The ocean was like a piece of glass as we glided past the familiar black-and-white-spiraled St. Augustine lighthouse a mile or so off to our starboard side. Heading out into the great unknown on a muggy June morning, I couldn’t help but think of my grandmother’s ancient words of wisdom about the unpredictable Atlantic:
“The ocean can be your best friend or your worst enemy. Don’t ever underestimate its power and fury. Savor its life-giving warmth and beauty but always beware. It can turn on you in countless ways!”
Spoken to me more than 60 years ago when I was a boy on an island with no cars that faced the mighty Atlantic Ocean many miles north of St. Augustine off Long Island in New York, those powerful words had been etched in my mind for decades. I swam in that ocean every day with my friends, and my grandmother had every right to teach me caution and respect.
The old St Augustine light house is such an iconic landmark.
Today, many miles to the south of that boyhood paradise, the ocean on Florida’s east coast was definitely in a friendly spirit. The thick, early morning mist had not yet burned off, giving the tranquil water an ethereal and almost dreamlike appearance. Instead of the usual sense of unending vastness, you almost felt the sensation of being closed in, as if floating in a huge bathtub. Conditions were perfect for my three oldest grandchildren—Caleb, Eli and Naomi, ages 14, 12 and 10 — and I was glad. They no doubt would have been seasick had the ocean not been so calm.
As we left Camachee Cove Harbor in St. Augustine, I smiled at the distant lighthouse that has long been such an iconic landmark. The kids and I had just climbed to the top of it the day before. Now they were seeking a new adventure: their first ever deep-sea fishing trip.
We had booked our trip with Captain Al Cumbie of Channelmasters and his mate, Justin. Cap’t Al is one of those seasoned guides whose been at it so long he’s forgotten more about saltwater fishing than most landlubbers will ever know.
This trip had special meaning because I had deep roots in St. Augustine. In a way, history was repeating itself. My grandparents had retired from Long Island, New York, in 1960 and bought a house on the ocean several miles down the coast in a remote section of St. Augustine Beach. The area was still wild and wooly in those days, and for a budding 13-year-old naturalist who had a passion for hunting and fishing, I relished the wildlife that I always encountered with each visit.
Ospreys were constantly scouring the ocean for a meal, while kestrels hovering in mid-air along A1A were a common sight. Any number of marsh and shorebirds could be seen in the small ponds along the highway, and I always kept my eyes peeled for an occasional alligator or deer.
The author’s father and grandfather on their last fishing trip out of St. Augustine in August 1963.
Before my grandparents retired and moved to Florida from New York, I lived with them for eight glorious summers from 1952 to 1959 at their beach house on Fire Island, a 28-mile-long barrier island just south of Long Island. Those adventure-filled summer days had been pure magic. Fishing was my passion. Every waking moment I chased blues, snappers (baby blues) and flounder off the wooden pier on the bay side of Saltaire, the village we called home. When I wasn’t fishing in the bay, I was surf-casting on the beach for stripers with one-of-a-kind homemade plugs that my grandfather made.
Now, on this gorgeous summer day in June 2017, I suppose you could say I was attempting to repeat a portion of my childhood by changing roles with my grandchildren. I wanted them to have the opportunity to experience the thrill of saltwater fishing like I had done when I was their age. So there we were, headed out into a calm and forgiving sea for their first big saltwater adventure. What would the day hold?
The first order of business was rounding up some bait. Reading the water like a book, Cap’t Al and Justin watched for gulls and swirls in the light waves with eagle eyes. Soon, after a few dead-on tosses with the cast net, the live well was billowing with baitfish and we were on our way. Being the inveterate old professional, Cap’t Al probably could have thrown the net blindfolded.
The author with his dad in late August 1963 showing off their catch on their last fishing trip together.
A few more miles out and it was time to bait up the hooks and begin trolling. Several other boats were off in the distance with the same objective. Fishing had been good for the past few weeks. Cap’t Al was confident we were going to catch fish and he knew right where to go. Over the previous two weeks, he’d been catching a steady supply of kingfish, but he’d also boated a few tuna and dolphin. I hoped the kids would have that same kind of luck. I wanted it to be the perfect day on the water for them.
The boat cut silently through the water in an effortless motion. A half-grown loggerhead floated by, eyeing us curiously. The early morning fog was just beginning to burn off, but you still had that strange feeling of being closed in by a giant wall of mist. If not for the sight of two or three other boats within several hundred yards, you might easily think you were voyaging in some sort of make-believe Peter Pan ocean.
