sitting at breakfast, “Come out and see this big trout!” We were on
the St. Johns River and the steamer had tied up at a landing to take on
wood. A trout in Florida! Somehow that experience had not been among
our anticipations when we planned the trip; but why should not the
unexpected happen in Florida as well as elsewhere? Knowing that it is
never safe to be too skeptical concerning any statement which concerns
fishing or fish, we joined the company of investigators. On the pier was
a lad of fourteen or fifteen, holding up for inspection a fish that was,
indeed, big, but to northern eyes gave no indications of being a trout.
It was a giant “big-month” bass, and the lad’s assertion that it weighed
twelve pounds seemed quite probable. It seems ridiculous to call the
handsome speckled denizens of clear, mountain streams, and the brown,
ugly frequenter of the muddy St. Johns by the same name, but there is
no law forbidding such trespass. When we reach the coast we find the
weakfish has also been transformed into a trout.
The “dead rivers” that abound along the St. Johns are well named,
although they are not rivers at all, but bayous. They have no
perceptible current, and the stagnant water furnishes a most
satisfactory habitat for alligators. One day, when we had committed
ourselves to the care of a negro boatman, we spent a forenoon in one of
these dead rivers, catching an occasional bass and shooting curlew and
fox squirrels. Passing a tree-top that had fallen into the water, the
boatman told us that he had seen a number of little ‘gators drop into
the water as we approached, and said that he would catch us some if we
wished. Rowing quietly up to the tree-top, he watched the surface of the
water for a little time and then, making a quick grab, held up a little
wriggling alligator some eight or ten inches long. This was repeated
until he had captured five, and we informed him that these were all we
could use to advantage. It is said that the relentless warfare waged
against the alligator by tourists and native hunters who covet his
hide has made him a rarity, at least along the lines of travel, but
twenty-five years ago, no one who visited Florida need fail of a sight
of this ugly saurian. Coming home in the afternoon of the day spent with
the negro boatman, our attention was called to the swaying of the marsh
grass not far distant, and the negro informed us that it was caused,
he thought, by an alligator. With guns at cock and all ready to open a
fusillade on the first appearance of the game, a cautious approach was
made until we were alongside the grass. Then, as we were standing in the
boat, peering this way and that in an effort to spy our victim, there
was an unexpected rush, the boat was given a whack that almost caused
the hunters to fall overboard, and we had a fleeting glimpse of our
quarry as he disappeared in the waters of the river. The performance was
so unexpected and so soon over that not a shot was fired.
For many years the Indian River country has been a prime favourite with
those who visit Florida. The so-called river is really a long, narrow
arm of the sea, and at some points, a walk of five minutes brings one
from the river to the ocean. The soil along this river is exceedingly
fertile, and some of the finest orange groves in the state are found
at Rock Ledge and farther south. This body of water furnishes ideal
conditions for sailing, hunting and fishing, and nothing can be more
delightful than a cruise of a few days with congenial companions. We
hired a sharpie, a flat-bottomed sailboat of such light draft that it
is commonly said of it that it “will sail in a dew,” and with a generous
supply of oranges on board set off from Rock Ledge towards the south.
Some fishing, some duck-shooting, much idling and orange eating, served
to make the days pass like a happy dream. When night came it was not
difficult to find some winter-hotel with comfortable accommodations. Not
infrequently night had fallen before we reached the desired haven,
and the water would turn to silver as the mullet darted here and there
before the slow-moving boat.
One day we anchored at the mouth of the Banana River, that members of
the party who had never seen the ocean, might walk across the narrow
spit of land that separates between the river and the Atlantic. One of
the company, to whom the sea was no novelty, elected to remain on
board, moved to this decision, in part at least, by the fact that he
had secured some bait the night before that as yet he had been unable
to use. Left to himself, he began operations at once, and soon landed a
seven-pound channel bass. This seemed pretty good to the lone fisherman,
but he had no sooner put on a fresh piece of mullet and thrown out
than another tug at his line assured him that “the best is yet to be.”
