Monday, July 27, 2015

Infrequency

The frequency of my blogs has suffered of late. 

The last post was in November 2014. Early November. Since that time, we endured winter; this year, an inescapable curtain of gray and misty rain and occasional flurries that crescendoed into a massive ice storm which bent and broke trees and shut down middle Tennessee for a couple of days. 



Yet, as soon as the last bit of ice melted from our bowed birch trees, spring sprung, and temperatures shot into the 60s and 70s, as forsythia exploded yellow, redbuds popped purple and dogwoods donned their seasonal spectacle of white and green. As pollen pervaded the air, the rivers became bloated with hungry fish. I joined my good friend, Joe, for several incredible afternoons on the Stones River, as we chased pre-spawn largemouth and migrating stripe and hybrids. It’s good to have friends. It's better to have friends who fish. And, it’s awesome if those friends have boats. 


Reflecting on an excellent stripe run.
March through May, I spent a lot of time with family. In early March, I fished the Little Red River in Arkansas with Dad and my brother, Tim. Lots and lots of trout came to hand, and Dad taught me how to tie his deadly streamer fly pattern. Just a little while later, Dad blew out his Achilles, and I spent a few weekends in May in Memphis, celebrating Mother’s Day and my Mom’s birthday and helping her keep Dad from doing too much on his surgically-repaired wheel. 

Throughout the first several months of the year, Betsy and I have been renovating a house — an early 70s ranch on the banks of a nearby river, which is conveniently full of smallmouth bass. It’s been a labor love, sprinkled with sporadic (yet fleeting) doses of second-guessing, confusion and despair. Despite any turns in the road, we’ve not wavered in our approach, and look forward to soon realizing our dream. 


Commissioned Mahi

Amidst work, family visits, house-related stuff and traveling to Nashville for several Predators games, I’ve squeezed in a fairly productive stretch of painting. That productivity included several commissioned works, as I veered into some not-so-typical subjects for my customers. Thankfully, the efforts were successful, and I’m very proud to say my art hangs in a few more households than it did just seven months ago. I also donated a print of “Fourteen” to Troutfest 2015's auction, which helped raise over $20,000 for the Great Smoky Mountains National Park Fisheries Department.


A very special painting for a very special person.

Regarding my art, the online store, shallowfish.com, has been renovated and now features an updated and more user-friendly layout. Please check out my artwork — along with works from an array of artists — on John and Abby’s site. Secondly, the online magazine, “Southern Kayak Fishing,” launched in January, and the inaugural issue featured a spotlight on me and my artwork. The second issue offered me the chance to finally become a published writer, as my blog “The Multi-Boat Float” was picked up for publication. The magazine’s editor is Ed Mashburn, a fellow fish fanatic from Alabama, who I met on an overnight tuna-fishing trip out of Dauphin Island, Ala., a few years back. We struck up a friendship that has continued through the past several years. Ed’s an accomplished fisherman, kayak-builder and writer, and in addition to his work with Southern Kayak Fishing, he’s also a contributing writer to one of my favorite print magazines, Florida Sportsman. If you like kayaks or fishing or great writing and photos … or all of that together … please check out the latest issue of Southern Kayak Fishing


The annual Christmas card painting.

While it's been a while, I'm intent on reconnecting with my writing muse. The past few months have provided me with some adventures, and I hope to share some of those semi-true stories here. Please stay tuned, stay cool, and thanks for sticking with me. 

Sunday, November 30, 2014

Frenzy (Part 4)

Questionable.

“Whoasssshhhiiitt!!” 

Fred bolted down the beach into the dark, chasing an orange glowstick attached to his surf rod, which was attached to a big shark which was in mid-attempt of dragging the entire rig to Cuba. The rod had been violently yanked from its PVC spike, dragged through the sand and was now rapidly making its way through the knee-deep water of the first gut. Fred never broke stride and dove — Pete Rose-style — into the waves, which were briefly illuminated by the trippy colors of the neon orange glowstick and the fluorescent blue hue of Fred’s headlamp. 

Joe and I watched the scene from a few paces away, laughing uncontrollably. It was around 9 p.m., and we were the only souls on the beach. We had been there since just before sunset. The bulk of the day had been spent chasing black and red drum on Apalachicola Bay with Capt. Dwayne, but after arriving back at the house, we quickly hit the sand and got the surf rods out. At dark, we switched out our pompano rigs for shark leaders and big circle hooks. I cut up a ladyfish we had caught just before sundown, and we deployed chunks of fresh bait among six rods, each placed insanely close to the water’s edge (as we soon learned) and adorned with a variation of aforementioned glow-sticks Fred had purchased the day before. 

