A Fishing Story.

I guess that it was sometime during my high school years. Maybe earlier, maybe later. I really can not recall. Regardless, it was definitely summertime, as the afternoon rain pattern had already taken hold. My dad and I were fishing on the Ocklawaha River. That was our primary go-to place. We actually lived closer to a couple of semi-famous lakes that were known for producing trophy bass, but the river was special (and still is). To go on the river is to step back in time. Natural Florida at it's finest. Clear water, a nice current to drift with, centuries old cypress knees - many that are now hollowed out partially submerged, creating natural residence for the smaller fish that live in the shallows. You are almost guaranteed to see a few alligators sunning on the bank, and if you are there at the break of day, an occasional deer taking a drink. Not to mention the rhesus monkeys that long ago escaped from Silver Springs and took up residence in the local woods along the river.
This fishing trip was like many before. We would get Gore's Landing at daybreak, and launch the boat to catch the early morning bass bite. We would start up river (my dad preferred to go upriver, so if the motor died, we could always drift back. More on that later.), The plan was to go  up a couple of miles then drift back, working top water - but only after a brief stop at "Zoro's Cove". A small offshoot that was good for about 10 casts at best - but it was a great place to verify the tackle was ready. It would rarely produce any bites, but once a long time ago, we caught a nice keeper there, so it became tradition to always stop there. After that, we would continue up past the entrance to "Dead River" - a place about a mile upriver on a bend where the river seems to split. Coming the opposite way, it can easily be mistaken as the main river. A mistake that will lead to a lot of effort to recover from - due to a minefield of logjams that prevent the use of a motor and a very heavy current - require you to  paddle, pole, and push your way out of the maze. Once beyond Dead River, we would normally continue on up river about 10-12 more bends to "the cliffs"  - where the bank is relatively high on a bluff - making an excellent camping spot. I have spent quite a few nights there myself. From this point, we would normally turn around and drift back down with an occasional assist of a paddle or trolling motor to keep the boat centered, while we worked the banks with top-water lures. As most fishermen know, top-water is not always the most productive, but it is a thing of beauty when a bass explodes the water for one.
              It would normally take a couple of hours or three to complete the drift - depending on how many times we would crank up and repeat an area  - either because of good luck, or we got a lure fouled in a tree and wanted a do-over. I don't recall the actual catch that day, but I do remember that we did pretty well, and each had a few in the live well. Two to three pound class. Good eating size.
           As morning gave way to midday, it was time for the second phase of the trip. Red-belly time. Put away the top water, and rig for drowning worms or minnows. On the river, many of the tight bends had some fairly deep (12-17 ft.) holes on the outside edge, and the river flowed as such to create eddys that would be counter to the normal flow. The trick was to find a hole and get just beyond it - preferably in some pads, and tie up or anchor and work the slope of the drop off. This was a lot more relaxed fishing than the morning bass fishing - which you had to be constantly managing the boat in the current and working the bank structure against the current.
          It also meant that it was time for a bite of lunch - which would usually consist of either a can of sardines or Vienna sausages, a package of Lance cheese crackers, and a Pepsi. On some occasions, we would have a left over biscuit and sausage from breakfast. Fishing days always started out getting up early to a home cooked breakfast, thanks to the fact that mom got up even earlier to make sure it was ready. Biscuits, ham or sausage, and freshly perked coffee. Perked on a stove. Mom would have absolutely nothing to do with one of those  Mr. Coffee contraptions. (I can only imagine her reaction   had she ever encountered a Keurig.)
So, we set about enjoying lunch and talking, with an occasional interruption of bringing in a pan fish. Usually red bellies or bluegill, with a  stumpknocker or two for good measure. The redbellies and bluegill in the river can get reasonable size (hand size) and put up a good fight. Stumpknockers do not run quite as big, because as their name implies, they reside in the shallows. They will often get thrown back, but we might keep a few of questionable size because "Momma likes the smaller ones". Or so the story went.
We had a few different boats over the years. A small 12 foot semi-v from J.M. Fields, a couple of different Gheenoes (A canoe like fiberglass boat that doesn't paddle worth a shit, but has a square stern for a motor), and others. But the one that was settled on, and the one we used most, was a "Dixie Dory". A 16 foot aluminum boat that had a raised bow much like a northern dory style, but flat bottom  and a squared off stern. Three bench seats, with the middle bench subdivided into a live well and two dry(ish) stowage areas.  A basic console was just forward of the starboard (right) side of the rear bench, with a top mounted steering wheel, and a switch panel to start the motor and control lights and accessories. The gear shift/throttle controls were mounted on the inside of the wood gunwale. Dad was proud of those wood gunwales, that he had replaced himself. He had spent much time and effort had forming and bending the multi-layered wood strips, and binding them together with custom wood pegs. "Not a single screw in the entire build!", he would proclaim on many occasions.
         The boat was powered by a 1965 Johnson 35 Hp, with an electric choke. It used an 24:1 ratio gas to oil mix, which made for many a fouled spark plug. (see above - always go up river). It had old school points and condenser style ignition, which also needed constant attention. When everything was tuned up, It ran very well, and would push the boat slightly over 20 Mph. Due to it's age, parts were scarce even then, so we had two or three spare parts motors in the shed, should we ever need them (which we didn't)- courtesy of Gossard's marine in the town of Orange Lake.
        So back to fishing. Things were going well - save for a few yellow fly bites. We were well on our way to catching a "good mess of fish". To this day, I am not sure what amount constitutes "a mess", but it is less than "we loaded the boat with fish", and more than "enough to stink up the grease".  Like I mentioned, it was summer, which means it was hot, and the chances for a rain shower was better than average. The thing is, being in the river, you have zero view of any horizon due to the heavy tree cover. Besides directly overhead, you cannot see a storm building until it in right on top of you. We had been caught out before, and it is usually no big deal. As anyone in Florida knows, afternoon rains will be over just as quick as they come, leaving only the humidity behind. So we really weren't that concerned when we saw the first cloud, along with a sudden wind change and temperature drop. "Well, here it comes."; "Yep." The slightest of sounds are amplified in the river - much like a mountain valley. You could hear the rain coming through the woods, occasionally accented with a clap of thunder - which echoed like a cannon. I reached in the middle seat for a couple of dime store ponchos - which were marginally better than  plastic garbage bags, but were usually all you needed. By this time, we could see the front of the rain band approaching, and it was pouring heavy. "A toad frog strangler", in local parlance. After about five minutes or so, I reached back into the middle seat to grab the bailing buckets - which were fashioned out of properly manicured bleach jugs - handles still intact. And it continued to rain. And rain some more. Every time it seemed to let up a tad, It seemed to return stronger. like mother nature just needed to take a deep breath or something. We were now 20-30 minutes into this downpour. Any utility that the ponchos might had initially provided had long since expired. As had our attempts to continue fishing in the rain until it passed. We hadn't said much in the past ten minutes or so, but we both knew what the other was thinking. At that point, I looked straight at dad and said "Hey! Is it raining in your end of the boat?". I still remember the perplexed furrowed brow look he gave me - through the wall of water now pouring off the bill of his Zebco ball cap. After a bit of a pause and perhaps an eye roll, he replied "Why, hell yes it's raining back here. how about up there ??" We both broke out in laughter, as we started making preparations to head to the ramp and call it a day. It rained all the way back to Gores landing, and half way home. All in all a great day. We caught plenty of fish, made some great memories, and "Is it raining in your end of the boat?" became a lifelong inside joke between us that was used countless times to add a little humor for when  things didn't "go quite according to Hoyle".