“Thanks, Matt.”

From up on the dock she handed down a cardboard box full of bottles and snacks, her wide-brimmed straw hat shading her saltwater-tanned face. “I made some sandwiches, one for you, too. Fresh sliced turkey with lettuce on wheat. Got a little jug of rum, too.”

“Dang, Mrs. Thomas, you sure know how to fish in style!” I said with a smile. “It sure is a nice morning. Those snook should be hungry with that full moon comin’ up. Outgoing tide will start soon, should be perfect.”

“I hope so. Paul’s caught a few before but I never have. We usually just fish the reefs for snapper in our boat, but that’s too easy.”

“I’ll do my best to put ya on them today, Mrs. Thomas.”

“That’s what we’re paying you for,” she said with a wink.

“Speaking of Paul, where is Mr. Thomas?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s on his way. He woke up grumpy because we ran out of coffee, so he rode up to the store to pick up a pound. He’ll be here any minute.”

While Mrs. Thomas dangled her feet over the water’s edge, I readied the boat for our departure. I checked on the pinfish in the baitwell that I’d caught the night before. With a rod and light line tied to a small hook, I’d stayed up late drinking beer and used pieces of shrimp to catch two dozen of the palm-sized baitfish. Their bright pink and yellow fins were outstretched as they swam vigorously around the tank, which meant they were lively and would make good bait.

“Ahoy!” Mr. Thomas shouted from the gravel walkway that led from the marina to the dock. His coffee must have kicked in because he was half running, his fishing rod and oversized tackle box rattling with every bound.

“Morning Mr. T,” I said. “You ready to fish?”

“You bet. We better hurry up and get out there while it’s still cool. I’d like a shot at one of those big tarpon Pat McToobs hooked last week down off the south reef.” Mrs. Thomas shot a menacing glance at her husband. “Honey,” she said with wide eyes. “I want to catch a snook.”

“Ah shoot, we can catch all the snook we want over off the jetty. That’s fool’s fishing.”

“Well how come you’ve never taken me there to catch one?” she rebutted.

“C’mon now, you don’t want to sit there and soak bait with all the rest of them lead slingers, do you? Let’s get us a great big tarpon on fly, how ‘bout that?”

“Whatever you’d like to do, darling,” she said, rolling her eyes and gazing out at the calm, green lagoon. “Hey, we ain’t gonna catch a thing sitting here at the dock,” I chimed in. I choked the old Mercury and started her. I let her idle for a few minutes then tossed the ropes up onto the dock and we were off. Mrs. Thomas took a seat on the cooler while Mr. Thomas stumbled around the deck of the flats boat trying to stow his unusually long 10-weight fly rod, its bright orange line tangling around his ankles as he stuffed it beneath the gunnel.

As the skiff skipped across the water toward the mouth of the inlet, I had to shout over the loud engine to talk to Mr. Thomas. “I think we’ve got a great tide for snook fishing, you sure you don’t want to try it?” I yelled. “All that bait flushing out of the river should have the big ones feeding.” “No,” he shouted back. “Tarpon. Think we could find them outside the inlet?”

“It’s a long shot,” I told him. “They normally school up at night during these bright moons and they usually don’t feed during the day. But it’s up to you. I can probably find them.” “Yes, I want a tarpon,” he said. “That’s what we’re doing.” Then he belched and tossed his plastic water bottle into the lagoon.

I cringed and shook my head. Since he was my first-ever client and I was working for him, I followed orders. I ran the skiff down the channel and out the inlet. The ocean was calm, the emerald green surface sparkling in the morning glare. Pelicans dove on schools of mullet as the little baitfish rushed out along the jetties. I could see snook fishermen with their rods bowed up with heavy fish hooked up. Mrs. Thomas noticed the action, too. She looked at her husband, who was messing with his assortment of flamboyant flies, and rolled her eyes again.

As we came to a reef I knew held tarpon at certain times, I pulled back the throttle and stood up to look around. I noticed a tern flying up ahead and beneath them a school of mackerel thrashed on the surface, preying on small, shiny baitfish. “Tie on a little streamer,” I told Mr. Thomas. “There’s some mackerel over there. Use a little piece of wire on the leader or they’ll cut you right off with those teeth.”

“I’ve got a long shank Clouser minnow that will kill ‘em,” he said. “Don’t need no wire.”

“They’re pretty big,” I said. “You might need that extra protection.”

“Just watch,” he said.