After a quick swim in the black water, Fred emerged, completely soaked and holding a doubled-over surf rod while his Daiwa reel spit salt water and angrily screamed against an angrier foe which worked hard to empty the spool of its contents. 


Fred, with his rod-stealing blacktip.

Fred’s freestyle in shark-infested waters would’ve made for a great story on its own (side-note: this was not the first time something like this has happened to Fred), but the evening proved to be epic for other reasons. In addition to retrieving his rod, Fred beached the chunky, five-foot, black-tip shark responsible for the near theft. More importantly, this event started a run of successive bites that was unprecedented in our fishing adventures. Rod after rod would hit the sand within the next hour, as seemingly dozens of sharks cruised the shallow waters in front of us. Casted baits would last only moments in the surf before being gobbled up by toothy fish, sending us scrambling to grab valuable fishing gear before it was dredged in sand and doused in saltwater. It was a strange symphony. The incoming tide provided the percussion — a steady hiss and boom with an occasional polyrhythmic crash — and amidst the wash, we soloed, trading fours under the stage-light glow of the half-moon, our reels’ drags screaming in off-beat blue notes, our runs punctuated with randomly placed whoops of reactionary joy.


Yes, the headlamp is pink. Gotta problem with it?

Our lines were stretched. Knots were tested. Each enjoyed success and endured failure. I don’t remember how many sharks we actually landed. It probably wasn’t many. Those which did make it to the beach were quickly photographed and released. We had tackle and ability to handle the four-and-five footers, but we were under-gunned for many of the fish cruising the shallow waters in front of us. The larger sharks would explode into amazing runs would nearly drain our reels of braid before leaders broke, lines snapped and hooks were bitten in two (Fred had a 7/0 circle hook snapped in half). Eventually, we ran out of bait, ending our evening as the fish were still biting, and sending us limping back to the beach house with sore shoulders, frayed lines and gigantic smiles on our faces. 

The next evening — our last night on the beach — we sat side-by-side in respective beach chairs, several yards from the water’s edge. We fished with only three rods — one per person, placed in sand spikes directly in front of us and within an easy arm’s reach of our seated positions. At least, we had learned from our mistakes. 

It's Joe ... I swear. 
The sharks showed up around the usual time, but the bite, while OK, was nothing compared to the previous night’s. Our energy was fading, too. It had been a long but good day, and we just wanted to catch one more fish before heading back to the house to clean up and prepare for the drive home the next day. A massive cold front was on its way. To the northwest, we could see it approach, as blackness devoured the stars and a storm boiled over into the Gulf. Around 10 p.m., after a long period of exhausted silence among our crew, I said, “Ten more minutes.” The moon danced in and out of the clouds, spotlighting us one minute and drenching us in blackness the next. 

As the moon peaked out, Joe spotted something in the surf. 

“What is that?!” He pointed towards where the water met the sand just a few yards in front of us. A big dorsal fin, exposed above the black water, and cruising less than 10 feet off the beach. We sprang from our chairs and turned our head lamps on the big shark — a tiger, close to 10 feet long — which menaced almost the exact location in which Fred had involuntary swam the night before. Indifferently, the shark slowly turned southward and disappeared into the ink black water. 



“Holy crap.” 
“That was almost 10 feet long.” 
“I hope you hook it, Joe.” 
“Fred, wanna go swimming again?” 

Electrified by what we had seen, we sat back down in our chairs and waited for one of our rods to go off — each of us secretly hoping it would be one of the other guy’s. Ten more minutes. No bites. Ten more minutes. Our yawns were growing more frequent and the encroaching rain clouds had us wondering if we had waited too long to pack up and head inside. Eventually, reason overcame obsession and we gathered up our gear for the last time and headed back to the house. 

Overnight, the cold front came. The winds howled out of the north and the fronds from the front yard palm tree rattled against the window above my bed. When we awoke, the temperature had dropped to 40 degrees and we wore multiple layers of clothing as we packed our respective vehicles. Fred, Joe and I shook hands in the driveway, and in the wintry wind and cold, we reflected on another excellent trip, exchanged well wishes in the months ahead, and discussed plans for tuna trips to Louisiana, trout fishing in Arkansas, and bass-fishing excursions in northern Florida. Such is tradition. 

It's good to have friends, but it’s better to have friends who fish. 


Until the next adventure ...