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Last Tuesday night, Linda and I were
sitting on the back porch overlooking
the lake right before dusk. The smell
of the March bloom of orange blossoms
filled the still, warm air. Two ospreys
hovered over the lake hunting supper, ducks
were flying in to partake of our next door
neighbor's offerings of crumbled bread, and
several white and blue herons were stalking
the shoreline for their supper. I knew at
that very moment, I was actually and maybe
for the first time in my life, where I needed
to be. I was home.
Maybe it was the orange blossom perfume
that comes in so strongly once a year. It
could be the house, and as new as it was,
it had become home and all things inside
and out was supposed to be, us included.
As I sat there on the porch, enjoying Nature's
play, my thoughts drifted back to my younger
days when Daddy would sniff the perfume-laden
air in mid-March, smack me on the shoulder and
say, "Get your pole boy, they oughta be there."
The smells of those orange blossoms were so
strong and sweet, they would mask the smell
of fried chicken and biscuits on Mama's stove.
And as sure as the orange trees were in bloom,
the bluegills were in the beginnings of their
three-month bedding season. They would be feeding.
Their favorite foods were worms, crickets... and
poppin' bugs on the end of our fly lines!
I sat silently reliving the past. Things have
changed so much all over Florida, had the
bluegills' world changed also? I guess I had
become so quiet, Linda asked me if something
was wrong. I didn't know how to explain my
stillness, other than to just smile as I left
the porch and went inside. "I'll be right back."
I rose from the wrought-iron table, went to my
fishing room, fetched my five-weight, tied on
a new poppin' bug and walked down to the shoreline.
I was, once again, fifteen years old.
I was suddenly transported back to my youth,
standing shoulder to shoulder with Dad on the
shoreline of Lake Ariana, or Lake Van, or Lake
Mattie, casting small, brightly-colored, cork,
popping bugs over the beds of big, fat, blue
bream. I could almost hear the sounds of sharp
slapping, as the pan fish would smash the fly
from the surface of the lake, just above the
beds of hundreds.
I stood there casting the small fly against
the surface of Lake Angela, I sniffed the
orange-scented air still in a trance, a
familiar "smack," followed by the tightening
of my fly brought me back to the backyard and
the lake behind the house.
I raised my rod tip only to have the resistance
of the big, copperhead, bluegill pull it back
down, and strip line from my hand. I looked
over my left shoulder, and there stood Daddy,
smiling and casting that old black, fiberglass
fly rod. I spoke out loud. "It never really
changes, does it?" I reached down and plucked
the hand-sized bluegill from the lake. I observed
the same colors of iridescent blues and coppers
I remembered from years before. Instead of putting
the bream on a stringer, I gently returned it to
its watery home. I looked once again into my dad's
eyes and smiled as his spirit slowly vanished. I
asked one more question as he was going.
"Can they smell the blossoms, too?"
See y'all next week. ~ Capt. Gary
About Gary:
Gary grew up in central Florida and spent much
of his youth fishing the lakes that dot the area.
After moving a little closer to the coast, his
interests changed from fresh to salt. Gary still
visits his "roots" in the "lake behind the house."
He obtained his captain's license in the early '90's
and fished the blue waters of the Atlantic for a little
over twelve years. His interests in the beautiful shallow
water flats in and around the famous Mosquito Lagoon came
around twenty-five years ago. Even though Captain Gary
doesn't professionally guide anymore, his respect of the
waters will ever be present.
Gary began fly fishing and tying mostly saltwater
patterns in the early '90's and has participated as
a demo fly tier for the Federation of Fly Fishers
on numerous occasions. He is a private fly casting
and tying instructor and stained glass artist,
creating mostly saltwater game fish in glass.
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