I motored quietly up to the feeding fish. When we got in range, Mr. Thomas began casting into the school, whipping his fly rod back and forth through the air. His fly landed right in the middle of the frenzy and he was instantly setting the hook on a fish.”

“Got one!” he shouted proudly. The fish sped off, but the line immediately went slack. “Ah, shit. The bastard cut me off. Musta been a big one.” Mrs. Thomas grinned. “That reminded me of the time you lost that big white marlin off Green Turtle Cay, honey.” she snickered. Mr. Thomas sat down and rolled his eyes at his wife’s comment.

“I’m telling you, try the wire leader,” I told him. “I’ve got some made up in my bag right here.” “Enough of these lousy mackerel, I’m out here for a tarpon,” he said. For over an hour we zigzagged back and forth across the stretch of reef, my eyes peeled for a tarpon I knew probably wasn’t there. The Thomas’s sat down and made a rum cocktail. As the sun rose higher, finding a fish felt futile. They were probably out deep, I thought, waiting for their midnight feeding.

“I’ve got an idea. Let’s run back into the river, head up the backwater creek. I know a spot where the tarpon will eat mid-day. They’re not as big as the beach-run fish, but occasionally I’ve gotten nice ones.”

“Whatever you say,” said the rum-buzzed Mr. Thomas. “You’re the captain.”

Twenty minutes later we were cruising up the creek, its brown tannic water a stark contrast to the bright green sea we left behind. I stood on the poling platform with the push pole in hand, moving the boat along like a gondolier.

“Is that a tarpon?” Mrs. Thomas chirped from her seat on the cooler. “Over there, I saw a fin.” I looked where she pointed and sure enough, a big silver tarpon rolled lazily on the surface. We watched again as the fish came back and sucked down a small crab that was kicking its little legs for dear life on the surface. “Yep, get ready to cast, Paul,” I said sternly. “He’s hungry.”

“I can see that, Captain,” he muttered. Then, realizing he’d have to take my advice for once, he asked nicely, “What fly should I tie on?” I fished around in my tackle box for a crab-imitation and handed it to him. “Here, this will work. It’s called a ‘Brown’s crab’. Once you whip it out there, let it sit still and sink. It wobbles down like a crab swimming to the bottom.”

He tied it on quickly and hopped up onto the front deck, ready to cast. I poled the skiff closer to where the fish was and once again the tarpon rose up, its fin trailing on the surface. “There he is! Cast!”

Mr. Thomas made a flawless cast and the crab landed a few feet in front of the swimming fish. The fly slowly sank into the brown water and sure enough, the tarpon followed it down and inhaled it. “Set up on him! You got him!” I shouted. He reared back on the rod and it bent over like a noodle. The line tightened and the tarpon shot forward and leaped out of the water, rattling its red gills. Its long, silver body seemed to hang in midair before plunging back down with a splash.

“Dip the rod when he jumps!”

“I know, I know!” Mr. Thomas snapped.

The tarpon made a long run, all the way to the mouth of the creek. Mrs. Thomas took pictures while her husband hung on for dear life and cursed about his expensive reel’s drag mechanism. “What a piece of crap,” he said. “My first fish on this reel and already the gears are grinding.” “Hey, at least you’ve still got the fish on!” I said from the back of the boat. “We’ve got to chase him around this corner.”

I poled faster to keep up with the massive tarpon, easily over a hundred pounds and a good six feet long. It took us out of the creek and along a mangrove shoreline, still pulling strong and not tiring from the fight. The push pole kept sticking in the soft, muddy bottom and I struggled to keep the boat moving along.

Ahead of us, a clump of short mangroves grew out of the sea grass and Mr. Thomas’s line was dragging across the stalks. My feeling of hope for a successful first-day guiding was drained as the tarpon chafed the line against the mangroves with every powerful stroke of his tail. “Watch out, he’s gonna break you off on those ‘groves,” I told him.

“If we land this fish, I want to kill it,” he said. “I’ll mount it at our yacht club, that’ll show Al Spencer who’s boss.” As if it heard the comment, the tarpon turned and ran headlong into a narrow cut in the mangroves and just stopped. I knew that particular spot didn’t go back very far, so the tarpon must have reached a dead end.

“Stay here,” I told the Thomas’s.

I jumped in the neck-high water and made my way into the shallow mangroves. I followed the orange fly line into the trees, far enough back that my boat and clients were out of sight. Pressing further into the tangle of mangroves, the line came to an end and I found the fish. It was lying on its side, pumping its gills and breathing heavily.

