Write On Magazine's Featured Writer

Captain Bill White

Writer from Bradenton, Florida

Little Boys and Baby Fish

Introduction to "Little Boys and Baby Fish"

Growing up in Florida during the sixties and seventies wasn't always easy, but it was usually fun. Our backyard was the Manatee River, the wooded areas of eastern Manatee County, and occasionally the far reaches of Central and South Florida. Here we found adventure, fun and danger -- sometimes all in the same day. We were average kids from working families, so most of the time we made our own boats. And if we wanted to go hunting, the weapons were handmade and it seemed the game knew it. Even if we didn't have fancy guns or expensive fishing equipment we almost always came home with something to show for our efforts and had a little extra food in the freezer. My two best friends in the world were Danny and Stevie, who I had known since birth. Living right next door, we were never apart. They are gone now, both passing too young, but the times we shared and the memories I have of them will never leave me. It is to Danny and Stevie I dedicate these stories, as they are as involved as deeply as I am. And it is my fondness for their memories that compels me to share them with you. I hope you will enjoy these times as much as we did.

Little Boys and Baby Fish

Danny called from across the fence between our houses, "Billy! Let's go fishin'!" "My mom has me cuttin' bushes!" I said, but I knew my Mom, and I knew if there was a chance of bringing home a snook or a redfish, she would let me go to better things than cutting bushes. I ran in the house, right across her freshly waxed kitchen floor and yelled at the top of my eight-year-old lungs. "Hey, Ma! Danny and me are going fishin' and I'll do the bushes later! I'll see ya later. Okay?" I barely had a chance to finish the last word before I was turned around, swatted on the rear for foot-printing new wax, and told that if the bushes weren't done, I wasn't going anywhere. Oh great! The fish are biting, and I'm stuck here cutting what seems to be a million bushes, all of which have thorns and wasps. This is going to take forever! Wait a minute, I thought. Danny can help me get this done and we can go fishing as soon as it's finished. I proposed my idea to Danny and he agreed. All of a sudden my Mom's shrubs were a flurry of activity, with branches and leaves flying in every direction. It's amazing how much faster a machete cuts than clippers. After the mayhem we called a trim job, we cleaned up the mess and put the bags of devastation on the curb for the trash man. I don't think the shrubs ever grew straight after that day, and I really wouldn't blame them if they never grew to trimming size again. All I did know was that now we could go fishing. You may not realize just how important fishing was to us kids. Fishing was the way we spent nearly every day of our summers, and all of our free time after school was spent on the river. Fishing was our lives. Especially when we were catching fish. Sometimes we did, sometimes we didn't, but we always had fun. Our favorite spot back then was Harold's Marina. It wasn't really a marina, but it was Harold's, and consisted of a small bait shop next to the Manatee River. We could always count on good ole Harold to give us bait and candy bars to sustain our habits. After all, you couldn't fish without shrimp, no matter how rotten, and a candy bar to an eight year old was like the topping on a banana split. Fishing wasn't the same without it. Harold gave us each a handful of bright orange shrimp, a couple of rods with string tied to the ends and a hook. The only condition was that if we caught any pinfish, we give them to Harold for the bait tank. We could live with that, after all, who would want pinfish. You couldn't eat them, and at this age, we had no idea what else they could be used for. Danny said Harold just liked pinfish because they ate old dead shrimp and kept his bait tanks clean. We found out later that we had supplied Harold with snook bait for the better part of our childhood, but didn't mind because he had furnished us with enough candy bars and sodas to rot the teeth of ten kids. Harold's was a magical spot for us. All the baby fish seemed to grow up there, and we later realized the dock was a nursery. Snook, redfish, trout and tarpon spawn in the river, and Harold's was loaded with baby fish of all kinds. Naturally, we were trying for big fish, not babies, but this was a special time. We had no way of knowing, but the fingerlings were headed to the bay and estuaries this time of year, and we just happened to be there when they passed Harold's docks. The entire day was spent catching and releasing six-inch snook and redfish, turned back at Harold's insistence, but the lines were never slack. For days we caught them, and I guess the total was in the two hundred range, but then the babies were gone as quickly as they had appeared. A few days passed and neither Danny nor I had caught the first fish. And then it happened. My Dad gave me a rod and reel for my birthday. I no longer had to borrow Harold's rod, and I could actually cast beyond my feet. I was now a fisherman. Danny, of course, had to get his own rod, and he did by cutting grass for the neighbors. I joined in to make some money for tackle. We had five or six lawns between us, and all of our earnings were spent on furthering our addiction to our hobby. When we showed up at Harold's with the new equipment, the deal was still to give up all the pinfish we caught in exchange for bait and sodas, but we didn't have to use the little kid's rods anymore. We were now men. Did you ever notice that there's just so much stress a rod can take? We discovered this the first time our new rods were used, when we were sitting on the dock, about five o'clock on a September day. After a short while, Danny caught a six-inch pinfish, and instead of giving it Harold, decided to use it for bait. He cast it toward the bridge and it hit the water with an echoing splash. I had never seen a cast so long. I didn't have the guts to try it myself, but I had plenty of faith in Danny to try it for both of us. After all, if it worked for him, then I would try it. But this was big bait, not rotten shrimp, and I was hesitant to let something large enough to eat a pinfish take my new rod. Good thing Danny wasn't hesitant. Danny left his pole in a hole drilled in the dock for that purpose, and went into the bait shop to get us a soda. Just as he disappeared inside, the rod suddenly bent double, and an incredible screaming sound came from the reel. I started hollering for Danny that something was eating his rod. He heard the noise of the reel and of me yelling, and came bounding down the dock, just as the rod broke at the base of the handle. Not even missing a step, he did what to me was a most amazing trick. As the rod broke, Danny leaped across the dock to grab the reel and remaining rod, following his new equipment into the river with a splash and a scream. Did I mention that there were oyster beds around the dock? Well, there were, and Danny landed right in the heart of the beds, bare feet and all. But he didn't drop his rod, and the giant was still on the line. As the last bit of scream left his mouth, the water near the bridge erupted in an explosion of fury, and the biggest snook we had ever laid eyes on took the air trying to dislodge the hook buried in his lip. The fight was on. Danny scrambled out of the oyster bed toward the fish, keeping the rod in the air as the big snook tried to go for the bridge pilings. His spool of line had not been full; we had split it between us. But the line was going fast when the fish did something we didn't expect. It turned from the bridge and started toward Danny and the oysters. Cranking as fast as he could to keep the line tight, Danny soon had the giant at his bleeding feet, and keeping the snook's head above the surface, he finally made it back to the dock where Harold pulled them both from the water. The fish was weighed in at twenty-seven pounds. Danny's feet were cut pretty badly, but he didn't need stitches. He did wear shoes a lot after that. We both gave up on using rotten shrimp. Pinfish were the only bait we could use until we discovered artificial bait some years later, and we most certainly stopped casting for baby fish.