As I stared into the rapidly dissipating mist, the stark memory of my last ocean-fishing adventure with my father came alive in vivid color. It had taken place on these very same waters back in 1963 when I was 16 years old. It was late August, and my grandparents had chartered a trip for my father and me much like today’s outing. The trip was for my benefit; I was the passionate fisherman in the family. It turned out to be a memorable day. We caught plenty of fish and my dad caught a bull dolphin weighing just over 45 pounds.
Two months later, on November 1, my dad was gone, the victim of a massive heart attack. It happened on a Friday morning three weeks before JFK was assassinated. My dad was only 46. So that last fishing trip turned out to be something I would always cherish and hold onto.
First mate Justin helps Eli with the fighting belt.
It’s hard to describe the anticipation and excitement of a day on the water. The lure of the ocean, that feeling of not knowing what the day will bring—it’s like going into a new deer or grouse covert, knowing there might be a big buck in that certain patch of woods or some birds hiding somewhere alongside that cutover ready to explode, and you can only imagine seeing the buck of a lifetime jump up or having two grouse flush and getting that perfect double. Now it was time for my grandkids to experience that same feeling with a rod and reel.
My daydreaming ended abruptly when one of the rod tips suddenly jerked to attention and line started zinging out. Eli was first to grab a rod and the battle commenced.
Caleb muscles in a fine kingfish as first mate Justin and Captain Al look on
“It’s a king,” Justin said, standing behind Eli in the back of the boat. “Keep that rod tip up! That’s it! Pump on the way up, wind on the way down…bring the line in slowly and steadily. Don’t allow any slack. That’s it….”
Eli did an excellent job of following Justin’s instructions. Moments later, we were looking down at a two-foot silver streak coming up from the depths.
“When he sees the boat he’ll probably spook and make another run so let him have plenty of line,” Justin warned.
Eli heeded Justin’s advice as the streamlined silver rocket came close to the boat, where it suddenly darted back into the depths. Eli gave him plenty of line as he made his run, then the pumping and reeling started anew. He finally got the fish to the side of the boat and Justin gaffed it and hauled it aboard. Eli’s first kingfish! He was beaming!
The author lends a little muscle to his granddaughter Naomi to bring in a kingfish almost as big as she was.
Next it was Caleb’s turn. The kings were cooperating and Caleb made quick work of bringing in a slightly larger fish. Naomi, the youngest, needed help in muscling in the largest fish of the day as I stood behind her and helped her hold the rod as she struggled to gain line. When she finally got her 25-pound kingfish in the boat, her small arms were exhausted, but she was beaming from ear to ear.
The kingfish action continued and before we knew it we each had our two-fish limit. Several other boats around us were hauling kings aboard as well. We hoped to get into some dolphin or tuna, but it was not to be. We hooked up with a few more kings and remoras that were dutifully released, and then it was time to head in.
Great white heron was a permanent fixture around the marina.
As we pointed the boat toward the inlet and Camachee Cove, I thought about losing my father all those years ago and what our last day of fishing together had meant to me. In addition to his huge bull dolphin, I had caught my first kingfish on that trip. I thanked the fishing gods for the memorable day on the water we had spent together back in 1963 and I knew that somewhere out in all that vastness he had to be looking down and smiling. I also gave thanks for having been able to share this special day catching kingfish with three of my favorite people in the world.
Back at the marina, we photographed our catch and talked as Justin began filleting the fish. A young loggerhead turtle about 12 inches in diameter—our second of the day—swam up along the walkway next to the boats. A stunning, three-foot great white heron stood so close we could almost touch him. Both animals were looking for a handout. Savoring the moment, the kids reached down into the water and played with their new turtle friend as he swam around. They knew how rare and special it was to be that close to a young loggerhead.
Upon returning to Comachee Cove Marina, the author’s grandchildren made an unexpected friend
While Justin packaged up the fish, we said our goodbyes to the turtle, our new feathered friend and to Cap’t Al.
It was a perfect ending to a perfect day on the water and hopefully the first of many such experiences for three adventurous youngsters. At this stage, Naomi is showing a real passion for fishing, but both boys love to go whenever they can find time. Naomi and I often go to a small lake near her home for bass and bream. She’s learning to use a fly rod and she has a lot of natural ability and rhythm. All three grandkids have an abiding respect for nature and the ocean and that makes me happy inside.
I hope their ocean rendezvous with a few feisty kingfish will someday mean as much to them as my trip with my dad means to me. Now I know what Norman Maclean was talking about.
Anyone who loves the water is forever haunted by its boundless blessings.
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