Dry Ground, Sharks & Blood in the Water
Posted on June 1, 2016 by bob in OffTheBeatenPath
The flat extended endlessly in all directions save the north, where the tree line was faintly visible through the south Florida haze. The wind was mostly calm, with an intermittent breeze out of the northwest; perfect to stalk and pitch flies to tailing reds. He idled the skiff out of the channel, the water beneath slowly changing from deep emerald to crystal clear as he crossed onto the shallow water of the flat. Up on the platform now, he scanned the horizon – the closest water first, then working his way out – looking for feeding fish. He saw nothing and climbed down.
He flipped through the Dahlberg divers, Seaducers, Clousers and other flies and settled on a chartreuse-and-white Lefty’s Deceiver. Despite a dozen or so bluefish the day before, the tippet was in good shape. He drove the sand spike firmly into the bottom, tied it off to the bow cleat and stepped off into the calf-deep water. It was cool, not cold, but being fresh out of the channel on a rising tide it was not as warm as the sun-cooked water even 20 feet further up the flat. As the tide came in the channel would spill shrimp, crabs and mullet onto the flat, and following this bounty would be the redfish and trout he’d come for. Bonefish were not an impossibility, though jacks or sharks were more likely.
With the skiff shrinking behind in the wake of his two bare feet and the sun to his back, he surveyed the expanse of water. Not far ahead, on the inside of a sharp bend in the channel, was a small island, barely a knoll really, no bigger than a kitchen table, but it would afford him a better vantage point. A small school of glass minnows swam past and darted out of sight when it caught his shadow. A good sign, he thought, stripping line off the reel in anticipation. He keyed in on a shadow some 15 yards behind the baitfish. It was long and lean, with a flash of silver. Trout? Tarpon? he wondered, beginning his back cast. There was no way to know.
The line zipped through the guides effortlessly and he presented the fly two yards ahead of the cruising fish. He twitched it twice, let it sink, and the fish struck. He quickly gathered the slack and drove the hook home, the fish responding with a blitzing run across the flat before it turned 90 degrees for the channel. It was peeling line steadily now, perhaps 100 yards and still going. He wondered whether the 7-weight would be enough to stop the fish and tightened the drag. If it was a tarpon, even a small one, he’d need every foot of backing in reserve.
When the fish slowed he was able to gain line, a little at first and then it came more easily. The fish would make a run, then he would gain that and more line back with each subsequent run. This they repeated until he could see the silver flash of scales even in the deep water of the channel but still couldn’t identify it. He’d been working his way toward the little knoll the duration of the fight, which the rising tide had now shrunken to a few square feet. He stepped back with his left foot once more, a sharp pain shot up his leg and he jumped, immediately thinking he’d stepped on a ray.
To his relief it was instead a small oyster bed but had still deeply cut his heel, turning the water around his feet a rosy hue. First he’d deal with the fish, he thought, then his heel. As he worked the reel’s handle, fly line gradually gave way to fly leader and he could finally make out the fish. Though not a tarpon, it was the biggest lady fish he’d ever seen. He unhooked and revived the fish, which swam away unscathed. Moving with the tide, the lady fish drifted off following the same path the cloud of pink water had taken along the edge of the flat and out over the deep water of the channel.
Sitting on the knoll now he examined his heel. The bleeding was steady and he needed bandages, which he always carried in the boat. He stood, picked up his rod and eased off the sand into the water. Had the afternoon sun been anywhere but over his right shoulder he would never have noticed the hulking shadow that had risen from the channel to his chum line. He was a third of the way back to the boat when he first saw it, out of the corner of his left eye, slowly following the scent but unsure of the source. He froze. Looking down through the thigh-deep water, the walking had aggravated his heel. I’ll never make it to the boat, he thought, so he turned and broke for the knoll.
The splashing allowed the shark to focus its attention, and it now came at him with great speed, brown dorsal rising as the water shallowed. Ten feet out it stopped suddenly, unable to go any further, and retreated to deeper water, broad fin slicing back and forth through the water impatiently, trying to pick up sound or scent. Ten more feet, he said, and gave out a heavy sigh. Ten more feet.
The tide water had left the knoll with no more than a dinner plate’s worth of dry ground at its peak. There he perched like a shorebird, heel up to slow the bleeding, watching the shark circle in an ever-larger pattern. An hour to two went by and he lost sight of the fish. By now, the sun had sunk low and the tide had peaked, perhaps turned. He examined the dried blood on his heel. A football field away, the skiff bobbed in the light chop. His mouth dry as dust, he thought of the beer iced in the cooler.
He looked around for the shark but did not see it. He stood and tested the heel. No leaking. It’s now or never, he thought, grabbing the rod and taking a deep breath; you can’t sleep out here. He eased off the knoll toward the boat, the water still deeper than he would have liked. He moved as quickly yet quietly as he could, looking around constantly. When he again saw the brown dorsal, his stomach dropped.
He broke into a sprint but knew without even looking that the shark was closing the distance between them faster than he was closing the distance between himself and the boat. Legs aching, heel gushing blood and with deliverance in reach, he leapt with all his remaining strength headfirst into the boat, seconds before the shark slammed the starboard side.
When he regained his wits, he saw he was unharmed. He peered over the gunwale but the shark had vanished. Now in the safety of the skiff, his thirst returned. His hands shook terribly as he tried opening the cold beer. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted, and when it was gone, he quickly chased it with another, then another. When the shakes finally left him, he pulled the start rope, took hold of the tiller and pointed the bow north.
Niko Corley is a USCG-licensed charter boat captain. He spends his free time on the water or in the woods. Contact him at niko.corley@gmail.com.
