Remembering David

 

I was still a young man in 1979 when Hurricane David swept his destruction across the Caribbean. Although less devastating to the state of Florida, arriving on the heels of an extremely wet previous tropical depression, one that left many areas already saturated,  this deluge of fresh rain water pushed rapidly to their limits and beyond, many waterways already at near capacity.

I recall loading into the back of my father’s ford pickup one afternoon in the aftermath and heading out for those dirt roads in the area of Lakes Florence and Poinsett. As we made our way out through the marshlands and dry season cow pastures, the only land remaining above water was that used as roadways, and only stretches of those were available.

I don’t know how many acres of cat-tailed wet-lands were then visible only as lake surface, but  as far as my eyes could see there remained only occasional brief patches of vegetation. I believe these marked some form of earth-work, raised perhaps for fencing or private dirt roads.

Along the sides of the drier paths taken by my father’s ford, the grass and shrubbery was alive, crawling with literally thousands of homeless rats. Sportsmanship aside, having brought my BB rifle with me, I couldn’t resist making the odd rat do the Daisy Dance and leap backwards into the water.

Although actual statistics may prove me wrong, I remember Hurricane David as the wettest storm I’ve ever seen. To illustrate, the area behind my parent’s house was for many years, a block of dry woodland bordered along each side by mounds of hardened muck removed from canal bottoms. Dug to help control mosquito population, these canals were and still are very common. This mounding however, resulted in the retention of the plethora of rain-water gifted by David. From inches to feet, water covered the entire span of woodlands, forcing larger creatures away and smaller creatures to climb.

Foolish beyond measure, my brother and I discovered by wading, probably bare-footed, out through the submerged woodland we so often roamed when dry, that Snakes hung in the branches of shrubs and young trees like ornaments from Christmas Pines.

Many of these I’m sure, were probably harmless non-venomous water-snakes, Garter snakes, Racers and Indigos; but odds are not all. From experience I knew this same patch of woods as home to many Pygmy Rattlers and Diamond Backs, while the surrounding canals were famous for Alligator Snappers and Cotton Mouths.

Already rare by this time, the beautifully colored, red-on-yellow-kill-a-fellow Coral Snake was known to utilized the most potent toxin of any southern snake. Always at home in the brush as a youngster, I can remember capturing no more than two of these beauties. In all I only recall having seen a half-dozen or so of the secretive serpents. Its near twin, the Scarlet King-snake, also beautifully colored was even more rare to encounter.

I haven’t quite figured out just how all this musing relates to the lagoon system, except for that most any of these slithering denizens could be found along any shore-line, were at home on spoil islands, or sliding soundlessly through the fresh water marshes bordering the estuary. Many times I have been inclined to detour as not to step on, or over a twin-fanged resident.

Easily I could rename this blog The Serpent and I, but that is not what this is about. If anything, this blog is simply a place for me to record memories of a Florida that will not be seen again by future generations.

 

SSMatthews Barefoot Poetry April 27 2016

Snake In The Grass

Anyone for hidden objects? Can you spot the serpent in the twigs? 3/4’s right and center height, laying atop the thin and spindly light beige brush. If not, best to not go in the water. Nor am I picking it up to be certain what it is because I’m thinking Water Moccasin, other-wise called the Cotton Mouth Moccasin. We have three varieties of non-venomous water-snakes in these parts, Banded, Brown and Green according to the FWC. web-site, and it is not always a simple thing to tell one from another, or from with a more venomous attitude. The thickness at the tail and overall charcoal-ish cast of this one warns me to keep my fingers off!

The photo is of a small run-off ditch that empties into the Indian River Lagoon and as a youngster, it was a common occurrence to find my bare-footed self traipsing along any number of similar seams, mosquito control canals, lake and estuary waters. Encountering one or more of these wigglers amongst the border grass of any body of Florida water, be it fresh, or of a higher saline content was also an everyday affair.

On days more rare, one might come across a colorful Copperhead flowing with the current along an overgrown canal, or an Eastern Diamondback along the bank. In those times it was not uncommon to find a Rattler stretching to five, six feet and longer. Like most venomous reptiles, the Rattlesnakes of Florida were hounded into receding into the most inhospitable parts of swamps and stagnant waterways so that they might survive man’s thirst for killing off the competition.

As bull-dozers and other heavy equipment moved into an area, tearing out the trees and native shrubbery that might offer habitat and camouflage to scaled and slithering serpentine Floridians, those species sans legs were forced to flee as best they could. This flight often brought them into the vision of and deadly contact with, migrating northerners wielding shovels, axes and automobiles.

I recall one very rare spring day when my older brother invited me and my bow to go hunting with him and a group of his friends. Wielding Daisy BB guns they led the way while I, the solo archer, shored up the rear. After an extended march along an utilities easement bordering a control canal our tally stood at a paltry pair of Cotton Mouths. Being mid-day this really wasn’t too surprising as most of the snakes lay motionless and difficult to detect. Our next encounter however was in no way difficult to spot.

