Sunrise at the Spillway

It rained all night. My pool is near to overflowing and my sliders are fogged.

Snook, says the voice in my head. Spillway must be running.

But dammit I don't want to go snook fishing at the spillway. I just want to enjoy my coffee while I finish reading Jewfish, a great new novel by Andrew Furman. Jewfish is set in South Florida. It has nothing to do with goliath grouper but instead quite a lot to do with snook fishing.

Furman's protagonist, Nathan Pray, carves his own plugs, runs an old skiff, navigates by ranges. He does things the hard way—meaning not your way. He's an idealist on the cusp of a full-blown case of moral superiority.

What? You, too?

Over the years I've nurtured my own gentle resentments. Spillway fishing is near the top of my list, or the bottom, or whatever.

If you fish in southern Florida, you know how this works. You don't choose a spillway, one is chosen for you, based on your zip code, tolerance for traffic or both. In certain weather, that ugly cement-and-steel structure intrudes upon your thoughts.

I hate driving to the spillway. I live near the beach, and it feels weird driving inland to go snook fishing. I can drive two minutes in the correct direction and wade the lagoon, alone, for miles and miles. Heck I can launch my boat and have the whole ocean.

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Why would I want to stand and cast in a fetid swirl of agricultural land runoff, next to that guy who won't look at me and nod to share the water? I know he'll be there, same as the millennials who get around the fence with their buckets of cichlids, trespassing—I'm fairly sure—with their cargo of illicit live baits. There will be trash all over the place, and there is, and the kids with the bait buckets and white boots are right behind me in the parking lot, noisily discussing their Instagram.

Good grief, before I know it I'm hobbling down the rocks with a jig in my pocket and a swimbait on my rod. My left knee is as sore as my attitude.

It takes the bucket brigade a while to reach their spot, a bit longer than it takes me to find the Kraken of braided line someone hung on a submerged snag. The guy who won't make eye contact leaves.

My swimbait isn't working, so I tie on the 1 1/2-ounce chartreuse-and-red jig. Looks cichlid enough for discussion purposes, with the benefit of limitless casting range. I make a few half-hearted casts, trying to find bottom, wishing I was back on my porch reading Furman.

And then… let's just say suddenly I'm happy to be here.

I don't have my tape measure (season was open) but soon as I feel the thump I know it won't matter anyway. The snook is big enough to swallow a cantaloupe. Mercifully, the influencers soaking their cichlids don't see me release it.

My only piece of leader is frayed beyond fishing, but on the drive home my spirit is tight, ringing like a guitar string.

Nathan, buddy, I'd fish with you—or your author—any day.

Note: On the subject of books, last month we featured a crab spring rolls recipe from Maggie Rosaine's new self-published Feral Foods: Recipes and Tips for Hunters and Gatherers, available at Amazon. That's Rosaine, not Decker (she's married to Capt. Corky Decker, frequent FS contributor). FS

Published Florida Sportsman Magazine July 2020