In our quest to preserve and make available as many Florida writings as possible, here’s a public domain piece from Outing magazine dated 1890.
Time was when contented I dwelt the year round ‘in the tents of Gotham, save when the spirit of sport, which always lies deep in me, urged me to Barnegat Bay or I enjoyed angling in autumn on the shores of Greenwood Lake. I took as a matter of course the rigors and sequestration which the Northern winter imposes upon all who dwell where it holds sway, but that was before I had ever visited Florida and before I had mastered the mystery or known the delights which the camera yields. I had not then fallen under the spell of the land of the orange, the palm and the pomegranate. I had not then wandered in the brilliant, glorious sunshine of the Southern January, or drifted lazily for days on the placid waters of the Indian River, in the shadows of its palmetto – bordered banks. I had not seen the stately cocoa trees waving their feathery crests against a Southern sky. I had not lived in the home of the pineapple, nor seen the Spanish bayonet set in serried ranks. I had not watched the heaven-piercing heron, the crane and the pelican glide in undulating lines through the ether or wade in the translucent waters of Florida. I had not wandered through its ever green, fairy like woods of the cypress, the olive and the palm, vocal with the music of the mocking bird and resplendent with the flashing plumage of the parrot. I had not yet inhaled the delicious fragrance of its magnolias, its orange blossoms and its wide wastes of mignonette. I had not fished in its teeming waters nor followed through its glades the deer, the quail and the turkey. Fate took me thither, and Florida, like an all-conquering Caesar, declared over me her verdict: Veni, vidi, via.
No longer now am I content to buffet against the piercing winds and driving sleet, the bitter frosts and gloomy skies of the Northern winter; but as the lovely days of the Indian summer of the North sink in the galaxy of glory and color which mark it as nature’s carnival my soul hungers for the sunny South and year after year finds me, swallow-like, wending my way thitherward. So it came to pass that one pleasant afternoon in February, returning from a short Northern trip I found myself upon the long dock at Titusville.
I remembered that dock well enough, having tied up to it in coming North when working a single-hand cruiser.
The far-famed Indian River was before me. As usual there were thousands, yes, tens of thousands, of raft ducks and mud hens bobbing around, many within stone’s throw of the landing, careless of human proximity. This is a sight that always interests a Northern sportsman, accustomed to crouching behind his reed blind and praying for even a single incomer to notice his stools, until he finds that this host of water fowl is utterly valueless for food, being fishy and coarse, and then his astonishment and enthusiasm ooze away. Even the native “crackers ” seldom take the ducks diving for fish in front of Titusville; when they hanker after something in that line they take a boat and hie away to the marshes opposite along the shores south of Black Point and shoot mallards.
The new steamer was in waiting, the St. Lucie, a stern-wheel boat of exceedingly light draft and just suited for the peculiar waters she was built to navigate. Her captain, Bravo by name, knows his business and is a great favorite along the river, as the numerous boxes of dropped oranges placed aboard “with compliments to Captain Bravo” attested. I liked his unique conversation and his musical Southern drawl, his dry humor and the twinkle in his eye. As we cleft the water of the river there was a countless multitude of ducks in the air and the surface was dotted with them. I never saw so many in any other part of the country. The purser was an old friend of mine, a genial fellow, with whom I had many a chat. He told me of a round-up they had had at his place on the Hillsboro not long before, when three bears fell before the guns, two credited to himself; and on board I became acquainted with a gentleman connected with the American Museum of Natural History in Central Park, New York — Frank M. Chapman. He had been collecting birds and mammals in the northwestern part of the State, and was on his way to join the veteran Professor Jenks at Micco.
About 11 o’clock the steamer landed him and his traps on the isolated bulk head of the dock at Micco. Some days before the steamer, driven by a mighty gust of wind, had crashed through the pier, and thus the bulkhead was separated from the remnant of the landing by many feet of water. The St. Lucie blew a dozen whistles to arouse the inhabitants so that someone might come and take off the passenger.
I never dreamed but that he was safely landed until hearing from him, months later, the whole story. It seems that he waited some time and as no one appeared, while the many lights of the steamer began to grow dim in the distance, he shouted and fired his revolver. All proving of no avail he made up his mind to see what could be done through his own efforts.
A bundle of shingles seemed to present an opportunity for a raft, but upon plunging one in the water he discovered that it almost sank of its own weight. On the whole he concluded that he might be worse off than on that bulkhead, so making a virtue of necessity he piled up the bundles of shingles, used his waterproof coat as a covering, and passed a fairly comfortable night, being rescued in the morning by the resident signalman. Of such stuff are the devoted students of science made. There is no toil or danger they will shrink from when in pursuit of their calling.