I looked into the tarpon’s big, black eyes and thought about how noble the fish really was. I pictured it out at night, feeding in the brisk current under a full moon, riding the crest of a wave through the inlet, making its way back into the blackwater creek — all only to run afoul of an egocentric fisherman like Mr. Thomas and end up on some prissy clubhouse wall.

I grabbed its lower jaw and pulled the bulky fish back and forth to run water over its gills, taking my time to revive it. It cast a long shadow over the sandy bottom. Slowly it came back to life, its tail swaying and getting stronger every second. Its shiny, metallic scales reflected a swirling, dreamy light onto my chest. I looked into its eyes once more, twisted the hook out from the corner of its jaw and set it free, pushing it out and watching it swim away, back to deeper water. I stood there, dripping wet, hanging onto the moment. Then I walked out of the mangroves, back to the boat to tell Mr. Thomas that his fish had got away.

Five a.m.

My cell phone alarm clock ring-a-ling-lings in my dark room and I slide sideways out of bed, right onto my feet. I do the whole morning thing — clothes on, coffee on, cereal in a bowl — but with zest and enthusiasm. Not a school morning.

I hop into my truck and get on the half-hour drive to my fishing spot. The dark, early morning drive is foggy and surreal and has me on a caffeine-induced thinking spree. Life has been weird lately. I graduated high school a few months ago and just started community college. Most of my good friends have moved away and are out chasing their dreams and following the big plans in their heads. Me, I’m still just fishing and surfing and not really going anywhere too fast. What are my big plans? Where will I end up? I shake out the answerless thoughts and turn on some boring NPR to drone out my anxiousness.

I pull up alongside the old Jamaican lady’s house. She lets me fish from her riverfront backyard in exchange for random intervals of housework. A few years back she caught me sneaking through her property with my fishing rod in hand and promised not to “make tha po-leece call” if I picked up all the dead palm fronds on her lot. When I was done, she flashed a full smile of yellow teeth and said to come back any time. To this day she is warm and welcoming, but if I come by to fish in the afternoon while she’s awake I’m beckoned to work.

One time it was roof patching. “Yuh gwan put a few ‘mo tacks ’round dem edges!” she shouted from the ground with her hands cupped over her mouth. “Dat hur’kin gone be mighty big dis time!” Great, this woman’s life depends on my handiwork, I thought, as I hammered fluorescent pink tacks and laid roof-patch paper over a decrepit cluster of gritty grey shingles.

But today is different. No handyman work, no school, no worries. Nothing but a quiet morning of fishing in the river. I step outside my truck and breathe in the thick, humid summer morning. I throw on my wading boots and walk quietly through the yard, fishing rod over my shoulder.

In the dim dawn, I make out the hole through the mangroves leading to the water. With my rod held out horizontally, careful not to smack the branches above, I punch through the tangled roots and stalks. Clearing the groves, the river is a sheet of glass, slick as oil. Everything is quiet. Dead quiet. Yet I can feel the air and water absolutely brimming with life. Suddenly, a blurry arrow of blue and grey shoots out of the mangroves just a few feet away.

“Wraaaaakk! Wraaak! Wrak!” A blue heron, startled by my emergence, curses his intruder and pumps his wings, trying his hardest to get flying. My heart pounds on my ribs, reverberating in my ears. After a few seconds, the lanky heron finally catches the air and glides to another hangout a ways down the mangrove shoreline.

Regaining clarity and stillness, I walk out toward the sea grass bed. I can hardly see my feet through the tannin-stained water. A light fog erases the river’s western shoreline, creating the illusion of an endless sea in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a mullet shooting out of the water like a streamlined blimp, his body leaning to one side mid-air and landing on his side with a slap. I see a school of smaller mullet flipping around on the surface, their nervous, huddled bodies rippling the smooth water. Time to stop daydreaming and start fishing.

I cast out a big plug, a spook. The heavy, hollow plug flies through the air like a missile and lands with a plop. I watch the plug as I work it in, making it zigzag across the surface like a frantic dog on a leash. As I’m watching it cut through the glassy water, a small explosion blows up behind the plug. A fish, probably a trout, shot up to attack the plug but missed the two hooks dangling from it. I slow down my retrieve on the next cast, and after a few cranks on my reel, a fish rockets out of the water like a breaching submarine and charges the lure. This time I let the fish take the plug down with him, and as the line tightens up, I draw the rod back and it bends toward the fish.

