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"The services start early, and if I'm late, I'll miss the genesis of the gospel."

Feature Photo by
Matt Phillips

It's dark and quiet outside. A cricket chirps from inside the hedge along the house. I slip from the confines of home, careful not to wake my wife. The skiff is already hitched to the truck, tackle loaded, reels checked, leaders packed along with the fly-rods, the rest is safely stowed in the lockers aboard. She sleeps, safely tucked in the warm bed, as I pull out of the driveway, sipping black coffee. She understands my need to be alone today; she understands my religion and has attended my church. The services start early, and if I'm late, I'll miss the genesis of the gospel.

Driving an empty, tunnel-like highway, a passage into another dimension, perhaps. Small patches of fog throw back the headlights as I drive through their ghostly layers. So do eyes at the edge of the woods. I slow a little knowing there are raccoons, deer and other creatures living along the ribbon of gray-black pavement slicing its way though their ancient piney home, providing my path to the temple. This lonely road provides me time to think of the many trips I took as a child with Dad to faraway places where we fished dark waters edged by huge, gray cypress trees. The quiet of my journey lets me remember old friends that have now passed to the other side, and I relive our conversations and laughter as the tires sing along in the background. Finally, the glow of lights at an intersection stirs me to attention and I push along even faster as I head south, parallel to my home waters of the Indian River Lagoon…my church. The sky has yet to show any hint of color.

Crossing the overpass just north and west of the launch area, I am already seeking out the unseen surface of the river. I can't see it yet, but after many years visiting the old river, I can visualize it. The flag at the memorial park is limp; no wind and I know the waters will be smooth and calm.

A few of my old friends are already there waiting for safe-light and their clients. They smile welcomes and words of like-minded souls as we stand in the orange radiance of the mercury-vapor lights hanging on tall poles in the parking lot. We are the devout in attendance, waiting together and speaking of perhaps yesterday's goings-on, or inquiring about the family, or where we are fishing; of secret locations only spoken of in odd code names, but no one will ask the specifics of our secrets. It's all really a part of our shared banter. A few good laughs, then we all seem to notice the "blue in the east". I feel they are envious of me. I'm fishing alone, but they're still waiting for late clients. I baptize the skiff and pull away from the ramp.

An early morning cathedral of stained-glass sky stretches ahead. Its fiery luminescence spreads across a vast, dark shoreline. I quietly and slowly pole the skiff into more shallow waters, watching the surface for movement, but then find myself paying more attention to the ever-changing colors spread beyond the skiff. I'm mesmerized by the awesome magic of it all and silently thank the Creator for the splendor. How fortunate can one be to stand alone in such expansive wonder? Fishing becomes secondary and I climb from my platform to sit cross-legged on the bow of the skiff, soaking the morning into my soul.

Black and white skimmers, with their fire-orange beaks, slice through the margin where Heaven and Earth squeeze together. Their precision and speed fascinate me: they fly so close to the surface picking up small, brown mud-minnows. Several roseate spoonbills slash their grayish, odd bills through the inch-deep brine, snatching and crunching careless small shrimp from the sparse grass that grows along the edge of the river. Their pink feathers blend with the colors reflected as an endless array of hues shining from above. A single osprey calls from on high and I watch him as he folds his wings and dives, then crashes, rising up again with an unsuspecting mullet for breakfast. He carefully adjusts the fish in his strong, sharp talons. I watch him until he has gone from my sight.

Three tails appear just to my right, seemingly from nowhere, hardly noticeable. They are close together, inches apart, and the desire to ease my fly-rod from the gunwale is powerful, but the thought is fleeting. Instead, I ease myself overboard, careful not to preserve the silence. I wade to them, watching for any indication from the blue-edged tails of the three redfish that they are aware of my approach. Instead, they go on undisturbed, feeding, searching. Water splashes as they slap at it with their broad tails. I'm within thirty feet of them, but it's still too dark to see into the crystal waters of the lagoon. I kneel there and try to imagine what they perceive with their coppery eyes as they peer into the grass and root with their blunt noses. I have forgotten about my rod still in the skiff. They seem to work a definite path, moving ever so slowly toward me, then to my left, only inches at a time.

Suddenly, one of them speeds from the others and a medium-sized shrimp leaps skyward, attempting to escape. Futile. He's so close he almost collides with me, and then it is gone, snatched up by the nearer red, and again he joins the other two. I remain still. I wait until they are far past me before I stand and wade back to the boat.

The early days of fall have arrived, heralding a change, though summer has yet to relinquish its hold. The early morning air is still warm and quiet, but soon the cold fronts from the north and west will blow in forcing me to shift my habits on these waters I call home. Soon, the whistling wings of teal, pintails and black ducks will fill the freshwater ponds on the other side of the dike roads, and the thunder of the hunters' shotguns will echo from their blinds. Black, yellow and chocolate labs will shiver not so much with cold but the terrible excitement of restraint as they await their masters' command to retrieve the floating waterfowl beyond the blinds.

As I pole from the shallows, solace has replaced the burden of yesterday's rushing about, worries have vanished. I have been healed by the sermon without casting a single fly into the waters of my church.

Amen.

About the Author:
 

  His dad handed him the golden-bronze, shellacked cane pole, a tug at the old, brown cork, and from underneath it, a small bluegill was raised from the surface, perhaps all of four inches, dangling above Lake Canon’s waters. His first. He was barely three then.
   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.
   Gary continued this journey fishing the many lakes around the central Florida area, later moving closer to the eastern side of the state. His curiosity of saltwater led him to obtain his captain’s license in 1990. Also, around that same time, his interest began a new path in fly-fishing the shallow and beautiful flats on the Indian River Lagoon in search of redfish, tarpon, sea trout and snook.
   Captain Gary Henderson has now retired from professional guiding and chartering, but still continues to follow the paths his father pointed out to him long ago. His roots are still firmly embedded from his past, and as a reminder, he still fly-fishes in “the lake behind the house”. Here, he finds the spirit of his dad and the many friends that have passed to the other side. Here, he also finds inspiration for stories of back then, and now.