Next morning we landed on the new dock at Eden, to receive a warm welcome from genial Captain Richards, the original “Adam” and pineapple planter.
A change into the old regimentals that have seen service on many a campaign, from Muskoka Lakes, in Canada, down to the region of Okeechobee, and then, with mullet taken in a cast net and our traps, we rowed across the river, about a mile and a half wide at this point, to the island, at the back of which lay a great cove, forming a loop nearly half a mile in extent.
For winter fishing this is the best place within five miles of Eden. We have caught here channel bass of from twelve to twenty – six pounds, cavalli of six pounds, large sergeant fish, sheepshead of over two pounds, fierce fellows who made desperate rushes, and mangrove snappers ad infinitum.
This day was a perfect one, with the thermometer up to 6o° and a clear sky, though but February. The wind was east and gentle, as fine a breeze as sailors along the Indian River desire. They look for it to be steady when ranging from east to south.
We trolled, and presently I had a tug; then came a royal battle, and a gamy sergeant fish of four pounds weight was boated.
A little later we were actively engaged — one in the bow and one in the stern — a pair of large channel bass had found the hook. They fought well and several times took line — we had about eighty feet out to begin with. As they began to wear around toward each other I thought it best to bring my bass to the gaff, in order to prevent their twisting the lines, and accordingly reeled in. The rascal came on as though worn out, until about fifteen or twenty feet away, when, probably sighting the boat, he made a sudden and desperate plunge — well, I lost him, and when I crossed the river I changed the twelve-thread Cuttyhunk for a thicker line.
As my friend now had a clear field, he let his fish have full swing : the length of line tired him and soon we had the gaff in his side. I weighed the bass on the spot; it lacked but a few ounces of thirteen pounds.
During the morning I took a large sheepshead that gave me fine sport, and T lost a hook on another rapacious robber. We had smaller sheepshead, and plenty of fierce little snappers, snatched from along shore, where the mangrove roots ran into the water. They made elegant pan fish.
That day was one of the calmest, quietest days I ever spent. I have seen tough times there, too, not easily forgotten; been struck by a wild norther at midnight, anchored near the mouth of the St. Sebastian, and sent down the river in the inky darkness.
For four weeks around Eden every day we went somewhere for sport, one day picking up quite a number of doves, an other day a few snipe, and occasionally a crane or a bittern; but fishing was our stand-by.
There are black bass of prodigious size in the Savannah, ranging as high as ten pounds, but one cannot always take them.
So numerous are the fish that a small pound net set in the river I remember to have seen emptied, on the second morning of my stay, of at least 150 pounds of good fish, including half a dozen varieties and one fine green turtle of about thirty pounds.
I once made a picture of a tremendous jewfish, weighing 327 pounds, taken at Eden, with jolly Captain Richards standing guard. Crabs were plenty, some of them monsters, and we used to take a great many in for bait.
There was always something to do — fishing, boating, shooting; watching the buzzards feast upon a great jewfish that had been drawn up on the shore some distance away, after we had taken a cube of meat as fine as halibut from his side; creeping up for a shot at a crane, or hunting for fugitive pineapples (the season is in July and August, but these stray apples are very choice and sweet, and we had a dozen or so ripening from the lattice of the front veranda nearly all the time).
It was an unusually wet season and many “northerners,” as we call them, swept down on us. Still it was never even chilly — the coming of a norther simply disturbed the fishing.
During the summer fish can be taken in any quantities at Eden. There is a shoal about a quarter of a mile up from the dock, where I am assured one cannot throw out a hand line with an attractive bait but what it is at once snapped up, and the beauty of it is you are quite in the dark whether you have a large channel bass, a sergeant fish, a grouper, a tarpon, a shark or a monster jewfish — but you soon find out all about it.
Undoubtedly Eden is the prettiest place between Rockledge and Lake Worth, and when the cocoanut trees, some of which will soon bear fruit, fully line the shore, its beauty will be markedly enhanced. A bluff runs along the river’s edge, densely covered with palmettos; here and there the houses of pineapple planters appear, each with its plantation. Some of the great fields of pines, such as I have photo graphed, are visible from the river.
Besides Captain Richards, whom every one knows and who is looked up to as the father of Eden, his three sons, Will, Harry and Frank, have fine places. Mr. Winans, of New York, has just built a hand some house for an all-year residence, and along the river, within a mile of the post office, are numerous others. Loutrelle Lucas, Mr. Merwin, of New York, my friend, T , and more whom I might mention, have winter homes there.