After trying to shake the hooks, the fish figures “there’s definitely something wrong here” and takes off on a run across the flat. It’s bigger than I gave it credit for at first, so I hang on while it speeds away, the shiny spool on my reel spinning as line is peeled off. After a couple of minutes of tug-of-war the fish is swimming beside me. I pick up the solid bullet-shaped redfish, shining in her shimmering, golden-red scales like a suit of pennies. With one hand on her belly, I quickly pop the hook out from the corner of her mouth and slip her back into the dark, tannin-stained water.

I wipe my hands dry on my shirt and start casting around aimlessly. The sun is coming up behind the mangroves so I retreat back under the shadow their branches cast over the water. A stingray wiggles out from under my boot and I jump up like a shocked monkey, but he’s scared senseless and just scoots away, sparing me his tail spike.

After the short ordeal, I slow down my walk through the knee-deep water, getting a better look at all the life buzzing around me. Overhead, an osprey is circling with his head down, big black eyes scanning the water for a fish to dive-bomb. A needlefish darts in and out of a school of tiny, inch-long glass minnows, drawing the little fish into a tighter and tighter ball. In the clear, shallow water a blue crab scuttles beneath a flat, barnacle-encrusted rock.

I notice a few pencil-sized mangrove seeds bobbing in the living soup around me and instinctively glance over at the green and yellow mangroves. In front of me, the leaves on the tallest mangrove trees are covered in blinding white bird poop, a sight a friend of mine calls “Florida snow.” Snow-covered or not, I think, these are cool looking trees.

I suddenly start thinking about how lucky I am to be here on the calm river, with fish and birds all around me, and my feet planted in soft sand and warm water. What if I was a crab living under a dark rock? Or a little fish swimming for my life all day? Damn, I’m lucky. And to think that on the drive here a couple of hours ago I was worried about things which now seem so trivial. Then it hits me. I’m just like these mangrove seeds, floating around trying to make it to land, the currents constantly changing my course. But eventually I know I’ll end up on the shore, taking root and reaching my branches toward the sky.

It’s getting hot so I start to wade back. I pull down the brim of my hat and watch small fish dart into patches of weed as I walk. Trudging up into the old woman’s yard in my soggy boots, I notice her standing on her porch, watering a tall, skinny plant. I prepare to receive my chores as she cups her hands around her mouth and hollers.

“Hey chile, ya catch me any feesh?”

“Only one redfish, but I let her go!” I shout back.

“Ah, oh well,” she laughs in her raspy Jamaican patois. “At least ya did’n get stuck by none a dem sting-a-rees!”

Overall, I’m proud of what our sport has become. That all being said, what’s up with the clothing some fishermen are wearing these days? I mean, c’mon people — it’s starting to get out of hand.

Back in the day, a day of sport fishing was a privilege and a fancy occasion for some. If you were going fishing, you got dressed up. Nice pair of slacks, freshly ironed white button-down shirt, maybe some cufflinks or handkerchief. Don’t forget a sophisticated-looking hat. The fisher-ladies wore long, flowing dresses and giant sun bonnets. Heck, they probably had their hair and nails done the night before.

Some of those same old-time fishing pictures show the mates and anglers sporting simple tank tops, extremely short shorts and often a cigar the size of a horse ballyhoo.

In this radically changing world, it’s nice to know some things haven’t changed. Some fishermen still get decked out in some fancy skins for a day on the water. But today’s angling attire can be downright outrageous.

Let’s start with fishing shirts. What was once just a white button-down cotton shirt has evolved into a high-tech microfiber machine. They are capable of ultimate UV protection, sweat-absorption, and the ability to brew 12 cups of coffee from filtrated perspiration. Most high-quality shirts made with fishermen in mind have enough pockets to accommodate lures, hooks, cell phones, life preservers, GPS units, landing nets, anchors and small children.

And the colors! Ernest Hemingway would be spinning in his grave if he saw the fabulous flamboyancy that’s been adopted by modern sport fishermen. In what other sport besides golf do full-grown men dress in bright pink, fluorescent yellow, girly light blue, electric lime green and every other color of the rainbow? (Disclaimer: The author does not feel that golf is an actual sport.) It’s a wonder any of these shirts make it off the store shelves, but I think it’s due to some clever marketing. The clothing makers just re-name the colors to sound more appealing to their macho-male customers. Hot pink is now “salmon” and powdery blue has been dubbed “ocean blue.”

What really cracks me up is some peoples’ idea of sun protection. Balding guys wearing open-top visors? Just give those UV rays an nice, round target. How about the dude with full long sleeves and hat who shows off his chicken legs with shorts that look fit for a college girl? Wouldn’t want to be sitting on the deck while he’s up on the poling platform or standing in a cobia tower.

