I never saw the blockbuster film “Forrest Gump.” At the time of its release, I was running upwards of 12 miles a day along Tallahassee’s roadways, in a failed bid to qualify for the Olympic Trials marathon. Like anybody foolish enough to run near the FSU campus that year, I was relentlessly subjected to drunken drive-by fratboy taunts of “Run, Forrest, Run!” They apparently considered this chant a paragon of wit, but after the thousandth rendering, I couldn’t bear to hear it again, even in a movie theater.
Years later, another line from that flick inspires warmer, fuzzier feelings. Paraphrasing Mr. Hanks:
“Wadefishing is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.” To some extent, that bromide describes footbound angling on the Gulf Coast, where any cast may connect with a redfish, spotted seatrout, or flounder. And if you jinx yourself by entering an inshore slam fishing contest, interest from that threesome might shut down, but your species variety list is certain to expand to ladyfish, mud cats, longnose gar, puffers, sting rays, blacktip sharks, lizardfish, and seagulls (or am I the only one to have a winged rat pluck my freelined finger mullet off the surface?). Ah well. Any bend in the rod beats a slack line, and tap-taps from trash fish at least keep us alert.
Speaking of keeping alert, the “box of chocolates” analogy applies beyond fish catching for sharp-eyed, attentive waders. In the past year, I have stumbled across— and sometimes on top of—enough salvageable tackle and equipment to stock a consignment shop. Sure, some of it was flotsam that any vigilant boater could have spotted, but much of the really good stuff was snagged on the bottom or nestled in thickets of tidal vegetation. Anglers on foot enjoy an advantage in locating these treasures. Recently, after wadefishing the midsection of Deep Creek (a mile east of Apalachee Bay’s Palmetto Island), I tried a dogleg return route through the salt marsh, to reach dry land before the nippy incoming winter tide attained what wading anglers call “Shrinkage Level” (SL). Specifically, SL = inseam length + two inches. More generally, you know the tide has reached SL when you reflexively attempt to wade up on your toes. But I digress.
Halfway back to land, I spied an alarmingly long, slender shape poking through the grass on a sand flat. Burmese Python? No! Stiffy brand hybrid 21-foot push pole, retail value over $600? Yes! Later, during a three-mile bike ride back to my car I committed unintentional slapstick comedy while trying to balance the pole across my handlebars. Four spills hence (including one where the business end of the Stiffy goosed a blithely unaware birdwatcher), I arrived car side, amazed that the pole remained a one-piece model. Forgotten Coast Kayak Association Member Emeritus Jean Wilson happened to be at the parking lot; she graciously snapped pictures of my Catch of the Day. It’s nice to have proof when you’re telling what seems like a whopper.
And talking of whoppers, my last find was an over-legal mullet net trapped in a creek side scrub brush, and likely dumped by a poacher. No way I could tote that beast on my bike. The cumbersome mass staggered me as I lurched along the St Marks Refuge levee with it. That evening, at home, I was too whipped to do anything but lounge on the couch and punch the remote. A Tom Hanks movie was just starting. Perhaps you’ve heard of it…