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"Seems to me that only a short time later, while you were still in diapers, I had made a vow that I would get you on your first redfish before you were two years old." |
Dearest Grandson, I must admit, I harbored a slight feeling of apprehension when I awoke that early morning as your grandmother knocked on the window of my pickup while I napped in the hospital parking lot awaiting your arrival into this world. I must say, I really wasn't sure what I was supposed to feel, for I had never had a grandson before. Her voice seemed muffled to my ringing ears as she asked, "Why don't you come on up to the room and meet your new fishing partner?" And as I wiped the sleep from my blurry eyes, I hoped what she said would become the truth…"my new fishing partner." That gave me hope, those words, as I tried desperately to imagine what you looked like. Did you have all of your toes, your fingers? Were you scrawny and pink and wrinkled? And when I walked in the room, your mother handed you to your grandmother and she, in turn, handed you to me. You almost took me to my knees, not that you were heavy, but the power of my heart pulled me almost to the floor. Yes, you were pink and wrinkled, and ten toes and ten fingers. It was then, I think, I nicknamed you, "Buford". No reason, other than to raise the eyebrows of your mom. It seems like yesterday, all of this, but it also seems so far in the distance. A few months later, you were stumbling around the house when you stayed over with us; little, bare feet pattering around on the floor; half walking, half crawling. I fed you your first piece of orange, you know. What a face you made. One would have thought I had fed you a piece of lemon. Oh, I did that, too, later. It seems you dropped the slice of orange on the floor and had one hell of a time picking it up from the slick, smooth tile. Even though you became frustrated, it provided your grandmother and me with much amusement. Same with an ice cube. Soon, you were outside eating dirt from a flower pot and your mother came to pick you up. She fussed at me for letting you eat it, but she knew, deep-down, her words weren't heeded. Heck, it's what we're made of, right? Dirt. But while you were running around creating mischief, eating orange slices, trying to catch an ice cube and eating potting soil, all I could imagine was you and me catching your first redfish. And, of course, the entertainment you were providing at the time was priceless. Seems to me that only a short time later, while you were still in diapers, I had made a vow that I would get you on your first redfish before you were two years old. I came home from a fishing trip one afternoon, and much to my delight, your parents had brought you over for a visit with us. I had a nice redfish in the cooler for supper and a thought occurred to me. Your grandmother brought you outside to me where I had the fish resting on the filet board. I then plopped you, new diaper and all, right on top of the fish just like you were riding him. I think there's a picture of that somewhere laying around here. Your mother threw a fit! Seems that was the last of the clean diapers she had with her, so she and your daddy had to drive home with you in your little, car seat with a slimy, fishy diaper. I don't see what the big deal was, do you? Your grandmother and I, we think, were pretty lucky since we were the only ones allowed to take you just about anywhere we wanted when you were just a wee pup. Trust is everything…a valuable, life-lesson. So, off we went one day to the west coast of Florida; a place that you had never seen, but later, you would fall in love with. A beautiful place it is, the Gulf of Mexico. I know you probably don't remember much of this, but maybe you do. You're pretty smart. The place we took you to is called Anna Maria Island and we have a lot of friends there we wanted you to meet. If I recall, you were around two years old, and such a curious boy you were. It was at the Rod and Reel Pier you had your first hotdog…and your first experience with ketchup…and your first experience with baitfish. The baitfish were the best part for you, and me. A fisherman had netted more than a few little fish, and you watched intently from the second-floor porch as you dipped your fingers in the ketchup I had poured onto your plate with the hotdog and French fries; your fingers seemed to work better than those sliced potatoes. Squealing and pointing, indicating you wanted a closer look at the flopping bait that the man had dumped on the pier's deck, I grabbed you up and down the stairs we went. He left a few there on the boards just for you to examine, with which you promptly began to pick up and stuff into your pockets. Tiny scales from the fish adorned your little fingers, and once back upstairs, tiny scales seemed to go down pretty well with the ketchup and fries. Again, your mother wasn't amused but was getting better about her fussing at me. Oh, I almost forgot something very, very important! Shortly after we had finished our lunch, we took you down to the beautiful, snow-white, sandy beach and introduced to you, for the very first time, saltwater, something that would, later in your life, become as important to you as is to me, no matter which coast. Much time for you has passed beneath the bridge of time, and it seems even longer for me. You see, I've waiting for that special day, that special moment, when you would begin to ask important questions of me. "What kind of fish is that? What is this and that?" as you sat with me and we thumbed through my old fishing magazines. Eight years, or so, went by after the trip to the pier. You had reached the ripe, old age of ten; a momentous mark of time for a young man. Looking back now, it only seems like seconds, and all the while, seeming like eons. The day had finally arrived for your first gliding flight across the waters I call home. I had taken your dad across these waters a few times, prior to this day, and introduced him to the expansive, crystal-clear, shallow flats where redfish, snook and large sea trout live; where dolphin play; where sunrises begin the days and are capable of taking ones breath away; where peace for the soul waits for me each time I venture there; where I become as young as I wish to be. And now, Grandson, it would be time to pass to you what my father had passed to me and me to your dad. I could only hope, with great anticipation, that the kindling of the small flame that we stoked on a coast a hundred miles away would rage into a burning blaze inside of your very