Have you ever heard of a “buff”? It’s like a bandana that wraps around your face and neck to provide sunscreen-free sun protection. Yes, they make fishermen look like Spiderman. They also come in a variety of colors, some resembling the color patterns on popular game fish like snook and others. Okay, I’ll admit to wearing one. It’s mahi-mahi colored — bright green and yellow with blue dots. My buddy once told me I was a madman because I was fishing offshore for dolphin while wearing their skin around my neck. Kinda creepy, in a Buffalo Bill sorta way.

Not all of fishing apparel’s evolution is a botched experiment. There are plenty of sexy lady anglers out there whose clothing — or lack thereof — is a perfect complement to our sport. And I think I speak for Papa Hemingway, myself and every other male angler out there when I say when it comes to bikinis, color really doesn’t matter.

All week I spend studying for this, working on that. Car horns are honking and the TV news keeps babbling. Just as my skin is about dried up from city life, my buddy and I plan a dive trip. The next morning I find myself sitting on a big Igloo cooler slid up against the transom of a twenty-foot catamaran.

As we pounce over the smooth, sun-glazed swells, the bow of the boat sneezes up a mist of water that blows back and cools my face. My mind stays quiet except for the dub-reggae baseline still stuck in my head from the car ride to the boat ramp. Behind me, the four-stroke Suzukis purr like content robotic lions proud to be carrying us out to sea. I try to shut my eyes, but I can’t help staying awake to enjoy a journey that’s as good as the destination.\

The boat comes off plane and everyone on board shifts their attention from la-la land to the fish finder. The rasta-colored, psychedelic spikes on the screen trigger a response in our brains and fire up smiles on all of our faces.

Getting ready for the dive is a blur of colors and sounds — black neoprene wetsuits, fluorescent yellow masks, teak spearguns, the heavy clunk of weight belts and the hissing of air as valves are turned.

Ten minutes later, a bass drum slaps the inside of my temples as I equalize my ears underwater. I swim down through clear teal water following the white cord from the marker buoy that leads the way to the bottom. It disappears into the abyss like a lane-line on a foggy road. Twenty feet below me, my friend disappears into a dark cloud — an apparition vanishing through a wall.

As I venture deeper, I’m engulfed in a cold, brown pulp. Thermocline. Whale snot. The layer of frigid water is the color of cardboard and I can hardly see my hand in front of my face. The hissing sound of my breath through my regulator reminds me of Darth Vader and only adds to the eeriness.

I keep swimming down, my pole spear held out in front of me in case I should hit the silted up bottom. To my surprise and delight, the snotty water dissipates and a clear view of the bottom opens up. Silhouettes of large fish move slowly across the bottom below me. It’s dark down here, almost like dusk, the gnarled rocks and gothic ledges illuminated by a distant setting sun. The dense thermocline shades this fertile garden on the sea floor.

I begin my exploration of this alien planet. Suspended above the grey, sandy bottom, a school of baby Spanish sardines scatters the light with the mirrors on the sides of their bodies. They all move in unison, their bodies always facing the same direction, as if they were a single organism. Directly below the piddling baitfish lies a large flounder, hardly noticeable with the dim lighting. Its eyes are the only thing giving away its presence, for its skin exactly matches the surrounding gravel and muddy sand. Wide-eyed and gazing at the buffet above, it waits eagerly for a shiny member of the school to drop into its attack zone.

At this point, the nature-observing and scientific Rachel Carson/Jacques Cousteau in me is smoothly transformed into a hunter with a carnivorous appetite and a desire to feed. This is a standard metamorphosis that comes with carrying a spear into a giant aquarium of delicacies. As if on instinct, I load the elastic band onto my wrist and my heart quickens as I take aim, release the spear, and hit the unsuspecting flounder right behind the gills. The fish shudders in shock and turns a ghastly white color, fanning sand out from underneath it like a carpet being shaken of its dust. Green blood leaks out of the puncture wound left by the spear.

I bag the fish and continue on my investigation of the reef. I swim along a ledge large enough to stand under. I can hear the Rice Krispie-crackling sounds made by millions of organisms with names that most likely end in “-pod.” Lobsters, standing tall as 3-year-olds, casually scurry backward into their stony dens. A giant sheepshead cruises along the edge of the reef with its pectoral fins fully extended, a broad-shouldered bouncer making rounds at a club. I catch a sleeping nurse shark off guard, and the large, frightened animal sends a strong pulse through the water as it shoots itself away from the coral-encrusted ledge.

