690 
FOREST AND STREAM 
December, 1918 
Hendry had been an attentive listener. 
“Jewfish—much too,” he grunted, “fine! 
He half brother to grouper. I catch him 
weigh four hundred fifty pounds—there— 
at mouth of creek. John fish—he catch one 
ten pounds only,” and the guide shrugged 
his shoulders. “Rod, reel—maybe hand 
line. I make jewfish chowder for you one 
day maybe. I use on him shark hook—so 
big—hand line, three-sixteen. Nearly cut 
off three finger once.” 
Key Largo was still to their left as they 
made Black Water Bay. This body of 
water is about four miles across and is 
as round as a large, natural basin. John 
was immeasurably interested in his sur¬ 
roundings. 
“What is the matter with the water?” 
he asked his father. 
“We are going out through Boggy into 
Great Florida Bay,” replied Mr. King. “It 
is quite shallow here and the tides, coming 
by way of 
Tavenier 
Creek, nibble 
at the many 
coral rock 
fo rmations, 
breaking them 
off bit by bit. 
And here is 
an odd condi¬ 
tion —• new 
mangrove 
islands are 
forever 
springing up, 
as if from the 
very air. The 
moment a co- 
ra! head pro¬ 
jects above 
the surface, 
the mangrove 
or the bay 
find lodgment 
and flourish. 
It’s almost 
the ‘Milky 
Way’ until we 
get to Tavenier. 
Hendry had slipped certain mysterious 
accessories in under a seat, and it was not 
difficult to figure that John’s love of fishing 
could find a match. It was still light and 
they could see the shadowy lines of Long 
Isle and the opening to Snake Creek. In 
here, protected from the first puffs of 
wind, the ‘water was quite calm, and it was 
absolutely unruffled, as Hendry guided the 
power boat into a fairy bay a mile or so 
from Tavernier Creek. He anch.red her 
in a spot so near the giant mangroves that 
they could have gone ashore without even 
wetting their feet. 
“We want snapper,” said Hendry, begin¬ 
ning to rig up two hand lines and then, 
after a moment’s rather amusing reflection, 
changing to rod and reel. John noted that 
the guide selected a 15-18 line and 5 hooks. 
The bait was crawfish which he readily ob¬ 
tained a little further down the shore. 
“Isn’t it too late to catch them?” sug¬ 
Oh, the never-ending grace and shimmering beauty of those worlds of aquatic fowl, rising, 
like wind-tossed snowflakes of prodigious si*e, from the dark floor of the lowlands! 
gested John, somewhat anxiously. 
“You see—watch him. Mangrove snap¬ 
per terrible smart. He dance all around 
hook; back off — come back — look up and 
shake his head. Little snapper foolish. 
That’s why he get caught. If we had fresh 
mullet strips the big ones they would be 
foolish too.” 
It was a fortunate half hour, neverthe¬ 
less, since John caught three weighing at 
least five pounds each and Hendry as many 
more. They were weary at the expiration 
of that period, for, what with the long day 
and the game character of the snapper, it 
was work rather than sport at this late 
hour. John had had his fill of fishing. 
I T was a warm, pleasant evening, for the 
approaching storm, if storm it would be, 
had not leaped Largo. They could hear 
the thunder of the incessant surf on the 
other side of Planter and the Alligator 
Reef Light burned against the muddy, 
gray sky. 
“We go 
ashore,” de¬ 
clared Hen¬ 
dry with an 
abrupt ness 
that was 
som e w h a t 
surprising. 
“Why not 
walk across 
to Planter?” 
sugge s ted 
John, “Father 
said it was 
quite a place 
— had a post 
office and 
everyth i n g • 
How far?” 
“Nearly 
three mile,” 
was the an¬ 
swer, accom¬ 
panied by a 
d e c i s i v • e 
shake of the 
head, “can’t 
do. But we see one thing for you.” 
I T was agreed that they should anchor off 
Central Supply and spend the night. 
Then, with an early start the following 
day, Hendry figured that he could make 
Cape Sable in another twelve hours, if the 
weather remained fine. It was a program 
that made poor John, who thought only of 
his rod and reel, champ at his bit. 
Hendry had been watching that unhappy 
restlessness, and, as on a previous occa¬ 
sion, arranged for a little finny excitement. 
The Mae eased under the lee of Isla- 
morada at twilight. Upper Metacombe Key 
was beginning to glisten with fire-fly lights 
in fishermen’s shacks, but a stiff breeze was 
blowing from the ocean and clouds were 
gathering overhead. Captain’s Key, Mud 
Key, Charles Key, and Snake Creek ham¬ 
mocks were frothy with foam. 
After Hendry’s anchorage duties were 
complete, he asked permission to row John 
over to Planter. 
Mr. King agreed to this although he 
asked that they take the small power boat 
rather than the glade skiff. He had one 
eye on the weather. 
“I think one has wait for us all thi's 
time,” was Hendry’s terse response, “still 
fishin’—on bottom—be careful and not try 
to pull up mangrove roots. I think we get 
one fourteen pounds. Troll—yes, too late 
for that. You keep straight back and feet 
in boat—Mangrove snapper fight bad.” 
“Hendry,” muttered the boy, as they sat 
motionless and watchful in the power boat, 
“for my part, I could live this life for the 
rest of my days. I never want to go back 
to town—that is—I wouldn’t if it wasn’t for 
Mother and Sis. There’s something so fine 
about being here—away from worry— 
where folks are not nagging you all the 
while and you have no unhappiness—or— 
haggling. I wish I had a shack on Key 
Largo and could call it ‘Home’.” 
But Hendry had made a strike. The reel 
began to sing on the soft, evening air, and 
in another minute or two he had captured 
a five-pounder. He kicked it impatiently 
with his foot, beauty as it was. 
“Bait!” he growled. 
“It’s a wonder!” ^rilled John, “I wish I 
could land as good.” 
The two clambered out across the man¬ 
grove roots until they reached fairly se¬ 
cure ground. Hendry took the lead as they 
struck a poor, winding trail in the heavy 
brush. But Romance gradually died in 
John’s breast. There was an utter and ab¬ 
ject loneliness to the scene. It was as if 
the occupants of this remote strata had 
buried all pride under the mucky sand and 
had given Ambition over to the bats and 
the gulls that began to flutter spook-fash- 
ion, along the outer skirts of the mangrove. 
And now they stumbled upon a little 
garden, lying prone, abandoned, long ne¬ 
glected, in a scooped-out patch, surrounded 
by scraggy bay trees. Obviously, it had not 
been worked since the first planting. Piti¬ 
ful tomato plants that bore misshappen 
fruit sprawled out in the rank growth of 
weeds; a few pineapples were visible, sere, 
dying and unproductive; cucumbers, grown 
to prodigious, swollen size, popped under 
foot. Vines, as thick as steamship haw¬ 
sers reached hungrily at this wreckage of 
garden, and lifted it into air or yanked it 
up by the roots, or literally strangled 01 
