Thanksgiving Day 2003 Tiki Island, Texas
By: Jack B. Moorhead a/k/a Paw-Paw
A Worthy Morning
I had traversed the 2 1⁄2 miles across Jones Lake to Diversion Canal hundreds of times, in calm and chaos, in daylight and dark. But the events of this day would cause my son, granddaughter, and me to remember it, like "Bill & Ted," as "Our Most Excellent Adventure." Since 1978, it has been a family tradition to spend the Thanksgiving Holidays at our home on Tiki Island, and just as important as the turkey & dressing, we would fish. And so it was on one of those days, November 27th 2003.
This particular morning begins, as most of my fishing days, with me getting up well before dawn and going to get live bait shrimp. I arise and move about the house quietly ... our son, Mark, his daughter, Lindsey, and his son, Wes, arrived late last night, and I want to let them get some extra winks. I go downstairs to my car, raise the garage door, and am taken aback by the dense fog that has rolled in. It is so thick I can hardly see the end of the driveway. I hesitate a moment and then shrug and think of the many other times I have launched out under similar circumstances. I start the Suburban and head across the Causeway to Shorty's Bait Camp. When I arrive there are a number of fishermen standing around with their hands on their hips drinking coffee. These are the same guys who are usually scurrying around in a rush to get their lines in the water. You can see the disappointment on their faces, as they know their holiday fishing trip is in peril. In no time I have two quarts of live shrimp, a 40 lb. bag of ice and am headed back over the Causeway. As I drive I keep grumbling to myself about the fog, and taken with the fact it is Thanksgiving, if it were not for disappointing my children, I would go back to bed.
I had fueled and tricked out the boat the night before, so when I get back all I have to do is dump the shrimp in the baitwell and the ice in its box. I had put the coffee on before I left, and when I open the door, its welcoming aroma makes some little spot down inside me smile. I go over and fill up a cup, after which I go to the refrigerator and remove a lime. I cut four wedges, place them in a sandwich bag with a liberal dose of salt and put them in my pocket. The pieces of lime have an important role in a ritual I perform which I have dubbed "Tequila Sunrise." I have had the same pint Jose Cuerro bottle in my tackle box since 1978, which I refill once or twice a year. Another important ingredient in this ceremony is a can of beer. Anyway, I am usually where I intend to start fishing when daylight comes, and as the sun's rays start to make their way across the water, I get the old bottle from the tackle box, pull the sandwich bag from my pocket and fetch a cold beer from the icebox. I open the bottle and pour a ceremonial thimble full into the bay and think of my father and how much he loved this body of water. Then I repeat the same for his friend and fishing partner who was the best at this game there ever was. Then, of course, it's my turn. I turn towards the sun, hoist the bottle up in a toast to those past and present, take a sip from the bottle, stick a piece of lime in my mouth and bite down. This is followed shortly by a couple of swallows from the can. Even on the most frigid of days this is a heart-warming experience. I have a self-imposed rule that this ceremony may only be held twice on any given day.
It is now around 6:00 a.m., and it is wake-up time for my fellow fishermen. I go into the room where Lindsey and Wes are asleep, walk up between the twin beds and announce in an artificially livened manner "it's showtime." While Lindsey starts to move, Wes just moans and rolls over towards the wall, which I interpret to mean he "ain't going." Then it's Mark's turn. While he, like Wes, gives out a moan, he does not roll over towards the wall which means he is a "probable." I walk back into the kitchen, fix another cup of coffee and proceed downstairs to commence preparations for departure. As I start to lower the boat I am surprised at how very high the tide is. There had been several days with tides a foot higher than normal, but this looked to be more like two. Enough to cover-up any reef, post, stick or just about any other visual tool I use to navigate. With the fog and high water in combination I know I have my work cut out for me.
I grind on the Yamaha outboard until it comes to life, and while it warms up, I begin to go over my checklist of items that should be on board. Life preservers, fuel, bait, dip-net, ice, landing-net, knife, pliers, fishing licenses, push-pole, binoculars, tackle box, rods & reels, hand towels, bottled water, and firearm. About this time Lindsey shows up, and I ask if she has grabbed her a Coke or two, and tell her that because of the dampness she might want to bring along some rain gear. Mark comes up with his coffee, and the three of us make small talk about the weather and water. I put on a smile and assure them everything is under control. And since they have never seen me lost or confused ... at least at the helm of a boat ... we set out with high hopes.
