DADDY

This story from Cal Hyers should touch us all...

Daddy

4:30 a.m.

“Time to get up,” Daddy would say.

It was Daddy’s internal alarm clock that would awaken him during our “Speck" vacation. I'm referring, of course, to Speckled Perch. That’s what folks in central Florida would call the crappie Daddy and I would fish for in the waters of Lake Beresford.

It was the favorite week of Daddy’s year. The long-awaited fishing trip was the highlight of a long year of repairing cable lines for Southern Bell and running a small farm. He would rouse me from the comfort of my bed to dress for a day of "hunting slab."

It was usually mid-spring to early summer when he would book us for a week at the Hontoon Marina in DeLand, Florida. The rest of the family, Mama and three sisters, would come along but pass on the early wakeup call, instead waiting until later to join us in our fishing adventure.

By 5am, Daddy and I would be eating at his favorite restaurant for breakfast—a truckstop place I fail to remember the name of, but I can't forget that they made the best tasting grits and eggs I can remember. It was always a treat to talk to the different truckers who frequented the place.

With a full belly, Daddy and I would go back to the marina, where he would rent a slip for the Bass Tracker PF-16 he had purchased for this auspicious annual occasion. The boat would be ready the night before, being that Daddy was not one to get ready the day of. He made sure the poles were rigged, the gas tank full, and the afternoon lunch packed. We were not coming back for lunch. Lunch was a waste of time and travel according to Daddy. Also it took up too much fishing time. Many times a bologna sandwich, pack of malt crackers, and plenty of Coca Colas were the items on the menu for the lunchtime feast.

In the marina store, we bought the minnows we would need, and then walk down to the boat. At the first sign of safe light, we would set out into the St. John’s River.

The early morning air would cut through my clothes like pins. I learned if I turned my back into the wind, it was a bit more bearable. What was even better was being able to sit right behind Daddy and use him as a shield against the piercing wind. I still remember smelling his Old Spice as we raced toward his favorite patch of lily pads. After fifteen minutes of shivering in the morning air, we had a minnow on a hook and were dipping into the spaces between the lily pads. Each dip brought a different anticipation of when the first strike would come.

Daddy had an uncanny knack of catching the first fish of the day. He never let on he had hooked a speck until I heard the singing of the reel on his fiberglass pole. By the time I heard his reel singing, Daddy would have the fish in the boat. I would ask him where he hooked the fish. “Over there,” he would reply, without pointing or even nodding his head. I just had to open the live well and let him deposit the prize. Finding specks was my problem to figure out. Eventually, I would figure out how to find the ever-elusive prey. Just keep fishing.

We would fish that same set of lily pads at the same time every day. Just like anyplace Daddy would fish, if the specks were biting, we stayed; if they weren’t, we moved to another place.

That was typically the routine for the day: keep trying and trying, until success came our way. Daddy would maneuver the boat with precise movement to avoid running over the swarm of specks we would often encounter. He would control the trolling motor with one foot, fish with one hand, drink his Coke with the other hand, and all without getting too close to the limbs of the trees on the banks of the St. Johns. He knew if we got close to the limbs of the trees, I would find a way to go squirrel fishing.

I would catch one to every three of Daddy’s. Our goal was to catch the limit. Often we would come close, but I don’t remember ever catching the limit. But, it was sure fun trying. We would try many techniques, and even experiment with radical ideas. But, Daddy would often stay with dipping the minnows in amongst the lily pads.

By the time darkness would start setting in, we would head back to the Hontoon Marina. According to how far we were away, Daddy would set toward the marina and get there with barely enough light to see our way back to the slip. We would unload our catch into the cooler, and clean them in the cleaning station at the end of the dock under the watchful eye of an owl. The marina manager told us if we gave him one of our fish, he would leave us alone. Daddy didn’t want to give up any of our catch the first time we encountered him. Well, the first time we stepped away from the cooler, the owl swept down, flipped the lid of the cooler himself, and took off with one of our fish! Then, sure enough, he left us alone to clean our fish. After that, we would sacrifice one fish to the owl every time we went to clean our fish.

Now I live in LaGrange, Georgia. The memories of Daddy and I fishing still live while I fish in West Point Lake. The techniques are a lot different, but the effort is still the same: keep trying until you find them. Daddy, I have even found a way to avoid the hot part of the day and the activities of the ski boats. It’s called night fishing. Man, I’ve got lights which attract millions of baitfish, spinner rods that fish thirty feet deep if I have to, and I'm able to tie up under Yellow Jacket Creek Bridge without having to run the trolling motor.

Oh, yeah, I’ve still got the Bass Tracker PF-16 we used in DeLand.

Thank you, Daddy, for the lessons you taught me and the good times we had fishing together.

Cal