Sand fleas

 

A month ago, I spent five days on the sand in Navarre Beach, Fla., with four of my buddies in our second annual surf-fishing extravaganza. With an embarrassing number of surf-rods deployed and deposited in sand spikes each day, Fred, Steve, Joe, Barry and I were able to cull the greenish-brown waters of late April for several keeper pompano, a good bull red and a couple coolers full of some of the biggest whiting any of us had ever seen. We had a blast on both the beach and the pier, and certainly got our fill of fishing.

 

Rods are deployed. Day One. 

By the numbers, here’s how it went.

One – As in the number of sharks caught on this trip. This was about 50 less than we caught in Cape San Blas a few years prior.

10 – As in the number of species of fish we caught. Redfish, pompano, Southern kingfish, Gulf kingfish, Spanish mackerel, bluefish, spiny puffer, Southern stingray, catfish, blacktip shark.

10 again – As in the length (in feet) of Steve’s brand-new kayak, which he toted to the beach via the top of his SUV and successfully christened and launched on his first attempt, at night, into a rough surf, carrying a bloody shark bait. Onions!

The arsenal.

25 – The unofficial count of the number of rods brought by five guys to the beach. Fred won top honors with nine rods, while Steve toted eight, I lugged five, Barry brought two and Joe only had one with him.

50 – The estimated number of fish Joe caught. He easily out-fished us all.

 

Pompano Joe

Showing off with nearly a 3-pound whiting.

11.15 – The official poundage of the largest fish caught on the trip, Fred’s redfish, which I weighed on my trusty digital scale.

267 – The number of times that weight was disputed by Fred.

13 – The age in years of the crusty nine-volt battery that powered my trusty 13-year old digital scale.

24 – The estimated, unofficial, actual weight of the redfish.

 

Officially, 11.15 pounds.

1545 – The length, in feet, of the nearby Navarre pier, the longest pier in the Gulf.

Two – The number of badly sunburned feet. Unfortunately, Barry owned both of ‘em.

Four – How many times we ate at Stinky’s Fish Camp. Thanks Dennis the Manager, for supplying us with a nightly dose of grilled fish and vegetables. And ice cold Hoptical Illusion.

Seven – The length in inches of Steve’s fillet knife, which fell out of his kayak and is presumably hidden in the sand at the edge of the first trough. Be careful out there, conchologists.

12 – The preferred age of MacMartin’s Macallan.

 

Fred heaves one towards a cobia boat.

7234.56 – The estimated volume of the seafood nachos Steve ordered at Flounders in Pensacola for our lone lunch outing of the week. It was man vs. food and food easily won. 

.5 – The seconds needed for Fred to nickname Barry, after watching him try to clean/mangle a whiting with a dull fillet knife he brought from home. All of us have nicknames (some more than others), but the newest member of our crew is henceforth known as “Butter Knife Barry.”

BK Barry

3.6 – The average number of times each of us got up to pee each night.

87 – Our average diastolic reading.

17 – The average number of times “We’re getting old” was muttered by the collective group each day.

Taking a kayak break.

11:30 p.m. – When I finally returned home on the last day, after Barry and I prolonged our visit with a final stop at the pier, a late lunch at The Fish House in Pensacola and a shrimp run to JoePatti’s.

 

First fish of the morning.

Last cast of the day.

Obviously, it wasn’t all just fishing. On the second night on the beach, we caught a full moon, which rose crimson over the indigo Gulf just after sundown, causing each of us to neglect our rods and reels in favor of our cameras and cell phones, which we used to snap terrible, out-of-focus shots of the giant glowing orb as it peaked over the southeastern horizon and climbed into the skies and slowly turned bright white and hummed like a gazillion-watt spotlight that glistened on the rolling waves of the outgoing tide while flooding the sand with the shadows of weary fishermen hoping for one last bite.

While many of the catches will be remembered – mainly, Fred’s big redfish, Joe’s near-Florida-record Gulf whiting – the stories from the overall experience will sustain … and most likely be retold yearly when we get together once again on a salty piece of land somewhere down south. 

 

Guitar Hero

I’m from Memphis. Music, along with a healthy dose of dry rub and pork fat, is in my blood. Plus, I was born into a musical family, with my Mom being a piano player and a wonderful singer, my Dad being a drummer who honed his trills and runs while Buddy Rich-ing the skins in a polka band during his formative years and my brother being a drummer, guitarist and singer-songwriter. Me … I’m a self-taught guitarist with a deep affection for the blues and guitar-heavy rock. Purely in my own mind, a guitar hero.

My brother, Tim, and I used to literally and figuratively rock the house when we were kids, with him pounding the drums while I pounded on a cheap Les Paul knock-off guitar that crunched its out-of-tune riffs through a small Peavy amplifier cranked way past its limits. We typically ran through a set-list that included "All Along the Watchtower," some Zeppelin tunes and the random Grateful Dead jam. I have no idea how Mom and Dad endured the thunder bellowing from Tim’s upstairs' bedroom, although, I do remember them taking a lot of vacations back then.