existence. I watched you as the small skiff splashed from its trailer into the brackish waters at the ramp. Your eyes flashed as I'm sure mine did many decades ago when my dad slid the old, wooden boat into a lake somewhere in central Florida, far too many years ago for me to actually remember, but never allowing me to forget. Your head turned from side to side, not from fear, but from sheer excitement of a new beginning and the discovery of new sights and sounds. And then I noticed your eyes were filled with the same sparkle, as in mine, after all these years of experience. Oh, how I had longed for this day! On the water, you absorbed everything around you. You didn't ask many questions that morning. It was though nature was speaking to you and I chose not to interrupt that conversation; there was nothing neither your dad nor I could add to the words of the river. Later that morning you caught your first redfish, small perhaps, but yet it could have been as large as the bridge we crossed under, it made no difference to you. He was yours and as you carefully released him back to his home, words were whispered into your soul by great voices, voices of past generations and the traditional gift was now yours. Later that day when we returned home, I told your mom, "You know I've ruined his life, don't you?" She smiled. The next year a challenge would be issued by you to me. I hadn't quiet expected it, but in no way would I have ever not accepted. A contest of sorts developed from the mere idea of how we would decorate your new bedroom. I, of course, thought it should be a décor of fish, the flavor of the outdoors, woodsy with dark green paint, and fly-rods and such, hanging along with photos of past trips and trophies. But you had other ideas, and rightly so; after all, it was to be your first official room. I never realized you were such a baseball fan! But through unselfishness and respect, you at least were going to give your old grandpa a fifty-fifty chance to do as he wished. I'll never forget that phone call. So adult-like you told me, with no apprehension in your voice, that I was to take you, and you alone, fishing the following weekend, and that if you caught the first fish, you would be allowed to decorate your new room with baseball memorabilia, and if I was so lucky as to catch the first that day, I could choose the décor. I accepted, and even though you couldn't see me, I swelled with pride as a mist filled my eyes. I picked you up that following Friday and as we traveled along, I warned you that I would be nudging you awake at an ungodly hour the next morning as my dad had done to me when I was your age. On the way to our house, I told you of a wise, Indian man that had given his grandson a special place deep within the sacred waters of the Chitimacha Nation in southern Louisiana, and his grandson and I would become more than friends. I would eventually call him "Brother". On the day I was to pick you up, I called my brother and told him I was going to give you your sacred place, a place where one day you might fish alone and be a part of it; a place where you would be able to find my spirit waiting for you once I have departed this world. A place I named, "Ian's Bank", and only you and I would know its location. The next morning came and I rousted you from your peaceful sleep at five in the morning. And without hesitation, you scrambled to get dressed and off we went, much the same way I did with my dad so long ago. I silently prayed this day would greet us with much discovery and excitement, and that we might be smiled upon by the Master. Crossing the overpass, the river waited just to the east and I asked you to describe for me the colors you saw in the predawn sky. I coaxed you to look beyond the obviousness and "see" instead of just look. And you complied and told me of golden slivers with burgundy and orange highlights; of purples and deep blues; of pinks combined with tangerine as the sun began to edge above the far, dark shore where men and women ride horses of fire into the vastness of space. As we glided across smooth and mirrored, glassy waters, anticipation could be almost felt between the two of us, and as I poled the skiff into the shallow flats, a school of perhaps a hundred redfish tailed above the silver and gold surface. It was meant to be, this day and those fish. And never so strongly, I felt the presence of my father as he stood with us in spirit, as I so hoped he would. Two fine redfish were taken that morning as you made perfect casts to them both. I was surprised how concerned you were to put them, unharmed, back into their watery home, and you never thought once of taking one home to show it off. You even fussed at me a little as I fumbled with the camera as old fingers took a little too long to record the moment. I'll try to do better next time, but you'll have to forgive me, I was just a little more overwhelmed with excitement than I planned on being…more than you know, because a dream had come true that morning. You had won the challenge that day, but I reserved the right to have one wall in your new room; a wall to hang important memories. Captures of time; captures of your life. And that shoreline we fished, well, that was "Ian's Bank", the place I told you I would give you. We both know where it is now, you and me. I've known that shore for decades and always knew something magical and powerful existed there. Now I know why. Soon you will be a grown man. Time will quicken, more so for me than you. But there is something you need to know, Grandson. Something my Indian brother once wrote about. It had to do with white pelicans and his Bayou Teche. These rivers and gulfs and oceans and streams…they speak slowly; so slowly we may only hear one word from them in our short time here. But if you always remember to see instead of look, and always listen instead of just hear, the old waters and trees, the mangrove shorelines, the whispers of cold stream waters over smooth rocks, they will always tell you stories. And if you listen closely enough, you will hear voices of those that came before you that sought to find the same wonderment you still seek deep within. And if you look close enough, you will see the footprints left for you to follow. With much love and admiration; Your Captain; your grandfather. |
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The man then pointed to the far side of the lake, not at
the distant shore, but pointed to an invisible path that could only be
seen by few; a path that had many branches, twists and turns. All
because of this, a journey began.