Despite the angler’s most skilful manipulations that fish had its own
way at first. It went down, down, until the anxious fisherman saw that
the line remaining on the reel must be measured by inches. Then it
decided upon a reversal, and came up so rapidly that only by reeling
madly was the line kept taut. After that the fish took a notion to
circumnavigate the boat, which he proceeded to do in spite of protests
from the fisherman. When one is fishing from a row-boat with anchor
safely stowed away in the bow, there can be no serious objections
urged if the fish decides to describe a circle about the boat; but on a
sail-boat at anchor, the case is radically different. It is not easy to
manipulate your rod successfully under the anchor rope, crawl under the
boom, keep clear of the rudder, and never, for a second, give the fish
the least slack line. One such experience is more than enough, and when
that fish repeated the performance three times he almost exhausted the
fisherman’s patience. But all things have an end, even the antics of a
fish that objects to being caught, and at last the sturdy fighter began
to grow amenable to discipline. Slowly, line was reeled in and, after
many flurries and plunges, he was landed safely in the boat. Natives
assured the captor that eighteen pounds was not very large for a channel
bass; but even their efforts to minimize the importance of the event did
not entirely destroy the angler’s satisfaction.
If there is a more uninteresting ride anywhere than that from Palatka
to Charlotte Harbour, we do not care to find it. Scrub palmetto, pines,
sand, and then sand, pines and scrub palmetto, until the traveller
almost wishes the engine would jump the track or bandits hold up the
train to break the deadly monotony. After all, that day is a red-letter
one, for during it the writer made a friend. At noon, the train stopped
near a lonely building in the pine woods to allow the passengers to
dine. Other bills of fare may be forgotten, but the menu that noon is
imperishably engraved on the tablets of memory. Who would not remember
a meal consisting of saleratus biscuits--with strong emphasis upon the
saleratus--“sides” of pork and sweet potato pie? It is conceivable that
even these may be palatable when well cooked, but the materials used
that day had evidently had no fair chance to reveal their excellence
when skilfully treated.
Among the passengers was a tall, somewhat gaunt man, with long, brown
hair and a straggling-beard just showing a hint of grey. The face was
rugged but kindly, and the eyes deep-set. One felt, instinctively, that
here was a man of power and goodness whom it would be a privilege to
know, and when a chance remark made by him to the traveller from the
north gave an excuse for further conversation it was eagerly seized
upon. It was not until the train was approaching Charlotte Harbour that
we learned the name of our travelling companion, a name familiar, then
and now, the world over, among those who look and long for a better
day for man--Edward Everett Hale. His destination was the same as our
own--Pine Island--where we spent three delightful weeks, the greatest
pleasure of which was his companionship. After we had been at the little
hotel on Pine Island two or three days, the proprietor approached the
writer with something of unusual timidity in his manner, and ventured
the information that Doctor Hale would preach in the school house the
next Sunday. “Would you dare to assist in the service?” he hesitatingly
asked. “Dare to take part in the service? Why not? What danger would
there be?” “But you know he is a Unitarian, and I understand you are a
Baptist. I didn’t know but some one would make trouble for you if they
should hear that you had joined in a service with a Unitarian,” said the
kind-hearted landlord. When assured that we were quite ready to run the
risk, he went out with beaming face to tack up his notices. Among
many sermons heard from many preachers, good, bad and indifferent, the
outline of Doctor Hale’s sermon on that Sunday morning, in the little
school house, is the only one that refuses to be forgotten. He chose for
treatment the story of the rich young man who came to Jesus asking what
he should do to gain eternal life, and gave his interpretation of
the true life. In a quiet, conversational manner, he set forth his
conception of the ideal for the individual and for society as living
“with God, for man, in heaven.” The points were driven home by the use
of homely but telling illustrations, and, after the passing of many
years, one, at least, of those who listened that day, feels the glow
and thrill begotten of this fine setting forth of the possibilities in
manhood.
