By: Capt. Tim Ramsey
Hi everybody. I hope your spring was a good one. Things have been weird for me recently. “In flux” would be the best way to describe life right now. Good, but a bit weird.
A summary of the strange life I lead would sound something like “practically a Panamanian with the Skeeter stuck in New Jersey, an unquenchable thirst for Florida snook fishing, and a minor celebrity at the downtown St. Petersburg cigar bar. Novels and fishing story books doing okay-ish (the Diana Diaz series under Yolanda Maria De Icaza doing very well. timramseybooks.com ) with no advertising, working on my long irons in NJ and Florida while managing the welfare of my mother in a retirement home in Naples. Rediscovering Florida wade fishing with 28 rods in a storage unit I can’t access and needing to go back to the “First Lady of Fishing” back in Panama. I know what you’re saying. What? I know. What? That second “what” comes with a one-eyed squint and head tilt.
“But Tim, what does this have to do with fishing” I hear you say? That’s easy. Back in May, I sold the house in New Jersey, left the boat in South Jersey and showed up boatless in St. Petersburg to see my son and check on Mom before heading back to Panama. It was time to fish. Just because 28 rods sat in a NJ storage unit didn’t mean I didn’t have three with me or five more in storage in Naples. In fact, thinking ahead, I was completely prepared to transport myself back to where it all started in Pinellas County back in 1987 when I came down for college. Boca Ciega Bay.
The odd thing about Florida in 1987 and Florida in 2026 is if you were a fisherman, chances are besides having some weird pair of sunglasses or high-top sneakers on back in the day, you could look exactly the same. I had tan fishing shorts, grey fishing shirt, baseball cap, and sandals on. I parked my truck on a side street close to the Maximo marina (which years ago was definitely not as auspicious as it is today) in south St. Pete just off the Bayway and made my way over to the (name withheld) apartment complex I lived in back while in college. I snuck around the entry gate, acted normally as I walked down the parking lot, passed a maintenance guy in a golf cart, crossed the pool deck laden with sleeve tattooed (the new sign of social conformity) college kids and hopped down to the little beach beside Boca Ciega Bay. I had all the items I used to fish this very spot nearly forty (yes, forty) years ago. Rod, red one-man inflatable boat I bought at Walmart, beach rod spike, yellow and white Flow -Troll bait bucket, with my tackle backpack on with two bottles of water in the side pockets. When I said, “snuck around,” I meant “walked in carrying so much crap I looked legit.”
I adjusted my Skeeter hat (back in 87 it would have said “shut up and fish”), set the boat in the water, tossed my tackle bag, rod spike, and rod in it, held the bait bucket in the other hand and eased out into the water. It was warmer than I expected but the bottom felt like the same couple inches of silt over hard sand with grass in the distance. I padded carefully out to the turtle grass, pushed the rod spike into the ground, set my rod in it, tied the bait bucket and boat lines to it, and looked around. Bayway with its tall condos to the left. City of Gulfport to the right. Bay straight ahead with St. Pete Beach in the distance. Same view as in 1987. Lot has happened since then; marriage, kid, Army, divorce, military moves, Saudi, Iraq, Afghanistan, Korea, the UAE, surf trips to Bali, more deaths than I care to remember, and during all of it, tons of fishing. Ironically, this was the place I introduced the brother I don’t speak to anymore to fishing.
I looked up at my rod and admired the brand-new Cajun Thunder rattle float I had on the line. Below it was a #2 circle hook. I took a shrimp out of the bait bucket, put it on the hook, cast it out, and watched the float settle on the water. It was only a few seconds before it disappeared underwater. I reeled in and the line went tight. Moments later I lifted a decent trout from the water, removed the hook, lowered the fish back in and waited until it swam off. I realized I was in thigh-deep water but somehow my shirt was wet, wicking water to my ribcage.
I cast back out and pulled in a small snapper, followed by another trout I was back in 1987. Back before all the stuff I mentioned happened. Back when I first discovered what “you peel’ems” was.
Back before a thousand snook, bluefish, reds, trout, and my fair share of everything else. Back before I discovered the mangrove backcountry. Back before the electronic dog leashes called smart phones people actually think “connect” them. What a joke. Fishing connects people. Back when I ran two miles in eleven minutes and my left knee was intact. Back when I had a full head of dark hair. Yes, I still wonder why all my friends still have all their hair and I don’t, but I digress.
Back in about 2006, my son and I were at an ice cream stand on Madeira Beach. I said to him “welcome to the time machine.” He asked what I meant. I told him it was Pinellas County; therefore, it was only a matter of time until we saw someone with acid washed jeans, multicolor sweater, high-top white sneakers and a mullet haircut. He said, “No way, you won’t see that.” Well, the words were barely out of his mouth, still floating off in the breeze when a guy appeared coming from the beach access dressed exactly like that. My son looked at me with a look of incredulity I still remember. My fishing trip was kind of like that. When I lifted that trout from the water, I probably had the same look my son had back in 2006. I shared the story with him later that night at the cigar bar while wearing my Phillies shirt, the one that makes almost everybody in there divulge their South Jersey roots. It was the St. Pete Time Machine. It was fun to ride. See you out there.