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Glowing footsteps
Five am; dark, before pre-dawn. A light wind out of the south barely stirs the hair on my Irish forearms. The black water is mirror-flat. Mosquito Island stretches its two-mile reef to the north. Only a couple hundred yards of its spine show above the glass, barely accented by a thin sliver of moon.
Standing behind my pick-up, looking out over the oyster-shell covered flats, I sniff the air with dilated nostrils. She's here. I can smell her. Her scent is an incongruous mixture of strawberries and freshly mown grass. I breathe deeply of her intoxicating aroma. My pulse quickens, for it's for her that I've come.
Gathering rod, landing net and floating basket, I stride toward the still water with a purpose. I hesitate as I reach the water's edge. To make a sound now is to ruin the perfect stillness, and alert her to my presence. Slowly, softly I extend my left foot and slip it into the warm liquid.
As my foot tentatively touches bottom, green fire erupts around it. The tiny, bioluminescent sea creatures flame in protest at my intrusion. I slip my right foot beneath the still water and it glows the same green as it makes contact with the sand.
Slowly, I slide my feet along the bottom, each movement punctuated by silent bursts of verdant, ethereal light. In stead of lifting my feet with each step, I slide my feet along the sand so as not to step on a ray, the patient predator who insinuates his flat, round body into the sand and waits for the small, hapless, unwary bottom-dweller to offer itself in sacrifice. The ray and I are old acquaintances and as long as I obey protocol, he doesn't present my with the gift of his barbed, toxic spine.
As I skate silently along the sand and shell, the bottom drops away and the water deepens. Small wavelets which radiate out before my legs are minute signs of my unwelcome presence. In the clear water, my glowing footsteps belie my intrusion into this alien world. As the water rises to my waist, I halt, smelling the salty air once more. A small black tip shark cruises past, his dorsal cutting a silent track through the mirror-flatness three feet in front of me.
A splash off to my left draws my attention, my ears attuned to the smallest sound.
I can still smell her, and look for the tell-tale signs of nervous schools of finger-mullet, her favorite quarry.
My reel sings as I cast my lure toward the vicinity of the splash. It lands audibly in the inky water and floats on the surface. Concentric rings spread from its impact. For a slow count of ten, I let it rest there. Then, twitching just the rod tip, I make the lure "walk the dog" back toward me.
Each tiny, almost imperceptible movement of the rod makes the lure change course. Once, twice, thrice, stop. Splash, splash, hold. I don't want a discernable pattern, and bring the lure back to me in as erratically as possible. Chills race up my arms as the slight breeze freshens, stiffening the hair.
The lure is sitting quiescent twenty five yards out when the water beneath it erupts.
Fighting the initial instinct to raise the rod, I count to two, then set the hook on her, and the battle is joined. My rod doubles over as the drag on my reel screams and the adrenaline surges, causing a rush through my scalp and the hair there to stand erect. I can tell she has weight by the way she peels line from the reel.
Careful to let no slack in the line, I fight her. I can feel her desperate head-shakes. She runs left, right, then turns to run straight toward me in an attempt to gain slack in the line and throw the lure. Wise to the tactics of her kind, I crank the reel handle furiously, allowing no opportunity for her to spit the hook. She turns and makes another run, but she's tiring and I know the fight will soon be over.
Gradually, I bring her to me and slip the net beneath her. She's a full thirty six inches, the biggest sow trout of my life. My trophy, and there is no one to witness this but she and I.
As she wallows in the net, helpless, and regards me with a large, yellow eye, I realize that to keep her would be a great injustice. She'd fought an heroic battle, and in defeat, awaited her destiny with silent dignity. With a quiet "Thank you" to this valiant lady, I lower my net and watch her swim away. She deserves better than a fillet knife and some fiberglass wall-mount.
Maybe one day I'll get to fight her offspring. Farewell, dear lady. May you never feel the sharp spine of a hook again.
In the east, the first hint of gray touches the sky as I cast my lure...
