The skiff dashed across coal black waters as the first stroke of light split the clouded morning horizon. The whine of the twenty horsepower Evinrude grew louder as it drew closer to the pass. The mangrove Islands came alive as a hundred birds unfolded themselves from their roosts, and turned to watch the four young boys approach in their weathered wood-planked craft. To the boys, who sat two by two on the boat’s bench seats, this was the best part of the day; the silver-grey world giving way to the purple and pinks of the sunrise, the engines vapors mixed with the cool salt air and the awakening of sea life both above and below the water. They were only thirteen years old, but, like many boys living on the barrier islands of central Florida’s gulf coast in the early 1960’s, they were most comfortable being out on the water. One of the boys held the engines throttle arm with his right hand to steer. They all sat; leaning forward, arms tucked tight to their sides, eyes squinted, as they shielded themselves from the crisp, morning wetness. They swayed in unison as their boat negotiated the winding channel leading them between Bird Islands on the inside of Johns Pass. The skiff was running on plane, speeding along at full throttle, skipping across a small wake of a boat no longer in sight when it instantly banked and spun sharply to port. The stern slid powerfully and pushed a wave of water that rooster-tailed off the starboard rail. As the boat righted, and picked up speed, it looked to crash into the massive wall of mangroves directly in front of it. A dozen large seabirds sprang from their perches, frantically flapped their wings to take flight and two Great Blue Herons screaming AARRRAAHH, AARRRAAH! The boys never braced for impact, attempted to jump, nor uttered a sound…whoosh… they disappeared into the thick black tangle.
The folks living on and around John’s Pass were of rough fisherman stock, Wallace McDuff was no exception. His face was well worn leather, his hands dried and cracked like a sun-baked day-old mullet. His lean six foot frame was taut with long sinewy muscle. He didn’t own a pair of shoes. If it wasn’t for his royal blue eyes he would appear unapproachable. People were drawn to those eyes, most often mistaking them for friendly but Duffy had no tolerance for strangers. He wasn’t a mean man just a very private one. He lived alone but the locals knew Annabel was his woman. His only friend was Blu, a six year-old hound mix who favorite hobbies were diving for crabs and procreation. Blu’s lecherous escapades were a continual topic of amusement for the folks in the Pass.
By the nineteen sixties the fisherman were pushed out of the Pass by carnie styled merchants who were selling a false vision of the easy life living on the sea. By the time astronauts landed on the moon, the docks were used for charter boats and fleets of head boats sought after by the tourists buying their week of paradise. Grocers gave way to shell shops, bait and tackle shops became tourist traps selling stuffed baby alligator heads and cans of Florida sunshine. In the winter the parking spaces were filled with station wagons bearing a rainbow of license plates. Pasty skinned, oddly dressed plump people clumped about the streets with their fat sticky handed, brand new sailor cap wearing kids in tow. The renaissance of Mickey Mouse’s Florida was in full swing.
No comments:
Post a Comment