Marissa Wills
I grew up having the best of both worlds. My mother living in south Florida and my father living in North Carolina. I grew fond of trout-stocked ponds and streams and frustrated with hours in the Atlantic with only a fish to show for it, but the water in Jupiter was much more than fishing. It was crystal clear Caribbean blue teaming with turtles and manatees. It was warm and welcoming most of the year and more importantly smelled exactly like home. College came and went, but the ocean was still there when I returned. And what better way to spend time on the water exploring than on a paddle board?
I moved back to Florida from Pittsburgh and settled on Sanibel Island. Each day Iād head out and find new shoreline to explore and each day I noticed a growing trend. I wasnāt the only one exploring these coastlines. I started seeing monofilament and hooks hanging down from the mangrove branches and thought, āwell, Iāll try to get it, itās the least I can do while Iām outā. And I havenāt stopped, since I picked up that first piece of line over 5 years ago. Each time out on the water would return handfuls of fishing gear. I was curious about how much I was finding, so I started counting hooks. On average, Iād find 40-70 hooks a day with a record setting day of over 140! Imagine that, cleaning the same 100-yard stretch of coastline and finding that much every time you go out. At this point I started saving salvageable lures. I had no idea what to do with them, but most were new and I couldnāt justify simply throwing them out. This is how Salt Collins Lure Co started.
Most mornings I would set out to my usual spots; either Tarpon Bay or Blind Pass. People would always ask what I was doing, when I can only imagine what they were thinking when seeing a mess of blonde hair wrestling with mangroves. I wouldnāt be surprised if one day I needed someone to cut me out from all that line. When I started, my goal was to simply pick up the debris from the mangroves. Make our coastlines trash free and pretty. But thereās more to be had than just beautifying the coastlines. Iād find birds of all sorts ensnared in line and trapped in trees. Iāve found redfish still hooked on lures with the other end of the line wrapped around a mangrove root. Iāve carefully freed stone crabs from so much braid you would have thought your grandmother was knitting them a sweater. Hooks and line donāt nearly have the visual impact of picking up discarded bottles and potato chip bags. In fact, 200 hooks barely covers the bottom of a bucket. But instead of visualizing 200 hooks, imagine 200 dead birds. Each time I pick up a hook I think, āthatās one less out thereā; itās one less dead bird, one less piece of debris, one less ensnared animal.
With over 2,000 hooks and over 600 lures collected in my first year, it was time to take this show on the road. I started bringing my board down to the keys, over to Jupiter, and just about anywhere I could in Florida, each place having its own set of challenges. Where do I launch from? How long will it take me to paddle to the destination? Can I really reach that piece of mono? Will that lure sling shot into my face? I often think people watching me from the beach have a betting pool of when I will fall in the water. Surprisingly in 5 years I have never fallen from my board. I have, however, had several rusty hooks catapulted down from high branches and land firmly in my hands. Hooray for tetanus shots!
Like Disneyās āLittle Mermaid,ā my collection was growing, but not moving anywhere. 600 lures quickly grew to more and although I had given some to friends and local artists, I still had many that I wanted to give purpose. I started replacing the split rings and hooks and put them up for sale. What gives these lures purpose though, isnāt just the fish they can catch, but what they support. One person on a paddle board can make a pretty significant difference, but nothing compared to organizations like Loggerhead Marine Life Center or SCCF. So 50% of the profits from lure sales go to local wildlife and conservation efforts.
Thousands of hooks and thousands of yards of mono later I found myself in quarantine. The places I cleaned once or twice a week were now staying free of stray casts and debris, so what do I do with my time on the water? My cast is comparable to a small kid taking a whack at a piƱata, so naturally that seems like a good place to start.