A Diversion
I put the engine in reverse and begin to back out of the stall, turn the wheel hard left causing the boat to slide out that corner of the lift and bring the bow around. I slip the gear shift lever into forward and advance the throttle to the point just before the bow starts to rise, some 6 or 7 miles an hour. I proceed on at this pace, keeping the Tiki shoreline in view to my left until I come to the southern tip of the island. This is the jumping off point. Diversion Canal, on a clear night and normal tide, would lie an easy 2 1⁄2 miles due southwest. I bring the boat right to due southwest and Tiki disappears behind us in the fog. Usually, this heading would bring me into the mainland shore a couple hundred yards to the right or east of the canal entrance. If, over the 2 1⁄2 miles my path were to drift six hundred yards to the left, or south, we could wind up in the Intercoastal Waterway. This would not be good ... in fact, potentially disastrous. Tugs pushing barges have radar and they do not stop their work just because of a little or, as in this case, a lot of fog. Their radar dishes are up so high on the tug's mast it can overlook low lying objects in the water, such as a 20-foot fishing boat that has wandered into its path. This was the one thing I had to guard against. Therefore, if I am to err I want to be to the right. I will set my course and then add five degrees to the right as a safety cushion.
As we move along I see nothing that can help me identify where we might be. There is no special skill or sense I can call on to see my way. There is a steady breeze blowing from a few clicks to the left of southwest that is pushing small wavelets in constant rows from that direction. I decide that instead of keeping a constant eye on the compass I will just key off the wind direction and hold the bow about 10 degrees to the right of the oncoming breeze. Mark and Lindsey are having a great time talking and laughing, oblivious to the fact that my reputation is in jeopardy.
We have been under way for some 45 minutes and I feel we should have reached the far shore 10 minutes ago. At this point I stop the engine and ask Mark and Lindsey to be quiet for a moment. Sometimes you can hear a train on the tracks to the east, or a plane taking off from Scholl Field to the south, or noises from a barge over in the Intercoastal that can give you a better sense of direction. So I sit there with my eyes closed, like some blind Ninja in a movie, musically attuned and alert to any tale tale sound. Dawn is breaking and my mind is drifting to the bottle in my tackle box, but there are more important matters at hand. The three of us sit in the eerie incandescent light, and I tell them where I think we are and, in turn, what I am going to do. I say I am confident we did not miss the shoreline by swinging too far to the left. That because of my concern for drifting over into the Intercoastal, I have dialed too much east into my steering, plus the wind nudging the bow to the right, that we are probably going almost parallel to the shoreline. At this point, little do I know, I have done just that. If it were not for the fog I would have seen the shoreline a quarter mile off to our left at about 45 degrees, but I can't. So, I pick up again on the same heading, still not seeing or hearing a single thing that might give me a clue as to our whereabouts.
After about fifteen minutes running on the resumed heading something very strange comes into view. It looks like a rice field, water with twigs of green sticking up as far as I can see. I put the engine in neutral and sit there trying to figure out what I am looking at. Just as a light bulb starts to glow in my brain a boat, moving too fast for these conditions, comes out of a path through the grass to our right, circles behind us and takes off slightly to the right of the course we have been following. As I put this together it means that the rice field is the water covered low lying shoreline, and the boat came out of Highlands Bayou at the entrance to the Bayou Vista subdivision. I bring the boat around and start to move in the general direction the other boat has gone, trying to keep the "rice field" within view to our right. This proves no easy task, but after about 30 minutes the tall mounds of dirt that mark the gateway to Diversion Canal come into view. There are feigned hoots and hollers all around, but I breath a genuine sigh of relief.
I ease the boat through the mouth of the canal; add a little power and we proceed up its right bank. Diversion is about 250 feet wide and up to 10 feet deep. Because of its depth the water is a little warmer, and the fish congregate here as the bay water temperature starts to drop. But the warmer water also means the fog is even thicker and running into a duck hunter or another deranged fisherman is a distinct possibility. The spot where I caught some fish two days before is about a mile down this river like waterway. As we near the intended fishing spot we are surprised to see a camouflaged john-boat with two duck hunters sitting to our right pulled into the bank. We all manage a feeble wave and move on out of sight. In a couple of hundred yards, we reach the place where I intend to set up shop, so I make a left, turn off the engine and lower the trolling motor. We silently move to the left bank and run the boat aground. I turn off the trolling motor, take in a deep breath and as I exhale, with the last remaining air I say "well, wasn't that special." Now, I feel that not only is it safe but appropriate to reward the captain for such a navigational feat by performing that revered ritual I have come to know and love. It's "TS" time.
MAP OF JONES LAKE
Filling the Ice Box
At this point there seems to be a contest between Mark and Lindsey as to who can get their rod & reel unstowed, get baited up and in the water first. Lindsey fishes like a man. While my casts might outdistance hers by a few feet, I believe she is just as accurate. She beats Mark to the punch and cast her shrimp out towards the middle of the channel. No sooner does her shrimp hit the water than her cork disappears. She sets the hook, pulls back a little extra to make the rod bow more, looks over and gives us a smile and says "yeah, that's what I'm talking about." Mark is not far behind and has a fish on in no time. They land their fish, both specks. The fog is still so thick we cannot see the opposite bank. I finish up my ceremonial moment and all three of us are in full pursuit of the “Spotted Weakfish.”
