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HPD surf fishes Florida with a suspicious character

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High Plains Drifter

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Through my blurry squinted eyes he looked like some sort of a garish clown. Large and grinning dressed in awful blue and orange. It had been a hellish two hours since he left me. He mumbled something about having forgotten his wallet and being forced to beg at the Subway for money. Fat chance. The things people will do for bait. He had departed ranting about the need for live shrimp. The mushy ones we had would not do. The live crabs we had would not do. The clams we had would not do. Irrational obsessions I accuse. He had left me all alone and innocent with promises of returning soon (Ha!). Little did I know that I would be attacked by alien creatures of all sorts.

 

I had left my sane world in Minnesota and traveled to Jacksonville Florida to hob-knob with my friend Steve Austin. A surf fishing road trip was in the offing. Upon my arrival we sorted through the options. We could stay local, go a bit south, go a lot south, go more south, go very south……….this whole thing was going south ‘cause the fishing was reportedly poor to the south. After massaging this to death we decided to go west to the pan handle of Florida. St. George Island on Apalachicola Bay to be exact. I love saying Apalachicola. “Apalachicola”. “Apalachicola”. It rolls off the tongue with aplomb and tickles my funny bone. Strangely enough, the area looks just like Minnesota. Piney woods, lots of water, and friendly relaxed folks. The only difference was I couldn’t make out what the locals were saying ‘cause they seemed to be speaking some sort of foreign dialect. It goes like this. “Wha dlong froloming cal mylaoundry neaded walshim”. When I would look at Steve for translation he would only grin and laugh. I don’t think he could understand it either and he was faking it.

 

St. George Island is a long skinny sand spit that has a storm ravaged looked. Lots of blown sand dunes and scrubby grasses. Not much in the way of trees or soil. The beckoning beaches are covered with fine powdery white sand and the water is clear and soothing. After finding suitable lodging (meaning a suitable amount of questionable lounging characters) we applied our vast fishing experience and knowledge. This means we put the local bait shops through an unrelenting inquisition. It turns out the west end of the island has a deep cut near shore and the currents draw good fishing. The problem was this place is guarded by “The Plantation”. Common folks can’t go there. Too bad I had Steve with me. I was greatly disappointed to not find pretty southern belles dressed in hoop skirts on porches offering us cool mint juleps. There was only a barricade with a guard protecting a rich folk’s housing development. The guard seemed quite taken aback. I think he had spent languishing years bowing to the residents and lifting the gate. I don’t think he had ever encountered the mythical unsavory sort of folks such as us. Certainly he could not fathom that anyone would have the gall to invade the peaceful kingdom of the privileged. We tried all sorts of rationales for why he should let us in. Ultimately I think it was Steve’s puppy dog eyes that did the trick. We were in.

 

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I’m not much of a bait fisherman. My specialty is plugging for roosterfish in the surf of Mexico. That’s where Steve and I had become acquainted. This bait thing was new to me and the pure obsession of it was somewhat unsettling. The fascination with galactic lead weights and convoluted riggings seemed a bit over-the-top. The craving for bits of colored plastic, foam, furry, and other assorted beads seemed quite weird. Certainly the pre-occupation with proper baits was a pure addiction. I think Steve is more interested in the acquisition of bait than the actual fish quarry. I think he needs help and ‘ya all should form a support group to help him with this addiction. Perhaps you could call it “ Stinky Hands Anonymous” (SHA).

 

After a seemingly ritualistic set-up procedure we settled into staring at unquivering rod tips. Very quickly Steve became fidgety and started raving about the lack of proper bait. He assured me that if he left in search of live shrimp it would turn the tables and fish would leap onto our hooks. He left me like a buck-toothed prom date. I had become a wall flower. All alone and inexperienced. Innocent and unsuspecting. No sooner did the dust of his departing truck settled and a strange wind began to howl.

 

One of the rod tips bent over and I dragged in a fish from the planet of Origonthon. It snapped at me with a thousand sharp teeth and I danced around it like a little girl.

 

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While I puzzled over this another alien from the planet of Zothomroo bent over a rod tip and I dragged that one to shore. This one had a lashing sharp spike on its tail and an evil look in its eye.

 

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Suddenly I had to pee but another rod tip bent and a fish popped out of the ocean from the galaxy of Aquariomium.

 

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Then a heron decided the open bait cooler was his lunch counter and he dared me to intervene. Then the rising wind snatched the beach umbrella into the ocean and my hat joined the sail boat regatta. All the while strange aquatic creatures were flopping on the sand and rod tips kept bending over. I was greatly disturbed and busier than a one-armed paper hanger. Before long I settled a rhythm of cranking in fish, dashing to the bait cooler, untangling lines, searching for Band-Aids, and trying to keep my dignity. Evidently the dignity thing didn’t go well because a few of the fishless nearby fishermen seemed to be laughing their asses off. This went on for what seemed to be eons but my watch said was two hours. I finally collapsed on the sand in a weeping and parched mess. Then this blurry blue and orange clown appeared before me.

 

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He was insistent that I had not caught all those fish on improper bait. He was not sympathetic to my distraught. He had the gall to tell me he had gotten the short end of the stick and was now road weary. All I know is that I returned to Minnesota with a cooler full of fish.

 

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. - HPD

 

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Sea trout, whiting, Spanish mackerel, pompano

 

Seriously.....Steve Austin is an fine host and a special friend of mine. He is the USA distributor of excellent AFAW surf rods which were key to our outstanding catch over several days. He is a big and demented fan of the blue and orange Florida Gators.

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HPD is a giant amongst men. Only he can hoist a giant hammerhead shark out of the sea with one hand. And with the other snap a picture :)

 

Great read. Those pesky bonnetheads are cool little buggers aren't they.

"Panacheless is no way to go through life"

Tims

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