Later in life, while trying to balance grad school and a day job, I was the electrified member of a guitar-slinging duo that had a weekly gig at a dive near the University of Memphis’ campus. Steve was the singing talent and the headliner, and he graciously asked me to partner with him to provide some occasional lead guitar and backing vocals. It was pure country, and Steve was definitely the driving force in the group. We probably would’ve been more successful if I had actually ever heard most of the songs we played, but my radio dial never landed on a country station. Nonetheless, we normally enjoyed full-to-packed houses, typically consisting of Steve’s fraternity brothers and a healthy dose of pretty coeds, who were the main reason most of the guys were there. After all, I really doubt the KA's doused themselves in Drakkar and donned their finest Wranglers to come out to listen to us trudge through “The Dance.” In both sets. 

Crazy Larry’s on Wednesday nights was a big time for a while, but it eventually grew stale and like many acts, it just sort of faded away. Shortly thereafter, I did the same, when I moved to middle Tennessee to pursue a career in a cubicle. My guitars came with me, though, and provided a nice post-work release for me as I adjusted to an initially-stressful job in an initially-friendless world.

Musicians, though, are rarely friendless for long, because there's a common bond between everyone from guitarists to trombone players will reliably emerge when the opportunity presents itself and quickly blossom into “a jam.” Within a few months of moving to Murfreesboro, I met a drummer/co-worker named Elwood, and soon thereafter, our afternoons were spent rocking through a variety of cover songs and originals in the tiny music room of his house.

You’ve probably heard of the “Seven Degrees to Kevin Bacon,” in which you can name anyone on earth, and by tracing the friends and acquaintances of that person, you’ll eventually land on Kevin Bacon. It’s silly, I know. But, Elwood easily trumps Kevin. In fact, I think there are only “Three Degrees to Elwood,” and that’s probably pushing it. The guy knows everybody. Seriously, you could go on fly-fishing trip to the ultra-remote region of Kamchatka, Russia, and be able to cut through the language barrier with your bush-pilot, Yuri, by simply mentioning Elwood’s name. “Da, da, Elwood! Tennessee. Good drummer!” And if, for some reason, Yuri didn’t know Elwood, I’d bet you a stack full of Rush records Elwood knows Yuri. Or at least his cousin, Nikolai.

Elwood’s connection to the music business was predictably direct, and after a few weeks of practicing our original tunes, we were in the basement recording studio of one of his music-producing buddies, laying down tracks for a demo tape. We ended up recording eight, up-tempo rock songs, featuring lyrics and arrangements of our own design, and eventually produced a box of cassette tapes under the incredibly juvenile band name, A.M. Wood (complete with the clever “album” name, Three Chords of Wood).

In retrospect, I never did a whole lot to promote our songs (although Elwood did his part), presumably because I was more proud of the achievement than the need to see if other people would actually listen to our songs. Curiously, from those with whom I did share the tapes, their young children absolutely loved the songs. That certainly wasn't our target audience, but at least we got some positive reviews. And, maybe missed an opportunity. 

Like Crazy Larry’s, eventually, A.M. Wood faded away, too, as our careers went in different directions. Which, is a bit of a shame, as two-piece, guitar-drummer bands are quite popular these days (see: White Stripes, Black Keys). Elwood and I have to look back and realize we were simply ahead of our time. Pioneers, in a way. Jack White should be thanking us for exposing several dozen people to the merits of a two-piece rock band. 

I could be overstating it.   

There was no solo career after the band’s breakup, but I did eventually add to my arsenal of guitars. Another good friend, Randy, hooked me up with the American-made Fender Stratocaster that I count as my go-to electric guitar. My old Silver-Anniversary Alvarez acoustic has taken a beating through the years (several dents, and scrapes; even the headstock was snapped off by a stumbling party-guest several years ago, but later repaired), but despite attempts to find a more expensive, technically-better guitar, I simply cannot find one that plays as good and sounds as appealing to me as this one. It’s my Trigger.

 

I also live just outside of Nashville, Tenn., which means, by law, I have to be a singer-songwriter, and while it has been a few years since I last busted some rhymes, I’ve got an arsenal of embarrassing lyrics stowed away in a secret binder in my bonus room. The binder comes out on rare occasions – usually on Saturday mornings after the third cup of coffee pushes me into a weird, caffeine-induced, Gordon Lightfoot mode. God love my wife, Betsy, for putting up with me.

I play my Strat through a cracked-and-dented Ampeg tube amp that sounds dirty and mean and exactly the way I want it to, and my go-to effect is a Crybaby wah pedal that allows me to channel my inner Hendrix. While I’ve got other effects to use, I try to keep it simple. And, our three cats probably are thankful for it.

I’m almost 44 years old, and I’m pretty sure my chances of becoming a rock star fell and burned up in the atmosphere several years ago. But, as my beard turns gray and my appreciation for new music is limited to digital-remixes of classic rock albums, I’m still always looking to learn, to get better at my chops and to disappear upstairs when no one is around, to strap on my guitar, to crank the amp up to 11 and roar my way through a version of “Voodoo Child.” It’s in my blood. I can’t help it. 

But, I still hold out hope. I bet you a pocket full of rubles Yuri's got Three Chords of Wood in the tape deck of his Mi-8. His kids probably love it.