Mark
Five am; dark, before pre-dawn. A light wind out of the south barely stirs the hair on my Irish forearms. The black water is mirror-flat. Mosquito Island stretches its two-mile reef to the north. Only a couple hundred yards of its spine show above the glass, barely accented by a thin sliver of moon.
Standing behind my pick-up, looking out over the oyster-shell covered flats, I sniff the air with dilated nostrils. She's here. I can smell her. Her scent is an incongruous mixture of strawberries and freshly mown grass. I breathe deeply of her intoxicating aroma. My pulse quickens, for it's for her that I've come.
Gathering rod, landing net and floating basket, I stride toward the still water with a purpose. I hesitate as I reach the water's edge. To make a sound now is to ruin the perfect stillness, and alert her to my presence. Slowly, softly I extend my left foot and slip it into the warm liquid.
As my foot tentatively touches bottom, green fire erupts around it. The tiny, bioluminescent sea creatures flame in protest at my intrusion. I slip my right foot beneath the still water and it glows the same green as it makes contact with the sand.
Slowly, I slide my feet along the bottom, each movement punctuated by silent bursts of verdant, ethereal light. In stead of lifting my feet with each step, I slide my feet along the sand so as not to step on a ray, the patient predator who insinuates his flat, round body into the sand and waits for the small, hapless, unwary bottom-dweller to offer itself in sacrifice. The ray and I are old acquaintances and as long as I obey protocol, he doesn't present my with the gift of his barbed, toxic spine.
As I skate silently along the sand and shell, the bottom drops away and the water deepens. Small wavelets which radiate out before my legs are minute signs of my unwelcome presence. In the clear water, my glowing footsteps belie my intrusion into this alien world. As the water rises to my waist, I halt, smelling the salty air once more. A small black tip shark cruises past, his dorsal cutting a silent track through the mirror-flatness three feet in front of me.
A splash off to my left draws my attention, my ears attuned to the smallest sound.
I can still smell her, and look for the tell-tale signs of nervous schools of finger-mullet, her favorite quarry.
My reel sings as I cast my lure toward the vicinity of the splash. It lands audibly in the inky water and floats on the surface. Concentric rings spread from its impact. For a slow count of ten, I let it rest there. Then, twitching just the rod tip, I make the lure "walk the dog" back toward me.
Each tiny, almost imperceptible movement of the rod makes the lure change course. Once, twice, thrice, stop. Splash, splash, hold. I don't want a discernable pattern, and bring the lure back to me in as erratically as possible. Chills race up my arms as the slight breeze freshens, stiffening the hair.
The lure is sitting quiescent twenty five yards out when the water beneath it erupts.
Fighting the initial instinct to raise the rod, I count to two, then set the hook on her, and the battle is joined. My rod doubles over as the drag on my reel screams and the adrenaline surges, causing a rush through my scalp and the hair there to stand erect. I can tell she has weight by the way she peels line from the reel.
Careful to let no slack in the line, I fight her. I can feel her desperate head-shakes. She runs left, right, then turns to run straight toward me in an attempt to gain slack in the line and throw the lure. Wise to the tactics of her kind, I crank the reel handle furiously, allowing no opportunity for her to spit the hook. She turns and makes another run, but she's tiring and I know the fight will soon be over.
Gradually, I bring her to me and slip the net beneath her. She's a full thirty six inches, the biggest sow trout of my life. My trophy, and there is no one to witness this but she and I.
As she wallows in the net, helpless, and regards me with a large, yellow eye, I realize that to keep her would be a great injustice. She'd fought an heroic battle, and in defeat, awaited her destiny with silent dignity. With a quiet "Thank you" to this valiant lady, I lower my net and watch her swim away. She deserves better than a fillet knife and some fiberglass wall-mount.
Maybe one day I'll get to fight her offspring. Farewell, dear lady. May you never feel the sharp spine of a hook again.
In the east, the first hint of gray touches the sky as I cast my lure...
Mark
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