Watch for another of Captain Bill's stories in Write on Magazine's upcoming issues!

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About the writer. . .

Bill White was born in Bradenton where he attended school locally but never took a writing course. As an avid outdoorsman and wildlife expert, White has taught conservation and wildlife identification for the State of Florida's Hunter Education Program, performed countless reptile shows for the public at a local attraction and has served as a guest instructor at USF's summer program. White is an amateur wildlife photographer and Master Falconer, licensed to possess venomous reptiles, and he is often called upon by the United States Fish and Wildlife Service to help in wildlife crisis situations. White started writing while recuperating from an injury, and he began "Little Boys" after his first work (a technical manual on wildlife identification) was vehemently rejected. "Little Boys" soon became a labor of love, dedicated to White's two best friends who were both killed in separate alcohol-related accidents. After his recuperation, White earned a captain's license, and shed the bonds of salesmanship and marketing to do what he finds natural. Captain Bill now spends his days doing what most outdoorsmen dream of--fishing from dusk until dawn--and getting paid for it! "Born during the passing of hurricane Donna, my parents knew they had a whirlwind on their hands," recalled White. "I grew up learning lessons, breaking rules and enjoying the outdoors, gaining an appreciation for the environment and all it's inhabitants. "Now, as a charter captain, I still enjoy the things that made my boyhood special enough to write about. The brilliant shine of early morning sunlight over the bays, the "pop" of snook feeding in the mangroves, the burgundy hue of redfish tails trailing across the flats. "A lot of the people I went to school with have moved on and become successful, but I'm happy where I'm at, doing what I do. Sometimes those alumni return and hire me for fishing trips... Funny thing, they always tell me how lucky I am!"

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