By: Capt. Tim Ramsey
After spending the better part of 2021 on the beach in South Jersey, I managed to get back to Naples just before New Year’s. Time to fish.
We went straight down to Calusa (now Safe Harbor Marina) to check out the boat. Having sat for over four months, I was ready for anything. There it was, on the trailer, wedged between a trailer full of jet skis and a power cat that towered over my boat. I pulled the three covers (yes, you read that right) off and was pleasantly surprised at the condition of everything. Lacking a place to charge batteries and a water source to wash it at my own pace, I used my hand pump to firm-up a drooping trailer tire and towed the boat back to the house. That was fun. It came as no surprise that people still tailgate boats on trailers and 41 just keeps getting more crowded. Don’t you love lanes closed for no reason? After re-installing my trolling motor batteries (and learning the dramatic difference between correct and incorrect wiring), and spending the night charging and cleaning and reinstalling all sorts of things, we were ready for the next day.
Back to Calusa in the morning. Things were happily bustling when we arrived. Unusually so. Wow, did the boat club get popular. Everybody in the area seemed excited about getting out on the water and the vibe was excellent. The Skeeter slid off the trailer and maneuvered around the boat club boats crowding the ramp with ease. With no place to dock, a local guide tied behind others at the crowded fuel dock let my wife hop across his boat in pursuit of shrimp as I backed the boat away and floated nearby. Minutes later, with bait on board, we were off.
First thing that struck me were the amount of boats cutting through the back country due south of the marina. That was new. Not only is it all a slow-no wake zone, but there is a sign smack in the middle that boats used to obey. Everyone seemed to be ignoring it completely. What gives?
The next event was classically ironic. We got stopped by the law. It felt like back in the day when the Marine Patrol stopped me three days in a row coming in from the Mud Hole. Yep, as we idled down the mangrove island on the opposite side of the bay from the county ramp and Walkers Coon Key, the police boat cruised over and “reminded” us where the channel was, told us boats were getting on plane too early and a couple dolphins were hurt by them. We shifted into neutral, thanked him for keeping us safe, shot the breeze for a few minutes, and bid him a good day. I thought about bringing up all the boats cutting through the backcountry, but let it go. If I’m ever FWC for-a-day, look out.
Not having run the boat in months meant I wanted to stay close to the ramp in case of any issues. I knew that meant dealing with boat wakes and noise in the backcountry (the days of people coming off-plane when you’re fishing are gone), with jet-ski and Craig Cat tours, and the after-effect of any errant casts near the mangroves, but so what, it was a beautiful day and we were on the boat. I ran down toward Coon Key, turned a quick left and headed across Sugar Bay. That’s when something new happened. A guy in a new Grady White bay boat passed me. Not from the other direction, but overtook me. I was going exactly 22 mph and he blew by like I was in reverse. What’s the hurry? What happened to backcountry speed limits? I know the jet skis don’t honor them, but what’s going on?
At my destination I stopped and put the trolling motor in the water. Returning to my rightful place on the back of the boat (yep, the First Lady of Fishing gets the bow), I hit the button on the trolling motor remote control and “screeeeeech!” The Minn Kota made a noise like a car locking them up and skidding on pavement. It was loud. It was new. It was embarrassing. I quickly scanned 360 to see if anyone heard it. Phew. Relief. No one around.
After some “McGuyvering” the screeching stopped when the motor turned and it was time to fish. First cast, a bomb straight into the mangroves. Yep, been there before. Hey, for the last four months my biggest concern was casting as far as I could. Then I remembered my old techniques for retrieving my bucktail and a second later, it whizzed by my head at amazing speed, hit the power pole and fell in the water as the slack line wrapped around the engine. Been here too. Ironically, as I finally got the line untangled and back on the reel, I felt a tug and realized I had a catfish on the line. Amateur hour on the back of the boat. Sadly, a comfort zone.
After gathering my composure, I managed a peek at my wife. She looked over at me with a rather disapproving expression as she released a small snapper. Okay, every fisherman gets a do-over. A shot at redemption. Next cast? Snook. I caught and released it and was so happy I could have ended my fishing day right there. Well, until thirty seconds later when I wanted another one. Just like it always was. The day was great. Got the backcountry slam, dealt with the jet skis, Craig Cats, and the crowd at the marina. Got some sun. Enjoyed being out on the boat. Saw some of the same people doing the same thing in the same places. Caught and released a bunch of fish, and confirmed my desire to get up the next day and do it all again. The more things change, the more they stay the same.