“The first warm days of ‘010,” The Old Man wrote in his journal.

“I launched my craft in the Little Manatee River. The tide was low but supposed to come in all day. This was important to me as it has been a very long time since I was on the river and I feared getting beached. It took me a very long time to launch as I checked and rechecked everything twice before backing down the ramp. I just don’t have my wits about me yet.”

The old man made his way slowly through Moby Bay and into the main river. The air was still dank with morning fog but it didn’t hinder visibility. Ahead was the US 41 bridge and beyond that an old and rusty train trestle.  Unlike the modern US 41 bridge, the trestle is a bit tricky to navigate with very narrow spans and short loft. The old man lowered his rods, three in total, as they were too tall to pass under the span. He picked what he thought was a span he had passed through before but feared something unseen had changed beneath the surface, something that could do harm to his craft. He cringed as he idled through, knowing at any moment he could hear the sound of his lower unit striking something ugly. Breath held and the steering wheel held tight, he idled through without such incidence into the open river. A sigh of relief and he was underway, rods high in their holders. He wasn’t in any hurry as the boat hasn’t been run much as of late. It was nice to him to feel and hear the water under his feet again.

Familiar sights brought some ease to the old man, but also confusion. The old man rounded a bend. Every mangrove point and every tributary had its memories.

This creek held a memory of his son’s first snook.

Ahead was the Devil’s Elbow where both his boys had a double hookup on some winter jack.

A native waded into the water that day and tried to sell them some lotus flower.

Creeks, mangroves, sandy shoals, memories. With the memories came a sinking in his chest as his oldest boy has been dead now eight months. And his youngest no longer cares much to fish. The old man is alone on the river for the very first time not of his own choosing. Ahead he could see Tampa Bay as he rounded Negro Island but then decided to go through the back country into Little Cockroach Bay. The sun was beginning to burn through the low-level clouds and he killed the engine and put down his troller, a Min-Kota Riptide. There was barely enough water even for his skiff to slip through.

“I came into Little CRB through the northernmost entrance which is accessed from the LMR. This is a shallow area with a silver sand bottom. Sea grass is thick through here but has been scared deeply from props. The western coves all lead into Tampa Bay on the southeast shore. But I wanted to sneak in the back way today. My plan is to fish the deep holes in the back country before the tide moves in. But getting there will be slow as the water is so shallow; I wish I had my push pole because it’s almost too shallow to run the Min-Kota. I know where the water gets a few inches deeper and it’s in the direction of my first hole. But it’s going to take a good while to get there. The last time I fished that hole was February or March with Joel. I pulled three flounder from there in a short time and threw each one back. I caught the first and thought it would be the one and only, hardly a meal. If I would have kept the first one I would have kept the second and then the third. They were all nice and fat too. We also saw a nice tailing red in about 5 inches of water. I tried to get close enough for Joel to place a fly in front of him, but he spooked early. I believe that was the last time Joel and I fished together. I searched my journal which had gotten tattered and wet from neglect. But I hadn’t made an entry from that trip. I regret that now.”

“It’s very quiet today with little breeze. I can hear the low-level honking of white ibis in their almost humanlike voices. It sounds like a person covering their mouth with their hands to muffle their words. And I did at first think the sound was from other fishermen around the corner. But then I saw the small flock of ibis poking their long bills into the sand. Their scarlet faces burn bright in the morning sun.

I then saw a wonderful flock of rosette spoonbills.

Twenty years ago it was a rare sight to see even one of these flamingo-like birds. This is indeed one of the largest flocks I’ve seen to date. Joel would have loved to have seen this. Joel loved birds from the time he was very young. I made him cry once without meaning to because he saw me shoot a few doves to eat for dinner. I didn’t know he was looking out the window. I regret that now too.”

The water went from a few inches to about two feet and the old man heard mullet making gentile splashes around him. He saw flickers and flashes between the thick sea grass. He was not yet in his hole but started fan casting a weedless gold spoon. He soon landed a rat red. He quickly got him off the hook and then turned off the troller. He was nearing his hole and needed to glide in silently. He cast a soft plastic into the hole, feathering the line so the bait would enter the water silently. It was quickly snapped up by a spotted trout. This one and a few others went into the cooler. They were respectable trout to 18 inches and had just come in season. The old man had a cedar plank at home on the grill waiting for them. This has become his favorite method of cooking trout. The plank is soaked in water before placing it on the grill. The fish are cooked whole on the smoldering plank. They have been etched through the flesh to allow spices to flavor the meat. The old man will sometimes loosely cover the fish with a single banana leaf, but the January cold has melted all the banana trees in his garden.

“I drifted out of my hole and decided to continue with my journal. I noted in particular an entry from a year and a half ago where I chased a dusky for a few minutes. He was a big one too. Probably twelve to fourteen feet. That was also a fine day of sight-fishing reds on a sand bar and launching baby tarpon. And a year before that, Joel had launched an eagle ray. It jumped six times as it stripped line off his spool. Both Brandon and Joel were on the boat that day. Boy did they laugh at that ray belly flopping back into the water. It was better than any fat man belly busting contest. Mackerel were hitting too. Half the fun for us was watching for the birds and then speeding over to the spot before the fish went somewhere else. We burned a lot of gas chasing those things but it was a good time. A truly good time.”

The old man closed his journal and drifted. It was good that it had warmed from the record breaking chill that took Tampa Bay in January of ‘010. The sun felt good to him. He hoped to regain some color to his skin. He had never been as pale. Eight months had come and gone without the old man stepping out of his home. Eight months of him searching. Not finding. Following time lines, following paths taken; looking through notes; searching through drawers; artifacts left behind: artwork, pencil shavings in a desk drawer, smithing tools in the workshop, a forge in the back yard. What were those last words spoken? When was the last hug? There is a cap and pajamas in the dresser, his son’s fragrance left behind on them. Photographs that were never supposed to mean anything but now mean everything. Searching and remembering. Visiting a small cross a stranger placed on the side of the road where it happened.

The old man drifted for some time and then again opened his journal,

“There are no boats out here today. Maybe they think all the fish are gone or dead. I haven’t seen that many dead fish. But I’ve seen a few dead cat fish. I didn’t feel too bad to see them floating dead."

"I’ve been drifting quite a while now and think I’m done fishing. I’ve been drifting and thinking of all the times we had on this boat. Watching you learn to fly fish was like watching art. You were a natural and made it look so easy. You were a natural at so many things. We stayed on the water until we were forced to go in by weather or pending dark. So now the sun sets again and is low over Tampa Bay. It’s funny how it swells and changes by tears. Once again the bay turns to mercury and I wonder if you are the first star I see there in the sky tonight. My sky has turned to black as my heart sinks into my aching stomach. You were the sun in my sky. I taught you how to ride a bike and camped with you beside the river. You ran through a field of yellow flowers and stopped to watch an osprey on the tail of a bald eagle. You were my inspiration and my life. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I wonder, have you seen the rings of Saturn? Have you taken a heavenly ride on the tail of a comet? I look into the darkening sky to see if it could be so. The days are so short. I must go now.”

Epilogue:

The sun has set and gone. Tampa Bay shimmers of cold reflectance. That night, the old man dreams of his son. He dreams he sees his son and his son is standing, looking at him, tears in his eyes. The old man looks into his son’s tear-filled eyes and steps forward. A crowd quickly forms. The crowd gets larger and larger. And then his son is gone; swept up in the crowd. The old man remains there, waiting.

We had so much more to do together --