112 
March, 1919 
NUD/C 
OD GATA. 
MACKEDEL 
rnAPK 
ynovcL-ncAD 
By W. LIVINGSTON EARNED 
Doivn from Marco to Caximbas, 
and Among the Mangrove Keys 
of the Gulf Coast. What is a 
Fisherman to Do When Barra- 
cuda Gets the Groupers? Man- 
eater and Hammer-head Para- 
dise. Three Adventurous Cruis- 
ers Fall in with a Mysterious 
Craft and a Still More Mysteri- 
ous Crew and Secure Definite 
Proof That Someone is “Shoot- 
ing Up ” the Egret Rookeries. 
T O the members of the little party, 
there was always picturesque value 
to the adventurous caraval that, 
having cruised successfully from Miami, 
down the East Coast, through the Keys 
and far up to Marco, in the Gulf, on 
the opposite side of Florida, was now 
jauntily headed for perhaps the most 
highly seasoned pages of its sporting 
diary. 
■ Repairs had been made to the Mae at 
Marco and she was towing her small 
charge with old-time assurance. Hen- 
dry, a monument of Ian tern- jawed com- 
placence, still kept to the wheel, with 
Mr. King ready to relieve him as oc- 
casion demanded. John, Jr., wa^ as 
active as a monkey, shifting from the 
larger craft to the smaller when the 
mood happened to strike him or when 
trolling took his fancy. 
The weather was as near perfect as 
fair skies, sunshine and pure, clean air 
could make it and the uneventful trip 
to Caximbas Pass was negotiated in 
short order. Who could believe that it 
was December 24th and that on the mor- 
row Christmas would light its candles 
over the universe of man ! The fine 
sloping beach shimmered in the sun and 
they were fast approaching the mouth 
of the river, with a view of the town 
of Caximbas, like a fairy village in a 
magic sea, set high upon its quaint shell- 
mound bluff. This curious formation of 
shells — there are those who contend that 
Indians threw them there in the fever- 
ish search for pearls, five hundred years 
ago — reaches a height of fifty feet as 
it rises back of the shabby little town. 
For there is not much to Caximbas — 
a dozen or more houses and the 
smells and care-free abandon of 
a fishing community. Now and again, 
the dredges come in from the Gulf, with 
their loads of dripping clams and Cax- 
imbas cans them for the trade. Other- 
wise it is desolate, uninhabitated — an 
oasis, as it were, between the upper 
regions of civilization and thejbustling 
progressiveness of the Keys. The term 
oasis is used advisedly, for wmle there 
are few humans, the scenery isibeautiful. 
N OW the boat ran in between two 
large mangrove islands and the 
mainland, with Key Romano, some 
seven miles in length, a profitless realm 
of shiny beach and mangrove thickets 
over and through which the gulf waters 
wash with the coming and the going of 
the tides. 
As soon as the Mae was clear of the 
last swamp-land and the open water in- 
vited, Mr. King took the wheel, while 
Hendry and John went to the launch 
for trolling. It was too fine a fishing 
ground to allow this opportunity to pass. 
Lines and spoons were rigged for 
grouper, of which there were any num- 
ber. Ten minutes had not passed be- 
fore Hendry caught a five-pounder but 
the tug on the cord suddenly eased and 
the guide ripped out a cuss that did the 
situation justice. 
“Barracuda got him,” Hendry growled, 
kicking the seat in his anger. 
All that remained of the grouper was 
a jagged head. Sharp teeth had done 
the trick with speed and despatch. 
Shortly afterward John had a similar 
experience. Another five-pound grouper 
fell prey to either hammer-head shark 
or barracuda. And so it went, time 
after time, and hour after hour. Not 
once was a whole grouper brought to 
the surface. The Mae seemed to be 
traversing a rather shallow area, in 
which grass grew luxuriantlv and oc- 
casional beds of marl raised high enough 
to be dangerous. 
“We fish barracuda 
then,” grunted Hendry, 
“catch him and I hammer 
his head in with hatchet.” 
whereupon he lapsed into 
another spell of fancy 
cussing that had enough 
Seminole mixed with it to 
give it veneer for young 
ears. 
And then Hendry pre- 
pared two two-hundred 
yard lengths of sash cord 
each with its chain-held 
string of three large four- 
inch hooks. He had 
smuggled a fat mullet on 
board from Marco, in ex- 
pectation of some such 
emergency, and long 
strips of the fish were 
fastened on the hooks. 
“More trolling?” John 
inquired, as Hendry made 
the sash cords fast to the 
launch seat, with a few 
feet of play to spare at 
their feet, “you could 
catch a whale with this 
rig.” 
And it was John who 
actually caught the first 
barracud a — a fifteen- 
pound flash of dark steel 
blue in the sunlight. Poor 
John was not expecting 
that sudden and tem- 
pestuous yank. The play 
of cord caught one foot 
and the boy was slammed 
over against the side of 
the launch with a force 
that might have resulted 
painfully had not Hen- 
