Bugs And Bogs And Immortal Bass

The ecology of St. Vincent Island is indeed a frail thing, but then, geologically speaking, so is the island itself. Twelve thousand years ago it was not an island at all, just a high part of the mainland, but when glaciers melted to the north, sea levels rose and much of northern Florida was drowned miles offshore. Oysters grew on what had been high land, forming bars that gradually rose from the sea once more. For a few thousand years the island provided sustenance for many living things, and finally pleasure for man. But the eternal beat goes on. The Apalachicola River pours its sediments into the bays landward of St. Vincent, and each year the water becomes a few centimeters shallower. Finally, once more, there will be no island at all.

But now, when you are there, you cannot conceive of anything ever ending. The wild turkeys introduced by Charlie Turner in 1965 are thriving, and the native whitetail deer are so plentiful that a public hunt was declared in 1970. Great flocks of widgeon rise ahead of the jeep when you drive along the 14 miles of barrier beach. Charlie Turner says that last summer he saw tarpon breaking for more than five miles along the surf. And one day you watch three does running gracefully and unafraid at the water's edge.

These are some of the things you remember about a brief stay on St. Vincent Island, but one morning is particularly unforgettable. The other fishermen go off to a favorite pond. You explore another, fishing alone from a tiny kayak. The best bass fishing on St. Vincent is usually at the mouths of channels connecting the ponds, and on this morning you stop in such an area. Fishing is anticipation, and on St. Vincent the feeling is especially acute. You try to relax. Concentrate, you keep thinking. First cast now. Reel slowly. Make that rubber worm crawl along the bottom. What's that...? Tap tap tap...let him run...now strike.... A great weight begins moving off, slowly towing your boat toward the reeds. Wait. Now he's coming up. At the top of the leap the head-hooked worm falls from his mouth. He only had the tail.

Now how big was that bass, you think. Forget it. Go catch another one. But your hands are still shaking so badly that you can't reel in the worm for another cast. Finally you calm down and land two five-pounders. In just over an hour you lose six others, and five of them are far larger than any you have caught in 20 years of fishing up north. How big were they, you wonder weeks later, still scratching a variety of insect bites. Ten pounds? Fifteen pounds? They were big. That's enough. Just think how lucky you are. "Sure there are world-record bass on St. Vincent," they told you before the trip, "but if you go there you'll never get back alive."