|
Part 2: Ashore we found a town where the telephone poles had fish murals
painted on them.
By Capt. Ken Kreisler — 2003
The afternoon was windless, the silver-white and gold
winter sun shone brightly in a cerulean sky, with hints here and there
of high cirrus clouds, as if some celestial painter had tipped and feathered
the troposphere with just the lightest of brush strokes. We cruised up
Pine Island Sound past wild and pristine Cayo Costa, skirted famed Boca
Grande Pass (noted for its proliferation of tarpon from April to July),
and finally arrived in lower Charlotte Harbor, where Rudisill skillfully
kept us in water as we made our way past a maze of mangrove islands towards
Matlacha. “Skinny ain’t the word,” he said, his gaze sharing
equal time between the depth readout and the channel markers ahead as
we proceeded at a slow bell. “We came this far, might as well see
the mayor,” he smiled.
Rudisill put the boat in an empty commercial dock between
several shrimpers, and Raycroft and I hopped off while he and Joyce stayed
aboard. Ashore we found a town where the telephone poles had fish murals
painted on them; where the Planets Gourmet Pickles store (their patented
process aids in complete digestion of the garlic cloves so the consumer
doesn’t have bad breath after eating one) is also an art gallery
and gift shop; and where, as the menu at the nearby Snook Harbor Inn,
just northwest of marker 55 on Matlacha Pass, states is the “fishingest
bridge” in the world. We were witness to this claim as we watched
two teenage girls do battle with a rather ferocious puffer fish. After
a few tenuous moments at the end, the battle was won and the girls prevailed.
With the angler exhausted from the struggle, I helped return the monster
to the deep.
We would have liked to have stayed longer and absorbed
more local flavor, but it was time to get moving. Uncle Henry’s Marina
on Gasparilla was our evening dockage, and after arriving and getting
squared away with dockmaster, Capt. Paul Robbins, I made arrangements
for our dinner at P.J.’s Seagrille in Boca Grande, a major phosphate
port before the industry moved to Tampa in the 1970’s. As taxi service
is virtually nonexistent in the town, the restaurant manager sent one
of her staff to pick us up.
After a superb dinner, we walked around the town’s
only intersection, making sure we touched every corner of the quadrangle.
“So Ken,” said Raycroft on our second go-round, “we’re
on an island with no taxis. How does a New Yorker deal with that?”
As if reading my mind, Rudisill asked a local for a lift back to the marina.
That’s how we met the man who met the real James Bond.
“From Shy-Town myself—that’s Chicago—an’
been here almost 25 years waitin’ tables at the Temp Restaurant,”
said our driver, Jimbo, as a hint of bourbon wafted towards me. “An’
I waited on all of them...Lady and Linda Bird Johnson, Harrison Ford,
an’...” He leaned over to my side of the front seat as the vintage
1970’s Grand Marquis, it’s once-some-color paint job now faded
from years of exposure to sun and salt air, seemed to follow the road
on its own. “...James Bond.” “No kidding,” I said,
trying to get him to look back at the road while I shot my crew a surprised
glance in the back seat. “Yep. James was an ornithologist and knew
Ian Fleming. Ian liked his name. True story. You can take that to the
bank.” Jimbo nodded, smiled, and finally regained the white line
on the highway as the sign for Uncle Henry’s appeared up ahead. We
all slept well that night.
>> Next page >>
Part 3: Speeding across the glassine water at 45 mph in 43 degrees of
air temperature in a flats skiff was an eye-opener. Page
1,
2, 3,
4
|
