June 1991, Gulf Coast, Florida
Alvin was a regular on the pier. He was retired and his skin was baked and creased by the tropical sun. His ball cap came from a different century. His hands suggested life time labourer. His cloths were clean, functional, well warn and sun bleached. They contrasted the pastel coloured, crisp trendy cloths of nearby tourist. His angling equipment consisted of several spinning rods all heavily rigged, baited and cast into the placid bay side water. He had a bruised tackle box, stained white plastic bait bucket, a cooler bungee corded to a chrome, flight attendant like, two wheel pull cart. Everything seemed well used and slightly corroded from the sea salt air. He drank from a thermos that looked like it had fallen off of a high rise. It contained a cool-aid like cherry coloured liquid which was fortified. He, however, never seemed tipsy. He always ate soda crackers and the Sea Gulls circled him. And he was friendly. Every time I think of his name I think of a Chipmunk. You have to be a certain age to understand this association.
After a day of fly fishing the Gulf beaches for Snook, I'd grab a bite to eat and head for the Anna Maria Island pier. I'd stay until it got dark, sometimes later, which in June was midnight or more. There were three piers on the island. I fished the Bridge Street one just off of Cortez Avenue on the bay side. This is where Alvin, a Florida native, hung out. He had his spot on the pier. All regulars do. They'll flip from one side of the pier to the other depending on the pull of the tide but they usually are in the same area. Time spent on a pier teaches you that it has its own cast of characters, culture, and behavioural code, just like any other place where people congregate on a regular basis. In those days pier anglers smoked a lot: cigarettes; cigars, the big Havana type and the small Colt sized ones. Most had a six pack with them. They usually brought junk food like chips or nachos. Some brought take-out supper in big Styrofoam containers: fries, coleslaw, hamburgers, club sandwiches or Sloppy Joe looking stuff smothering a big bun.
The regulars had there speciality fishing rigs and multiple poles. Most fished live bait with a bobber. They were meat fisherman, there for their next meal or to fill the freezer at home. They usually gathered at the pier in the evening and many fished until the sun came up. They were the night shift. They took advantage of the pier lights that illuminated the water and attracted fish. Sometimes very big fish. Snook that looked like sharks. If you stared into the lit water long enough you'd eventually see a dark log with fins pass through and then vanish into the blackness. Spotting was one thing, catching them was another.
Alvin liked to talk. He eventually asked me where I was from and I reciprocated. He said he spent most of his life in Plant City, Florida. I knew it was located in the interior part of the State but that's about it. He asked me if I knew what it was "famous for"? I did not. I knew about the Daytona 500; I knew about the Orange Bowl; I knew about Disney World; I knew there were Alligators in the Everglades and a few remaining Seminole Indians; I knew about Key Lime pie; and I even knew about the Tarpon Springs Sponge Docks...however, I didn't know what Plant City was famous for. He seemed offended and proceeded to tell (lecture) me that his hometown was the biggest producer of Strawberries in the world. He went on and on about it suggesting that I should have know this even though I lived over 1500 miles away, in a different country, and that most of the Strawberries I ate in the Summer were from my home province, Quebec, and the ones I ate in the Winter time came from somewhere in Mexico. I tried to placate him by asking him several questions about Strawberries and Florida agriculture, and reinforced the obvious importance of his hometown. This seemed to settle him down and with time he forgave me for my ignorance. He'd say hello when I arrived at the pier in the evening and smiled when I set up and casted my spinning outfit next to him. He`d ask me how my day went fly fishing the nearby beaches for Snook. Some how I had past the test.
Alvin told me about the history of the area. He said that when he was a child there were no buildings on Anna Maria island. It was just sand and mangroves. In 1991, when I was there, it was developed: low rise condos, beach houses, restaurants, an ice cream shop, tennis courts, outdoor pools, even a small shopping plaza and a grocery store. At the south end of the island was a park/nature preserve. Someone or group of citizens had the foresight to save some green space.
The Bridge street pier was all wood. It stood on many pilings and looked like a giant centipede with its many legs stretching out into the bay. It seemed like a living thing. It made sounds with the changing tide, wind and waves. Over the years pier strollers had created well warn sections on the planks. You could see names carved in the sitting benches and posts, and there were notches on the side rails where anglers rested there fishing poles. The pier had lived; it had history.
The pier had several wooden fish cleaning (fillet) tables. They were well used, carved-up, and often blood stained, and in the sunlight you could spot the glistening of scales. Left-over fish tails and heads disappeared quickly. The birds picked-off all the excess. There were Sea Gulls, Pelicans and the odd Cormorant. They out numbered the anglers twenty to one. And they were pesky and persistent, like third world vendors. When fishing live surface bait off of a floating bobber you had to be watchful as they'd swoop down and try and steal it. Sadly many would get hooked and anglers would cut their line. A number of pelicans has multiple pieces of thick mono filament line dangling from their bills. They looked like a sloppy kid who had been eating Spaghetti.
On more than one occasion I had to pull my live surface bait away from a bird. One evening when I was distracted a Pelican ate my bait and became hooked. Mayhem resulted. Alvin directed me to try and reel the bird in close and then cut my line. I followed his orders, made progress and to my amazement the Pelican landed on the pier deck. I remember being upset and not wanting to leave my hook in it. What followed is kind of a blur as I was functioning on pure adrenaline. With my brain flooded with this chemical I was on automatic pilot. I was simply behaving and reacting and can't recall thinking. I do remember grabbing a big beach towel out of my nap sack and tossing it over the floundering Pelican. I remember Alvin saying something from behind me while I pinned the Pelican down with my body, like a wrestler does to his opponent. I remember the Pelican resisting and the unbelievable power of its wings as it tried to lift me and free itself. I remember Alvin and someone else helping me hold the bird while I grabbed its bill, searched for and eventually dislodged the hook. I remember people gathering around and many voices saying things, but can't recollect what was being said. I remember my face being close to the Pelican's face and looking right into its eye; the eye of a wild thing.
Once released the Pelican got up on the pier rail and then flew off. It seemed alright. I remember feeling relieved and Alvin taking a sip from his ancient thermos, looking at me and saying, "I can`t believe we just did that"! After that I casted lead and fished frozen squid on the bay bottom.
I fished the pier for several evenings and missed it on the nights when I didn't get there. It was a great way to end the day. There was always a slight breeze on the water which made things cooler and the smell of the ocean always seemed stronger in the evening. And there was the ever present sound of the sea and life in the bay. And the skies were colourful and magical as the sun dipped into the ocean, far to the west. The pier was simply a wonderful place to be. The pier is where I came face to face with a Pelican. And the pier is where I met Alvin from Plant City...Strawberry Capital of the World.
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