One of the most vivid pictures of Doctor Hale which those days furnished
is, as he stands on the government pier at Sanibel Island fishing for
sheepshead. He wore a long, linen duster, used a cane-pole without a
reel, and the fish that came to his hook were usually made to describe
the arc of a circle, landing with a resounding thump on the pier. After
fishing had ceased to be attractive, owing to the undue eagerness of
the sheepshead to be caught, the party wandered across the island to the
outer shore where the waters of the Gulf of Mexico came tumbling in upon
the beach, and shells were numerous and beautiful. On the way one bought
a fine specimen of the saw of a sawfish from the Cuban fisherman, and
another shot a diamond-back rattlesnake which lay coiled in the path.
We were becalmed that night on the sail home, and Doctor Hale’s varied
experiences were drawn upon to alleviate the monotony of the long wait
for a favourable wind.
The rattlers were treated with the utmost respect by all the guests
after a resident physician had told us that in an experience of more
than twenty years in southern Florida he had never known any one to
survive the bite of a diamondback rattlesnake. When one of the visitors
would go up the island after deer he preferred to mount a pony and
undertake to shoot from its back rather than to trudge through the dense
undergrowth when any step might bring him within striking distance of
this dreaded reptile. When a gentleman from Boston related an experience
which he had two years before at the very point where the hotel had
since been built, the reluctance on the part of the visitors to come
into close quarters with Florida rattlers sensibly increased. He was one
of a party of four who were cruising along the gulf coast in a sharpie.
They landed at the foot of Pine Island, and two of the party started up
the island after deer. They walked about a hundred yards apart, and had
not gone far when one heard his companion’s gun go off and called out
asking what he had shot. Getting no reply, he hastened to his friend,
whom he found on the ground and by him a rattlesnake which he had
shot. The snake had struck him in the calf of the leg, and in spite of
everything that could be done, the man died before night.
The first visit of a northerner to this section is certain to be filled
with novel experiences. Never before has he seen oysters growing on
trees, but here, at low tide, this phenomenon may be observed at any
time. The so-called “coon” oysters attach themselves to the boughs which
droop over and into the water at high tide, and when the tide has gone
out they are left hanging in great masses, high, if not dry. The little
fiddler crabs, swarming by thousands in the sand of the beach, waving
their single arm frantically in the air, were an unfailing source of
amusement. Pelicans abounded, and a part of the day’s program was to
feed mullet to the two tame ones which made their headquarters on the
pier. Through long practice and because of the capacious bag which they
carry, they could catch, with almost unfailing accuracy, every fish
pitched in their direction. Every day some of the visitors fished from
the pier for sharks. Probably this sport has its fascination for those
who enjoy that sort of thing, but when it is considered that from this
same pier one might catch many varieties of excellent food fish, the
passion for shark fishing becomes an impenetrable mystery.
Probably no one who fishes at all can withstand the temptation to try
his hand at tarpon when visiting the Gulf of Mexico waters. One hears
such stories of the gaminess of this fish, of the fight, prolonged
through many hours, at times, which is necessary to land it, that he
soon contracts the tarpon fever. In spite of a certain reluctance to
go in pursuit of fish which are good for nothing when caught, fish
that have never injured us and against which we hold no malice, a
sunny morning saw the writer and a boatman starting out for tarpon. We
anchored at a favourable point, the hook was baited with half a mullet,
tied on as well as hooked, and then came the wait. It was not long, for
in less than half an hour the fisherman announced to his oarsman, “I
feel something.”
“Let him have it,” urged the boatman, for one secret of successful
fishing for tarpon is to give the fish plenty of time to gorge the bait.
After what seemed to be an interminable time the oarsman said, “Now
strike him.” And strike him we did, with the most astonishing result.
No sooner had the fisherman struck, than a mountain of burnished silver
flung itself out of the water. The oarsman said it was a tarpon of
average size; but to the fisherman he looked to be fifty feet long and
to weigh a ton. Just how large he was will never be known, for with
vicious shakes of his head he flung the baited hook at least fifteen
feet away. Disappointed? Not especially. Fortunately we had never really
felt that our happiness depended upon catching a tarpon.
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```_Then weary is the street parade,
```And weary books, and weary trade:
````I’m only wishing to go fishing;
```For this the month of May was
`````made._
`````--Henry Van Dyke,
`````_An Angler’s Wish in Town._
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