I reach to my side and find, by feel, my pressure gauge. My air is running low with enough for a safe ascent. Time to go. I kick slowly toward the surface, drifting upward like an astronaut on the moon. Swimming at the speed of my bubbles, I look toward my feet and watch the bottom disappear through the dense haze below me.

About forty feet below the surface, the water clears up again and I find myself squinting under the bright sun. I check my depth gauge and level off at fifteen feet. Here, the water feels hot compared to the cold bottom. It feels like a hot tub. I allow my body to decompress and pass the time by watching the iridescent comb jellyfish dance around me. I gaze upward at the ripples on the water’s surface. There’s nothing like staring up at the border between two worlds.

At the end of my neighborhood in Indialantic, Florida, a narrow drainage canal begins and runs in a straight line toward the lagoon. Lined with cattail reeds and tropical philodendrons, the hundred yard-long conduit is the path I follow to the old dock. Tree frogs bark from deep in the ditch. Startled soft shell turtles slide off the shoreline as I stroll by. In spots where the plants clear up, timid tilapias cower for cover in the clear canal.

Where the freshwater canal dumps into the saltwater lagoon, you’ll find a wonderful example of nature overcoming and adapting to the presence of man. A great blue heron stands tall on a worn-out concrete dam. His eyes gazing intently at the water below, like a bolt of lightning he’ll snap his neck down and snatch up a mud minnow from his man-made perch.

The flowing freshwater flushes a steady stream of nutrients into the lagoon, creating an aquatic oasis. Oysters the size of my hands line the crusty seawall and barnacles take up any leftover space on the dock pilings. Like clockwork, a school of fingerling mullet will always be hanging out here, hovering over the sandy river bottom and eating debris off the surface that is swept out of the canal. They’re a good indicator that the riverside ecosystem is flourishing, because when the mullet make their appearance, so do their predators…

It’s a weekday. No boats are running through the Intercoastal Waterway, and the lagoon is calm as a sheet of glass. I walk down to the end of the canal and see a big school of mullet rippling the surface. Small flashes of light catch my eyes as the silvery schools of fish flip on their sides. I cross the canal and take a seat on the concrete seawall, my feet dangling just inches above the coffee-colored water. Suddenly, I hear a loud crashing sound in the water a few docks away. Moments later, there is another loud thrashing, splashing sound and the unmistakable exhalation of a dolphin breathing through its blowhole. The breathing sounds are getting closer. And closer. Looking down into the water at my feet I watch as a school of mullet speeds through, coming from the direction of the dolphins. Like a human out of breath after a long sprint, the dolphins’ exhalations become more frequent.

They are feeding on the mullet, using the seawall-shoreline to their advantage. I watch in awe as a pair of dolphins split up in opposite directions. One corrals a school of jumbo mullet using his tail and a stream of air bubbles. Once he tightens up the school into a ball, he scares them toward the seawall where the second bottlenose awaits. I’ve learned that if I stand up, I’ll scare the mullet myself and the dolphins lose their lunch. As the baitfish are pushed in I lay on my belly, only my face hanging over the wall for a front-row seat. The waiting dolphin begins to gain speed, staying tight to the seawall to get even more power out of his tail strokes. And then, right there in front of my eyes, the dolphins meet with the school of mullet between them and single out a few to suck down. My eyes meet the dolphins’ and I swear I can see smiles on their faces as they chase their victims.

There’s something special about having such a treasure so close to home. I feel beyond fortunate to be able to easily escape the real world of a downward spiraling economy and the rest of the world’s problems. And it’s a place that I love to share with anyone who cares to join me. I discovered the canal on my own, but I’ve taken friends, my brothers, my mom, and even a foreign exchange student who came and stayed with us from France. I remember that summer afternoon well. His name was Thibault, and he’d never been fishing before. Using live baits, we fished for a while without a bite. Finally, his mullet gets nervous and there’s a big splash out on the glassy calm river. Thaibault pulled in a huge sailcat and told me it was the most beautiful fish he’d ever seen.

No matter where I go in my life, it’s comforting to know that the top of cloud nine is in the least likely place. Some people will empty their bank accounts to take a vacation to a place they call paradise. They’ll pack suitcases until they’re bursting at the seams; fly, drive or cruise hundreds or thousands of miles; hire a house-sitter, babysitter or pet sitter for some time away. But me, I just take a walk down the street to an old seawall on the Indian River Lagoon and I might as well be in Heaven.