Here is another entry into our Old Florida Stories series, this one by O.A. Mygatt from 1889.
Tom and I were sitting by a cheerful fire, silently smoking. No remark had been made for some time. Suddenly I was startled by the following sentiment, uttered with great feeling: “New York begins to bore me like thunder!”
“Well,” said I, “If New York bores you there are two courses open for you–either go shoot yourself or go to Florida and shoot something else.”
Tom was a bit brightened at the suggestion. “Right you are, old boy! Florida is the place, pure and simple. Besides, you know, it doesn’t pay very well to take a gun to Florida nowadays. What do you say to skipping from this civilized metropolis on Saturday?”
“Saturday suits me,” I answered.
Saturday at midnight we boarded the Jacksonville express, rods in hand, and with a goodly supply of tackle in our trunks. Tuesday saw us at Rockledge, on the Indian River, bargaining for a sailboat and two rowboats. The same afternoon, having laid in a large stock of provisions, flour, eggs, and canned goods, we started down the lagoon. For a skipper we had the genial, well-posted McGruger, while dusky, good-natured Peter acted as cook and aide-de-camp.
It was a beautiful Florida winter’s day, warm, but pleasant. As Tom and I lay on the cabin roof smoking our pipes and the boat glided along, we mutually congratulated ourselves on the change from New York, with its snow and slush, its unhallowed but civilized delights, to our present enjoyment of floating along, caring not wither we went.
Next day we arrived at the Indian River Inlet. Here I had often found good fishing on former trips, so we decided to put in several days at channel bass. During the first of these, owing to a cold north wind, the fishing was poor, but the fourth day the wind went south and the weather became warm.
Tom, disgusted with our poor luck, refused to move from the sailboat, so, taking a boat, I left him to row up one of the channels that run from the inlet to the Indian River. I stopped at a large deep pond cased by a sudden curve in the creek. Putting on a spoon bait I cast it astern, then letting the rod down so that my feet controlled the handle of the reel I proceeded to lay around, letting out line when I thought necessary. I have always had a mania for fishing entirely alone whenever I could, and have found that practice, calling to my aid traits of forgotten ancestors, and using my feet as well as my hands, I could do very good trolling by myself. I had rowed barely half a minute and not thirty feet of line had run out, when there was a sudden jerk and the reel buzzed. Dropping the oars I seized the rod and then followed fifteen minutes of such pleasure as only a fisherman can feel.
At the end of this time I had brought the bass alongside the boat and gaffed him. On weighing him on my scales he pulled beyond the twelve-pound notch. Casting him in the bow I began again to fish. Within two minutes I had another one, and once more I was in the seventh heaven of a fisherman’s delight, playing my catch. The day turned out to be a red-letter one.
For four hours, until full tide, my good luck continued. At 5 o’clock I started to row back to the sailboat to get my well-earned, but, unfortunately, canned dinner. Nineteen channel bass lay in the boat, glittering proofs of a great day’s sport. The lightest weighed six pounds, the heaviest sixteen; the total weight being something over three hundred pounds. As I went back I passed two sailboats whose occupants had been fishing at the inlet. Their surprised, not to say disgusted, faces when they saw my catch gave me most excessive joy. Tom, whome I found reading where I left him, was dumfounded. Only for a moment, however, and then he gave me the full benefit of his opinion of my luck in a style of oratory so eloquent that Demosthenes might have envied him had it not been frequently emphasized with profanity. Several more fair days’ fishing followed, and then as the sandflies became too attentive we started for Jupiter Inlet, some forty miles below. When off the mouth of St. Lucie River, however, Tom proposed that we should sail as far up the river as we could to see what was there, as he put it. Having heard that the river was most beautiful, and that fresh-water bass were plentiful, I offered no objection, so our course was altered and set for St. Lucie River.
After the first few miles the river, which was broad, with pine woods on each side, narrowed down to a couple of feet in width. The banks grew lower and were covered with palm trees, live oaks intermingled with other trees forming a background. The water grew deep and of a transparent dark-brown tint, becoming almost black in places. Lily pads covered the whole surface at times; then the water was hidden by a mass of bright yellow flowers. Kingfishers darted about with their harsh, exasperating cry. Now a white crane slowly crossed the glassy surface, its reflection as clear as the bird itself. Then a large silver-gray heron, suddenly startled, would rise slowly and majestically and disappear around the curve of the stream.
