THE BOOK OF THE TARPON 



least of the passes are charted in my mind and 

 eyes are not needed to see them. There is Wig- 

 gins Pass, and Clam Pass which can scarcely be 

 seen by day, and now the glow worm light of 

 Naples can be seen the little seaport without a 

 port just off our port bow, where it should be. 

 We pass near the head of the long slim pier that 

 thrusts itself out into the Gulf, a convenience in 

 calm weather, but a peril when the wind blows. 



The light from the mouth of Big Marco Pass 

 beacons and beckons us, but the main channel en- 

 trance is away below us while the swash channel 

 lies right in our course. The Irene is headed 

 straight for it and the boat knows it so well she 

 would go through by herself without touching. 

 Why, I have waded it at low tide and swum it 

 when the water was high a hundred times. I 

 know every shoal and current, every snag on its 

 border, every tree on the bank, and even the 

 shells on the beach. There is no sense in wak- 

 ing up the captain and I won't do it. 



"Well, you made the pass all right," called a 

 voice from the companion way. 



"Yes yes, Captain, and I was just going to 

 call you, as I promised." 





