by Jon Edward Edwards
Standing with a broad base, I leaned into the turns. Curlews spooked as I rounded the mangrove bends as if I’d caught them at something. They look guilty or embarrassed to me; the Chokoloskee Chickens do – aka curlews. Maybe it’s their laborious gait in flight.
I came to a shallow water bay, straightened the skiff, and opened the throttle. Herons stood in the mud facing the incoming water, waiting for dinner. The midmorning sun cast a glare off the water, blinding me in intervals, like heading East on 635 in Dallas, Texas, on a clear morning. I couldn’t see the ditches and troughs that otherwise reveal themselves in a meandering trail of darker water. I followed the same path as always. I didn’t need to see them.
The low rumble of my outboard motor was like white noise from a sleep machine. My head nodded but snapped to when the bow began to hop. The saltwater splashed evenly off the forward beam, “ssshhppsshhh,” “ssshhppsshhh,” “ssshhppsshhh.” I pushed two buttons on the right side of the gunnel that controlled the hydraulic trim tabs underneath the transom. Once… twice… one more little bump, and the boat flattened out.
There was a small opening on the eastern end of the bay that led to a series of sharp turns, ending at the mouth of a small creek that served as a shortcut to the Turtle Key/Dismal Key Pass area. A GPS screen shows a black skull and crossbones – do not navigate. Therefore, during any stage of the tide besides high, trimmed out, jacked up, and hauling ass is the only way to pass. Or else a rapid loss of forward momentum can occur. It’s called “running around,” I write about it frequently. I don’t recommend it.
The creek, or shortcut, was tucked behind a hairpin left – a blind spot. Detritus from storms past littered the flat off to the right; therefore, I swung wide and hugged the mangrove bank. Hunkered down, no standing for this one, I pulled the tiller handle in as far as I could, contorting my left shoulder behind my back, and cut the turn. There they were, Craig Cats, moving about aimlessly like the traffic on Marco in March, ignorant to the complexity of the terrain with no idea of the navigational difficulties. Fists waved, and mouth holes moved as I rode around them in a cloverleaf pattern like a quarter horse in a barrel race. In my peripheral vision, I saw their guide scold them and do his best to usher them out of the way, which gave me hope for humanity. Due to his efforts and my kitty-cat nimbly reflexes, we narrowly avoided an accident.
The ones that aren’t led by a tour guide are easy to spot, zipping from one end of a bay to the other, throwing awake against anyone who might be soaking up some tranquility wetting a line. One day, after the third or fourth pass, whipping up the water like a wave pool, a gaggle of WaveRunners slowed down enough to ask me which direction was Marco Island. I haphazardly pointed west on shaky sea legs, the trolling motor cavitating at the top of every wake they’d pushed. I wonder if they ever made it out? Should anyone be missing any family members, there’s a clue.
Craig Cat is among the class of personal watercraft, along with the more common WaveRunner, that has inundated the traditionally unmolested backwaters of the 10,000 islands. Clumsy by design, the catamarans resemble paddleboards cut in half and fastened together by what is effectively the seat and footrest for two people. Powered by a 25 hp outboard mounted high on a make-shift transom and a Bimini top to shield the rider from the sun, they appear top-heavy as a weebble-wobble.
When I lived on the Caloosahatchee River, my next-door neighbor, Dick, had one. Ole’ Dick looked like the scary man in Poltergeist who knocked on the door and told everyone, “You’re all gonna die.” Why he had a Craig Cat is beyond me, not that ghostly-looking figures can’t partake in water sports. Yet 10 yards up the seawall from my duplex, his Craig Cat sat high up on a rickety boat lift with rusted cables.
I came in from fishing one afternoon and made a 180 in the canal when I passed my house to begin “walking” my old jon-boat towards the seawall like always. I backed off the throttle to reverse to starboard… no response. Disregarding neutral, I slammed it in reverse… no response. The throttle cable had broken in its forward position, “Boom!” The blow was glancing and shot me down the seawall like an aluminum eight ball in the corner pocket that was Dick’s pier. As the bunk boards of the boat lift became closer and closer at eye level, impact was imminent. I ducked at the last fraction of a second as they passed over me. I snatched the kill switch, cutting power amidst a series of crashes as my boat went ping-ponging around underneath the lift.
My neighbors on the opposite side of Dick, Heinz, and Laura were outside and witnessed the debacle. “Are you alright?” They asked frantically as the flimsy dock settled on its decrepit piles. I rose from my crouched position, poked my head up, and replied in quick breaths, “Did you see that?” Dick opened the door to his back porch and asked, “What was that?” Not in the literal sense, but more like asking for something to be repeated. Assessing the damage, which there appeared to be none, I replied, “All good here, Dick.” He went back inside.
It’s a good thing I inherited fast reflexes. Daphne, my mom, was a majorette at Louisiana Tech and falling grocery juggler extraordinaire to this day. I once saw her catch four cans in Brookshires, West Monroe, La, circa 1982. Big curly hair, wind shorts, leggings, and white Rebook High Tops, she reached up on her tiptoes high enough to get a finger on a can of Cream of Mushroom. She caught it when it dropped, as intended. Another fell into the same right hand, “Pow!” With quickness, she juked and snagged another one in her left hand, “Bang!”
By now, a crowd had formed, consisting mainly of men. For the finale, she twirled and let the fourth fall in her hands behind her back, “Booya!” Aisle Five erupted in cheers.
“Four or Five” is one of many thrilling stories featured in Saltwater Cowboy, a book that captures the adventures of an outdoor nomad who roams from the mountains to the sea in search of excitement. Described as a “Sportsman’s Consigliere” and a voice for the little guy, the Saltwater Cowboy wears flip-flops and a cowboy hat, navigating life’s challenges aboard his trusty vessel, the Honey Badger. The book is available at Sunshine Booksellers on Marco Island and on Amazon. Scan the QR code below to dive into these unforgettable tales.
The author of Saltwater Cowboy, Jon Edward Edwards, will be at the Marco Island Farmers’ Market every Wednesday until the season ends. This is a great opportunity to meet the storyteller behind “Four or Five” and the other captivating tales in the book. Copies will be available for purchase at the market, and you can have your copy personally signed by Jon Edward Edwards. Don’t miss this chance to connect with the Saltwater Cowboy and take home a signed edition of this adventurous collection!
Book Available at Sunshine Booksellers on Marco & Amazon.com