Small bright-blue and cardinal-red birds darted in and out among the trees, while now and then pairs of wood ducks, rising suddenly from many a little pass, would for a moment show their brilliant metallic colors, as, like pieces of jewelry, they flashed in the sunlight. The whole scene was really enchanting. No thought of shooting or fishing entered the mind. Either seemed out of place in such a paradise. For three days we roamed up and down the river, paddling up side creeks, reading, dreaming, smoking and thoroughly enjoying the beautiful scenery. But soon the spirit of the fisherman awoke in us once more, and, tearing ourselves away from our fascinating surroundings, we sailed for Jupiter Inlet. The trip was uneventful.
While passing through Jupiter Narrows we caught a dozen or so of sea trout, trolling with a phantom minnow. The sea trout cooked in brandy and washed down with true old English Bass makes a delicious meal. On arriving at Jupiter we inquired as to the fishing there that year. The lighthouse keeper informed us that but few parties had been there so far and that the fishing was poor. This we found to be true enough, as only a few stray bluefish and channel bass rewarded our efforts.
An old cracker from the upper part of Jupiter Creek luckily turned up a few days after our arrival, and, as we had found out from experience that something was always to be learned from the oldest inhabitant, we entered into conversation with him on the subject of fishing. To our delight he assured us that he had seen hundreds of tarpon up the creek, that they followed his boat like sheep that they would snap at a piece of rope trolling in the water.
We made up our minds that he embroidered well, even if the whole fabric was not a gigantic lie, but determined to investigage the matter nevertheless. We questioned him as to how many miles up the creek he had seen the most tarpon. Next day found our sailboat tied to a pine tree about a mile below the spot described.
It was about 4 o’clock in the afternoon when we reached our anchorage or treeage, but Tom and I determiend to take a row up the creek and see whether the cracker had been greening us or not. So, taking one rod along for any stray chances that might turn up, we started. I rowed around several curves, Tom reclining in the stern, when I saw his face suddenly illuminated with the most angelic expression, while his lips parted in a rapturous smile.
“Great Caesar’s ghost, just look at that!” he cried, pointing behind him. Dropping my oars, I looked around. A stretch of about a hundred yards lay before me, the water smooth as glass, the slanting rays of the setting sun touching only one side of the creek. In this stretch of water some fifty to sixty fish were rolling about like porpoises, but the silver glitter and the alrge scales visible on teh nearer ones made me cry out at once, “Tarpon, by Jove!”
They were the first we had ever seen, so our excitement may be well imagined. Suddenly one rose within twenty yards of the boat, and, making a beautiful curve, showed almost his whole side and disapeared. I took the rod, and putting on a large bone squib, cast it far out, drawing the squib rapidly back over the suface of the water, winding swiftly on my reel.
Two or three times I case, and suddenly there was a swirl and a splash. A large tarpon had dashed at the squib and missed it. Time after time this was repeated, sometimes two or three following it right up to the boat, but evidently without trying to seize the bait. It was most exasperating.
Here we were surrounded by these large and beautiful fish, who seemed entirely bent on tantalizing us. After half an hour they ceased to do even that, and we saw the whole band go splashing and cavorting up the stream where they disappeared around a curve.
It was now nearly dark, so, disgusted with our treatment, we returned to the sailboat. During dinner and all that evening tarpon was the only subject of conversation, and many were the plans proposed to decoy one of these lordly fish to his doom next day.
Early in the morning Tom and I started off up the stream once more. We had a good supply of squibs and spoon baits of all sorts, but no bait, as the men had been unable to get any mullet owing to the depth of the water in the creek. For four hours we wandered up and down that stream, but never a tarpon showed itself. Half a dozen alligators were scared, and we saw them jump from the banks into the water; but we were not after alligators, and had no gun any way.