We keep hearing the duck hunters talking loud and conclude that we are probably in more danger than any duck. About this time, we hear a pop and look up to see an emergency flare zooming up through the fog. I yell over to the guy's and inquire if they are okay, but it is just a little too far to understand their reply. We land several more fish, and then decide we better go check out their problem. I pick up the push-pole and unstick us from the bank, turn on the electric and ease over to where they are. As we approach their boat I have my firearm, a .223 Ruger Ranch Rifle with a 40 shot magazine, hidden under my parka on my lap. Knowing Mark I am sure he has removed his .357 semi-auto from its holster, and it is in hand and out of sight. Caution runs in the family. We ask the guys if they are all right, and they respond in the affirmative. They inform us that they developed engine trouble and have been sitting there since before daylight. Further, that they have talked to some friends by cell phone, and they should be by to tow them in later. In the meantime, they are entertaining themselves by, among other things, trying out the 12 gauge emergency flares they recently bought at Academy.
We return to our spot and pick up right where we left off. Most of the fish we catch are undersized, but by 10:00 o'clock ,we probably have six or seven keeper specks in the box. I call Adrienne on the cell phone to let her know we are okay and inquire about the turkey. She says that she would like to eat around 2:30, so I tell her we will start back between 12:00 and 12:30. The fog is starting to let up some, and we can make out a boat pulling our duck hunter friends up the canal towards Hitchcock. I turn and ask Mark and Lindsey if they want to move further up the canal and see if we can find some bigger fish. Everybody agrees we should move, so I check the boat for any loose gear on the deck, start up the engine, move to the middle of the channel and advance the throttle. The Yamaha does it job, and the bow first rises and then quickly flattens out as, for the first time this day, the boat is on full plane.
A fact not yet mentioned is that I have been having a pesky problem with my boat's engine for several months. One of those on-again off-again things that can run you nuts trying to fix it. Well, the problem picks this particular moment to rear its ugly head and the engine begins to spit and sputter. I curse under my breath as the boat surges and slows. As a fisherman I have always felt one of my strong suits was being aware of the details of the water about me, whether it is a wading bird, a circling gull or a ripple in the water. At this moment, while distracted and peeved at the engine, I still notice some subliminal swirls in the water near the grassy right shoreline. As we move on I continue to glance over and see this same action. We have gone some 600 yards, and I just pull the throttle back and bring the boat to no-wake speed. As we crawl along I move the boat to the left and watch the opposite bank. At this time Lindsey looks at me, and we both look back over at the nervousness to the water. She looks back at me, nods her head and smiles. I idle another couple hundred yards, turn off the engine and proceed with the trolling motor. I slow some 30 yards out and bring the boat parallel to the shore. Lindsey is on the point of the boat and Mark is in the middle. The wind and tide are both directly from behind moving the boat along at a walk. For the next mile and half all I have to do is flip the trolling motor on every few minutes to keep the boat the proper distance and attitude to the bank while the elements do the rest. Every cast is something. A speck one cast, a red or flounder the next, and occasionally a junk fish. Lindsey is having a ball and Mark is having one just watching her, and they are constantly talking trash to one another. For two hours we drift, fish, catch, joke and laugh. We amble in this fashion all the way back to the mouth of Diversion, and it is now a few minutes after noon. We look in the box, and while we have had to return most of our fish to the water, we still are pleased with what we see. It's time to go home.
After checking that everything is stowed, I reach over and turn the ignition key, and the engine gives a weak shudder and dies. With the extended use of the battery this day, it has given up the ghost. I tell Mark and Lindsey that after all the things that have occurred it is only fitting we have one last hurdle to overcome. The reason I didn't buy a larger engine for this boat was because of moments like this. I reach in my tool box and get the manual start rope, remove the cowling and place the rope appropriately, put it in neutral and advance the throttle, give the rope a yank and the Yamaha starts handily. While the engine continues to give us trouble, we are so happy we hardly even notice. By now the fog has burned off, and we marvel at how simple our return is.
THE TRIP HOME
We arrive back at the dock, and Adrienne, Wes, and the dogs are quick to come down and get a look at what we have caught. I put the fish on a stringer and count up 13 specks, 3 reds and 2 flounder. I calculate, we bad a least a five or six to one keeper rate which means we put close to a hundred fish in the boat, and in anybody's book, that is some fishing fun. Pictures are taken to validate the occasion.
While I clean the fish, Lindsey and Mark go upstairs and make themselves ready for the upcoming feast. I put the filets in the freezer and go up and scrub off the smell that just a few minutes before had felt so comfortable. The dining table is heavy with turkey & oyster dressing, as well as all manner of delicious vegetables, breads and gravies. We gather around this beautiful setting, reach out for one another's' hands and bow our heads. While the words that come from my mouth are much the same as those I have spoken on other such occasions, in my mind, and I know in Mark and Lindsey' s as well, we give a special thanks to God for one another, for this day and "Our Most Excellent Adventure."
Comments