Sunset in western Bay Point. As I putt along at idle in the channel surrounding Bay Point in my 12-foot Porta-Bote, heading towards home, I pass a few families having sunset parties in their backyards. As I wave to them, many of them raise their glasses and cheer. I know they're just being nice, or maybe my bright red face tells the story of a fisherman who's been on the water all day. It feels like a hero's welcome.
About 7 hours earlier, I boated over to Max and Kate's house on the opposite side of the island, where they threw me a tow rope, and I towed them out to sea. Our route was something like this:
The new route I've been practicing is much shorter than the circuitous route I used to use to go to the ocean. From east Bay Point, I head towards Abba Zabba (too far north towards Wells Key and the water gets shallow), turn towards Bird Island, then south through the usual markers, through Sugarloaf Creek, and out to sea. From there, we turned westward and meandered around, spotting patch reefs with our eyes and Max's awesome Costa Del Mar sunglasses. The trip itself sets many personal records: Longest distance travelled, longest time travelled, farthest Porta-Bote trip into open ocean, and probably a few others.
When you're in the ocean just offshore of Saddlebunch on an ideal day, the swells are only 1-2 feet, which is easy to adjust to, even in a flimsy Porta-Bote. The water is between 6 and 10 feet deep, and the name of the game is to sort of scout around and look for patches of brownish rock. They're usually very shallow, some are so shallow that surf breaks on them and makes them easy to spot. Some have bright red coral on them. Most look like narrow dark spots in the water. When one is found, we anchor a short distance from it, and Max and Kate don their snorkel gear and hop off their kayak, speargun in hand.
For now, I don't join them; the voyage itself is enough for me. I can swim, but really nowhere near as well as this situation would demand, and besides, I like playing house on my boat, tidying it up and warning boaters who get a little too close to our dive flag (hand signal, hold up two fingers for two divers, then point to where they're at). They keep me apprised of their situation, exclaiming about the barracuda, nurse sharks, and of course the big game: Snapper and hogfish. By the end of our trip, we've found an enormous reef and they've speared a few good-sized hogfish on it. But it's going on 6:00PM and we've gotta think about getting back.
So we go back in the way we came out, stopping at their house to filet the hogfish, and they let me keep it all: The trip was all the reward they required, and besides, they were going fishing for dolphin (tuna) tomorrow, and they really appreciate all the assistance I gave them. Wow, that's over fifty bucks worth of hogfish filets. Thanks! But by now it's going on 7:45PM, the sun will be setting in just 15 minutes, and it's best to get the small, unlit Porta-Bote home before civil twilight, so I hurry back out and get on my way.
I wasn't the hero who spearfished this bounty, so why can't I keep the stupid grin off my face, or hold back the feelings of accomplishment? I am returning a hero.
-Chris