At last, disheartened, we started back for lunch. Suddenly on turning the curve we met our friends of the day before at the same old game. Putting on a spoon bait and a lead for bait I cast it over the spots they were breaking in. After on or two playful rises by the tarpon that didn’t mean business, the spoon was seized by a big fellow, who, coming up with a rush, showed himself half out of the water. Whiz went the reel, snap went the line, and my first tarpon had been hooked and lost. Three more spoons went the same road.
This being our first experience with tarpon, we were not aware of the necessity of a thick cotton smell above the spoon for a couple of feet, to counteract the filelike actions of their jaws. I was growing desperate at my frequent losses and almost sick with the constant excitement and disappointment, when a smaller fellow seized the spoon and disappeared with it. The line didn’t break this time, and the fish seemed well hooked. This tarpon behaved like a lunatic. Probably it seemed so to me, as he was the first one I had ever trifled with. He would dart with lightning speed for fifty yards, spring several feet out of the water, wriggle and shake his head fiercely in the air; then dash back on the same track he had come and disappear under the boat.
Now and then he would vary this performance by taking double taking double somersaults in the air backward and forward, being evidently an adept at either. Of course, this sort of thing could not last long, and in fifteen minutes I had him alongside the boat and Tom gaffed him. When gaffed he made a final rally, struggled for freedom and almost succeeded in dragging Tom into the water, but instead Tom jerked him into the boat.
“What a beautiful fish!” we both exclained at once, and sat gazing admiringly at it. Without a doubt the tarpon is the most beautiful fish in the world, if we take into account shape, color and size. Fresh from the water its sides are a brilliant silver; its back a dark opalescent green, giving purple and red metallic flashes when looked at from various angles. Its belly is white mother of pearl, its tail and back fin gleam with purple and green iridescence. When we consider that to this flashing mass of silver and brilliant coloring a good, gamey shape is added and a fierce head, we easily understand why the tarpon is called “The Silver King,” and is the king of game fish.
An exclamation of Tom’s drew me from my pleasant contemplation. “Stolen as usual,” he sarcastically said, and so it was. The fish was hooked in the cartilage just behind one eye. Soon after all the tarpon disappeared. IT was, probably, their dinner hour. We took the hint and returned to ours. On weighing the fish he scaled forty-two pounds, measuring four feet two inches in lenght. For a week we tried that creek again with spoon squib and fresh bait, but, although we saw many tarpon playing around, not a rise nor a strike rewarded us. At last, weary with futile attempts, we sailed down the creek and back to Jupiter, entering off the lighthouse.
Here we heard that up in the bay, just before getting to Jupiter Creek, plenty of big crevalle had been seen sunning themselves, so we decided the next day to try our luck with them. Starting about 9 o’clock, Tom and I rowed up to the lagoon, some four miles away. This lagoon was really part of the creek, but was three-quarters of a mile wide by two miles long. Paddling about here we arrived at a spot two hundred yards from the southern side, where the frequent brakes, screws and small mullet informed us that some large fish were feeding. Allowing our boat to drift, we placed ourselves in each end of the boat with a rod. Having cut pieces of mullet about six inches long and about an inch wide, we tied these to the hook and line, allowing about half to hang loose below the hook. Casting the bait as far as possible, we would wind in, jerking them to the surface of the water.
At every case the water would actually boil behind our baits, but somehow the crevalle would not bite just then. Half an hour later, however, when the tide began to run in, Tom hooked the first fish. The crevalle made a splendid fight, and although on a heavy rod it was fifteen minutes before we could gaff it. He weighed fifteen pounds. Two more I landed soon afterward. They made splendid sport. Tom had just played the fourth some ten minutes and was gradually rolling him in for me to gaff, when, within ten feet of the boat, a shark, about seven feet long I should judge, sprang at the crevalle, and, presto! the deed was done.
Twice again during the afternoon the same thing took place. Each time the shark was successful and obtained the free lunch he coveted.
At one time there were five sharks struggling around our boat, no doubt attracted by the blood of the crevalle that had been bitten. Only quick work with the gaff saved our fish several times. We had altogether landed twenty-three crevalle, averaging from three to seventeen pounds, when, the sky in the north becoming threatening, we headed back to Jupiter. It was too late, however to escape the storm, for before we could reach our sailboat it struck us, and in five minutes we were soaked and the boat half filled.