Retuning home along a stretch of recently paved road as yet without houses to market, from a distance it appeared a small tree had fallen across the road to form a bisecting Y axis to complement the X. Drawing closer, Daisy rifles began bouncing BBs off the hide of an Eastern Diamondback Rattlesnake that was head and tail stretched off either side of the ten foot wide span of pavement. The longest on record I believe, captured alive was 15′ including rattles. I think the one we boys encountered was quite possibly a family member.

Sunning itself blissfully in Spring rays, the reptile just lay like a lazy log and there was not one amongst us who thought it a good idea to hop over the critter to get to the other side. Knocking a ‘roughing’ arrow drawn from my quiver of three, I took aim and fired. Skip-striking my target mid road-way and approximately mid length along its body, my arrow rebounded from the thick dry hide and fell with a clatter on the pavement.

Stunned, amazed and more than a little perplexed, I stood and stared aghast at my failure. But then it moved. Only a twitch at first as the leviathan began to awaken, then more, like a ripple of energy moving from one end to the other as the entire torso appeared to come to life. As I watched, the snake began to slide. Inch by inch it began to disappear as it moved forward, slipping ever-deeper into the tall tangle of brown grass and greenish red black-berry briars flourishing along the roadside.

As I recall, not a word was spoken during the entire event. Even after the tip of the serpent’s tail vanished from sight, the five boys standing and staring in awe could only manage to offer each other slack-mouthed chagrined expressions of disbelief.

In those days, Florida was a willful creature that could bless you with the unbelievable or turn on you with vengeance, as it would. Serpents roamed the land and water-ways that would easily dwarf this creature this morning encountered. I refuse to judge if this overall, is a gain or a loss, but it is I somehow feel, worth mentioning.

SSMatthews Barefoot Poetry April 26 2016

Trout Fishing in Grace

In the style of ‘old school’ or classic comedy, my first cast of a lure this morning fetched a medium gray sneaker that someone else had cast aside. I heard no one shouting anything similar to NIKE OVERBOARD! so I drug the thing out of the water to dry along the shore.

My five-year-old grand-daughter, who I convinced to go fishing with me this morning, was amazed by this turn of events and promptly claimed to know to whom this tennis shoe belonged. The suspected loafer being no longer in residence at the camp to confirm, or deny my grand-daughter’s accusation, we decided to let the shoe drop and see what else might await our sharpened hooks.

After coaching the five year old on making a first rate cast with a jig off a spinning reel, I was in turn coached by her in a different area. After casting, she sat down and resigned herself to cracking pistachios while her lure rested comfortably on the bottom. I advised her that a jig worked best while in motion and that slow motion was perfectly fine. I was about to hop up on my soap-box and give a long-winded explanation that would validate my short assertion, when the lass produced the gumption to halt me mid word with a statement of her own.

“Papa! You have to have patience and wait for the fish to find it.” Her words, not mine. Regardless her point was made. Shutting my mouth, I returned to business and prepared for a second cast. The wind being a bit strong we had made our way to the dock so that our casts could travel back toward the shoreline. Second cast launched. Immediately upon retrieval I hit what I believed to be a snag and following upon the shoe incident I was thinking breakfast or any other activity would be a better use of my time. Being in delicate company, I also refrained from employing expletives to express my feelings. At that instant, the snag however gave a tug at the end of my line and all else was immediately forgotten.

 Upon rising from the murky brown algae plagued water, a monster Speckled Sea-trout gave its head a mighty shake, a shake nearing in size and sincerity my ever-expanding grin of pleasure. Amidst tossing waves and howling winds we embarked upon that most eternal of struggles; the battle between behemoth and lowly fisherman.

Looking back over the past few months, it seems every fish of any respectable size that has come my way has left me with either tattered line, or even more chagrining, a failed knot. But not this time. This time the twelve pound Trilene held as did all associated knots. Dodging on-lookers, together, my grand-daughter the sage and I carefully walked the trout along the dock to shore. In all, the 20″ trout was more pleasing to lift from the water than a discarded shoe, but the most pleasing part of the affair was the company I shared.

I suppose, in the end, all we need is to show a little patience.

SSMatthews Barefoot Poetry April 25 2016

The Lagoonatic April 9

Hail fellow Atlanticans, main-landers and other sorts of flotsam drifting life-streams and flows. I am sorry to have to confess this, as I was hoping to bring you footage of the Dragon 9 launch yesterday eve, but this Toshiba Satellite and I are still getting aquatinted and not quite seeing camera to eye just yet. As A consolation I will offer this photo of daybreak as the sun prepares to rise over the Indian River Lagoon.

