A SEARCH FOR MANGROVE SNAPPERS CULMINATES IN SONNYBOY’S 
FIRST LESSON IN WOODCRAFT, SELF-CONFIDENCE AND A MORE INTI¬ 
MATE RELATION WITH PRIMITIVE CAMP LIFE ON A FLORIDA KEY 
“TV It IKE” was a philosopher. I 
\ /■ make this tribute unreserved- 
I YJ[ ly. His boat was small and 
his stature in keeping, and he 
was as black as a raven’s wing, but suf¬ 
fering had given him a sort of sublime 
kinship with all mankind. 
For Mike had lost his boy! Not lost 
in the sense of death, but the far more 
poignant and unbearable loss which is 
uncharted, baffling, unsettled. Mike's 
boy had gone away suddenly, at seven¬ 
teen, and his father had never heard of 
him again! He had been swallowed up 
in the maelstrom of space. 
And what made it hurt was the con¬ 
sciousness of just cause. Mike had never 
"grown up” with this boy; had never 
chummed with him or taken him into his 
confidence. The heart-beat of the trag¬ 
edy, beneath that dusky skin, was most 
active when Mike confided the closing- 
details of his story. 
"I comes home one evenin’,” he said, 
“an’ Benjamin’—he wuz GONE . . . 
des’ pick up his things an’ done went 
away. He lef’ a note, sayin’ as how 
nobody wanted him ner took no interes’ 
in him ... he mus’ be in th’ way. So 
he des went. I aint seen him sence.” 
Fortunately, Sonnyboy was not around 
when the facts were recited. I had gone 
down to the dock to see that everything 
was in readiness for our short cruise 
after Mangrove Snappers, and a chance 
remark of mine, relative to the joy of 
Sonnyboy’s anticipation, sprang the trap. 
“Yo’ sho’ is got th’ right idea,” 
mumbled Mike, “goin’ aroun’ so much 
wid dat boy ob you’alls: he’s a FINE 
little feller. HE won’t run erway!” 
Conscience tingled. I faced away, 
over the wide waters of the river and 
bav, to where white-caps raced kitten- 
ishly on the bar at the mouth of the Cut, 
and remembered, with unutterably bit¬ 
terness, the many wasted years . . . the 
vears during which I had failed to take 
advantage of a Father’s most precious 
privilege . . . years of comradeship at 
a time when every second counts. It’s 
too late when the bloom of Youth is 
rubbed off! 
Mike was a new friend on our travels. 
Captain Jim was busy elsewhere, and we 
could not get him. And the sturdy little 
sailboat at the dock had quite won 
By W. LIVINGSTON LARNED 
Sonnyboy’s fancy. Arrangements had 
been made to go for mangrove snappers 
among the small keys a bit to the south¬ 
ward, and the Elsie was our choice. I 
wanted Sonnyboy to learn to sail her . . . 
to handle the lines ... to take the tiller 
in a stiff blow. Every lad, if the oppor¬ 
tunity affords, should master sailing. It 
may stand him in good stead some day. 
I remember once . . . years ago . . . 
when such knowledge would have saved 
a sturdy, manly youngster of ten. Two 
little fellows had gone out in a sail boat 
. . . at Nantucket. A sudden squall . . . 
overboard for the one sailing the craft 
. . and both were drowned! 
The Elsie was the last of the sail boats 
in this port. They had gone out of 
fashion, and with them, the men who 
understood their technique. Gasoline 
had taken their place. 
But she was a sturdy little, well-be¬ 
haved craft, and her snowy mainsial 
made a pretty picture against those soft 
blue tropic skies. Mike could handle her 
as a trainer puts an educated seal 
through its paces. 
On the morning of our start, the wind 
was sou’sout-west—just right for an ex¬ 
periment. 
“We want you to run us out,” I said 
to Sonnyboy, who had come hustling 
from a tip-top breakfast, his cheeks 
burning with excitement. His face was 
a study. 1 reaffirmed it. 
“But . . . but I don’t know HOW !” 
was his exclamation, “this is the first 
time I was ever IN one.” 
I gave him a pat and a re¬ 
assuring smile. 
“That’s all right 
. . . the Cap’n 
will give 
you a lesson. You can do it, Son. 
How Boyhood responds to confidenc 
placed in it. He took his place at th 
tiller, under Mike’s directions; a littl 
stiff and self-conscious, but bravely, eye 
squinting over the bright waters an 
small hands pinched around the well 
worn wood. 
We are going nicely with the wine 
There was nothing for Sonnyboy to d 
except to keep his tiller straight wit 
the board. And the centerboard soo 
caught his eye. It excited his curiosit) 
“What’s THAT, please?” 
Mike explained in detail . . . hov 
when we were going free, it need n< 
be down ... a centerboard was neces 
sary, on a day like this, only when w 
were going to windward, or when th 
puffs were on her quarter. The simples 
explanation, that a centerboard “make 
the boat deeper.” as Mike put it, visual 
ized the idea at once for the young mint 
Sometimes, when going free, and ther 
was an ugly roll caused by the wind, th 
board steadied her. To you, dear reade 
all of these points will be painfully el< 
mentary, but I mention them in their 
relation to the growing boy, who 
stood at the brink of another 
wonderful adventure. A 
Father is apt to lose 
sight of the fact 
that things 
Looking for mangrove holes 
