Inklings 2020

I also remember the summer of 2017, when I was fifteen. My father no longer carried me into the car while I slept; I was more active as a participant. I noticed a heaviness, a pensiveness, in my father’s face that I could not interpret as we drove through the park one morning. We did not speak of the tides and the winds and how they would influence the day’s agenda. As we stepped onto my grandfather’s skiff, there should have been a salty-sweet aroma coming from the water; instead, a rancid smell burned the inside of my nose. The marina consisted of dead and bloated fish, and the water had mats of algae that replaced the vibrant waters I grew up on. Florida Bay is a haven to fish in and to marvel about; however, on this day I felt outraged with the destruction of one of the planet’s most treasured ecosystems. It is now 2019, and I am seventeen years old. In just a few years, the lively place I explore on weekends has transformed into a different planet. The dock from which I used to throw shrimp to feed the tarpon now teems with meters of macroalgae. The marsh which used to be a playground for marine life has become a dead zone. Today, on a trip with my father and grandfather, we push off the dock and travel southwest until we reach mile marker 47. Memories of my sisters and I wakeboarding and tubing in these waters in my younger years flash in my mind as we cruise in. I used to marvel at the clarity of the water here; I would spend hours admiring the sharp image the bottom reflected through the transparent water. Now, the mangroves still possess some life, but the water is turbid and full of trash. Plastic beer rings and water bottles crowd the sea wall for as far as I can see. We circle around, picking up trash and storing it in several buckets in the nineteen-foot Egret. After an hour, I notice a splash beneath the mangroves, and I run to the port side of the boat to grab my favorite fishing rod. I whip my wrist back and sling the fly in front of a fish’s head. The black line on its back reveals it is a snook. The fish swallows the fly and swims with mighty force; I counter, tugging and stripping the line with all my might. After thirty minutes, the twenty-three- inch fish gives in, and I bring it on board for a photo. A perfect sequence ends what began as a grim day. I hold the snook by the tail and gently release it back into the water. I know that all has not yet been lost. Grandpa turns the keys to the right and directs the engines back to the marina. 26