Okay, looking at this I can see the need for a different form  of image-capturing. At one time I used a Fuji camera that did an pretty fair job of rendering liquid-nature into digital images, but like all things material, it got left behind somewhere along the path I walk.

At any rate it is difficult at best to capture what the eye beholds. For instance, those mornings when clouds drape the eastern horizon are usually the most dramatic. Clouds create color, add greater depth and texture to the canvas of dawn with their varying density. Rain showers can become curtains of shadow when trapped between the eye and sunrise, although there are those times when they become sparkling, almost crystaline wonder-worlds floating between the firmament of heaven and the receiving grace of waiting soil, sand and river-ways.

These images are a combination of visual input, memory of similar experience, perhaps even past-life experience if you believe such things and present level of perception. That is a lot to ask of any image-capturing device. So the eye beholds, the brain renders, remembers and finally forgets. And where was I going with this?

SSMatthews Barefoot Poetry

April 9th 2016

The Indian River Lagoon as seen from the shore at Manatee Hammock Park, just north of the Cape Canaveral Power Plant Off US Highway 1. It’s mid-afternoon and today the wind siddels out of the west to flatten this shores waters. I launched a kayak from here this morning and paddled north a few hundred yards, throwing a jerk bait and jig headed soft-body alternately as I went. Accounting for a pair of small speckled sea-trout, a whiting and a break-off that was likely a ladyfish, the morning was blissfully free of the harsh winds so prevalent this winter. Reminding me of an incident last morning I was able to paddle about without being beaten by the breeze.

Upon seeing a good amount of movement in the shallows near the shoreline, I let the wind move me in for a closer look. Able to keep the paddle out of the water, I soon caught sight of a fin that could only belong to one of the infant dolphin I’d seen over the course of the winter months. Looking to me to be too small to be on his own yet, I threw the paddle into reverse. As I began backing away momma appeared from between the piling of a nearby dock but did not see overly alarmed at my presence. She did however seen to be trying to show junior an exit route through those same pilings, but the tyke had a mind of his own.

To my chagrin, I don’t think the young dolphin ever saw me until, without notice, he made a sudden bee-line, or I guess in this case a porpoise-line, directly in my direction. In spite of the poor water visibility, I could see him coming right at me and knew the water to be too shallow for him to pass under without contact.

Still attempting to back-paddle, the little fellow’s fin  brushed against the underside of the kayak. That seemed to be the first hint he had that he wasn’t alone and he responded by turning on the jets. About a half-second later so did momma. Avoiding further contact with the green floaty-thingy, momma created a wake that forced me to grab the sides for balance and hand on.

My apologies to Junior Porpoise made, this moment was one of the thrilling instances of unpredictable contact with wildlife. Yesterday that encounter came in the form of a Jack Crevale racing straight at me after being hooked and flashing through the wicket while I was wading waist deep . Another ‘Wooops!’ moment to be sure.

I’m not usually an adrenaline junky or thrill seeker, but these encounters go a long way towards reminding me what I am and where I’ve come from. I have no need to go in search of who I am when life is continually making my role clear.

April 8 2016

SSMatthews Barefoot Poetry

The Lagoonatic

Wishing a tight line and torquing rod to all you fans of The Indian River Lagoon system and her associated waterways. I’m Scott and I begin this blog as a companion to my Barefoot Poetry on A Mystical Path, but not just so there is another blog about fishing out there. Although I will talk fishin’ on occasion, I thought rather to attempt the documentation of an attitude, that being of course my attitude, regarding what I see and have seen during my involvement with an amazingly resilient estuary.

I don’t know how most people feel about the plundering and eventual matricide of our deer ol’ Mother Earth; her once pristine waterways, her rich, once pesticide free soils and acid free rains, but I have been, for most of my life, an advocate for the preservation of her natural bounty and consider such things with regularity.

I do love to go fishing, but by kayak, canoe and/or wading as the sun attempts its daily vaulting over the eastern horizon, or as that fiery glob is reclaimed by that western line of purple shades bordering the realm of dream. There are, I am sure, much better and certainly more competent guides when it comes to fishing these areas, so I will not presume to know more than the average bear. I do get out there however, and upon occasion encounter a situation that is anything but average. I do not do this by patrolling the fishing flats with a Merc, Yamaha, or Johnson marine motor with prop attached to my  hauling ass, but with a simple paddle or push pole.

Neither is it my intention to sell anything, except perhaps the idea that a non-glutinous approach to life can be equally as rewarding as a glutinous one.

So let me begin with a photo. I’ll take one right now at 1:32 pm Eastern Standard of the Indian River from Brevard County’s Manatee Hammock. I will work on my skills with a laptop camera before my next installment, Promise! But this will have to do for an introduction as I pluck from my dissolving brain those tidbits I would share before the tide comes in and my own face becomes a mystery of identity.

SSMatthews- Barefoot Poetry