For several days we repeated our crevalle excursion, each day catching from a dozen to two dozen of this gamey fish, than which, in my opinion, none pulls harder for its size. Finally, having spent a fortnight very satisfactorily in the neighborhood of Jupiter, we set sail and started north once more. We decided to go to Titusville and from there to Puntagorda, on the Gulf side, by Enterprise, Sandford and Bartow. From Puntagorda we planned to go to Puntarassa, which we had heard was the headquarters for tarpon enthusiasts. This programme we carried out. At Puntagorda we engaged a thirty-foot sloop with two men and two rowboats, in which we sailed to the Tarpon House, Puntarassa.
The reader must not be led by this ornamental name of Tarpon House into figuring for himself one of the typical hotels of the southern United States. It only became a hotel after passing through a certain evolution of its own. Originally a provision depot during the last Seminole war, it became for years a terminus of the Havana cable, which it still is. A few years ago, however, the genial operator, Mr. George Schultz, adapted it to fill, in a meaasure, a want long felt by anglers in these regions, and now it affords a shelter during the night to the few but energetic tarpon fishermen who visit Puntarassa. Notwithstanding the fact that MR. Schultz has accommodation for some twenty guests, he has every spring to send as many more away. Imagine to yourself a large, irregular, painted wooden house, surrounded by a veranda, with a pier fifty yards long jutting out from it. Place the whole of this on a sand spit stretching out into the bay and you have a very good idea of the place. Not attractive, no doubt you think. Wait until you have returned once from a good day’s tarpon fishing to its comfortable shelter, to its good–though invariable–fish supper; wait till after supper, when sitting on the veranda you are smoking and gloying about yourself, always supposing you have caught a tarpon, and then, not till then, give me your opinion.
Here Tom I put up, glad to escape from the narrow confinement of a sailboat which we had endured for six weeks on the Indian River and had had quite enough of. Our sailboat we simply used for cruising about to the various fishing grounds. At the hotel were some ten or twelve energetic fisherman, generally New Yorkers, most of them good at all sorts of fishing. During the daytime nobody was visible, all being off to court the lordly tarpon.
In the evenings all would meet on the veranda or in the smoking room, when the events of that day were thoroughly discussed. the number of swirls seen or imagined; the number of tarpon fins or tails that had been spied; who had had a strike, with genrally a wildly excited discussion as to whether that identical strike had been a shark or a tarpon. These were the topics we discussed.
If a tarpon had been caught the lucky man was the hero of that evening. He was surrounded and questioned; every detail was eagerly demanded; the number of times his fish jumped, how high, how far; whether he had made more than one somersault in the air; how he took the bait off, slow or fast; did he show his tail out of the water or simply swirl, or had he given any indication of his intentions at all? Then the noble catcher was interviewed as to how he had played his capture and how he had gaffed it. And then a man would presently leave the group and go to the end of the pier, and with a lamp would examine the fish carefully and put his finger in every suspicious hole, lest by chance that fish might have been shot or speared; and perhaps the fish woudl seem shorter than the lenght announced, and at once a tape would be procured and the fish remeasured, perhaps even be weighed. The difference of a quarter of an inch in lenght or of half a pound in weight would be welcomed with shouts of laughter and the lucky man guyed on his deceitful proclivities.
Verily, the lover’s jealousy may be a green-eyed monster, but compared with the jealousy of the tarpon fisherman toward his brother sportsman it counteth as nothing. Dark hints, suggestive winks, sarcastic smiles and harassing whispers can be seen all over the hotel the day one or more tarpon are caught. If you saw two old sports of an evening whispering in a corner, their faces indicative of subued delight and exchanging every now and then a soft chuckle, you might be sure that the reputation of so-and-so as a fisherman was suffering badly at their hands, or rather tongues. Aside from the weakness of thinking that every fish was not caught exactly as it should be, or in quite a sportsmanlike way, a more genial or perfectly satisfied set of men it would be hard to find anywhere.
