SPORTING LIFE

Linda and I were camped in our little Airstream at our favorite Florida winter destination, Chokoloskee Island, right below Everglades City. It had been a hectic trip. Usually we try to take our time on the adventure south, trying to avoid other snowbirds who are in a bigger hurry to escape the winter cold. But on this trip, it seemed that the migration had doubled. Camper trailers and motor homes were elbow-to-elbow at the campgrounds, and we were lucky to find sites at the transient encampments along the route.

We always stopped along the South Carolina coast to enjoy special landmarks and good seafood, especially at Pawleys Island, Georgetown, Charleston and Edisto Beach. But on this trip, like the campgrounds, the restaurants were packed and had waiting lines. It was shaping up to be a different kind of winter sojourn.

The managers of the campground and marina we call home for a couple of weeks in Chokoloskee had caught the snowballing of the snowbirds, and they had increased the number of parking sites. The problem with that was each site was smaller, or it seemed so. With the park being slam full, maybe the sites just seemed tiny. We were determined to make the best of it, though, and just enjoy the surroundings and camaraderie of the many friendly people there.

Everything was perking along nicely. We were getting used to the tight surroundings, catching a few fish, and enjoying the warm weather. We had about four days left before heading back home, so I decided to try fishing from the causeway that connected the compact island with Everglades City.

Early the next morning I decided to walk the nearly 2-mile hike to where I wanted to try my luck. Later, Linda was going into town to get a few groceries and said that she would pick me up if I was ready. The walk was uneventful. I only saw three or four cars on the causeway and thought most folks must be sleeping in.

I found a good spot under several alders that had been trimmed for shade and threw out a hooked shrimp on my bait casting rig and sorta hoped nothing would bite. The plan was to kinda kick back and use this morning to remember days gone by when I fished the bay with my grandfather. Back then, Chokoloskee was a true island, accessible only by water.

A soft warm wind was blowing out of the southwest, and ripples splashed gently on the bank. It was a contemplative time. It was like my mom told me years ago when I was in a hurry to get some chore or another finished. “Slow down, son,” she said. “Build memories, because when you reach old age they will be a pleasure to you.”

About a hundred yards out in the bay I saw a couple of porpoise dive and roll as if they were playing. I had seen them before from my canoe. They would approach the boat like friends, surf across the bow a time or two, then dive, and I wouldn’t see them again. They became a welcome diversion, and I was glad to have their company on one of my last days of fishing.

Early boaters were heading out to the gulf while the tide was in. The bay gets almost impassable to bigger boats when the tide is out, thus the value of fishing from a canoe. I used to haul my Grumman on our winter trips but found it was easier to rent from the marina and save all that lifting and toting.

It was a wonderful morning. Cumulus clouds floated like cotton puffs, moving slowly across the beautiful blue sky. I had an optimistic feeling that nature would remain the same for years to come. But then, here came empty plastic water bottles all attached to the holder that kept them together, floating in on the high tide.

I remembered what John MacDonald recorded in his Travis McGee book about all the garbage barges dumping their loads off the shores of Miami Beach. The same thing is happening in New York City. I’ve seen, with my own eyes, refuse barges being towed down the Hudson River out into the Atlantic to be dumped.

The older I get, the more I realize that this wonderful planet is gradually being used up. In my hometown, trees that we took for granted are mowed down to allow more and more construction. In my youth I hunted the swamps of Black Creek in South Carolina, not far from the family home place. Now a golf course in the gated community of The Country Club of South Carolina takes the place of giant cypress trees where I used to roam at will. Black Creek is no more than a fast water flowing ditch, a natural hazard for golfers.

One of the finest natural wild game habitat farms I had the privilege of using later in my duck hunting years was located in Alamance County, North Carolina, just 30 minutes from my house. That land has been sold and developed into 5- and 10-acre so called mini-farms. Wild game that used to frequent the acreage has dispersed or become semi-tame pests accustomed to the easy life of living next to humans.

I once declared that I would never, in my observations of outdoor life, exclaim noisily: “Things aren’t like, nor nearly as good, as they were when I was a boy.” That sad thing which I haven’t proclaimed until today is unfortunately now a fact.

I used my fishing rig to cast out and hook the floating water bottles. I reeled them in and stowed them in my fishing bag for proper disposal later. I decided to call it a day for fishing. Time to hike back to camp and begin the chore of getting the rig ready to head back north.