Iemanja - goddess and protectorant

Iemanjá, goddess (or orixá) of the sea, is a central deity in the Candomblé religion. She watches over sailors and fishermen and controls their catches. She is powerful, and is concerned with every aspect of womanhood, fertility and family; she is also the protector of children. Iemanja often, is depicted as a mermaid and is always dressed in either white or blue.

Culturally influenced while living in Brazil, I had found my spiritual 'sweetheart'. In Rio de Janeiro, her powers and influence are celebrated on each years, New Years Eve. Offerings of candles, flowers, lipstick and liquor, arranged within small handmade boats, are then released out to sea. For me, Iemanja has been very good to me, therefore I celebrate each year with my own shrine and personal offerings, set out upon the floating water on this special eve.

Most year's she's camera shy, but this year, near midnight, even Knuckles celebrated and stood along side, lighting candles in thought and prayers.

father's footsteps

St. Petersburg Yacht Club

St. Petersburg, Florida

On a recent visit to St. Pete, I stopped in unannounced at the private, St. Petersburg Yacht Club, to search for any trace of my father, the late Spencer McCourtney. Early in his life he was a renowned yachting enthusiast, built and helped design trophy race boats, and for years charted his schooner, the 'Rambler', throughout the Gulf and Caribbean.

Luckily the club's receptionist Betty, caught me while wandering the halls, and was more than enthusiastic, guiding me through the historic club's endless glass showcases. Even gave me a copy, as a gift, of their published SPYC's Centennial book (1909-2009).  So finally, I had found a part of my father - and a part that wishfully, he had shared.

One of hundreds of trophies at the SPYC. The "Commodore Longmire Cup" (1958) that my father and crew competed in.
 

Sailing from out of the St. Pete Yacht Club, three "yawls" jockeying at the starting line.  My father's "Brisote" appearing on near left (order mistakenly identified), with spinnaker flying. (Published as a spread in Sports Illustrated, March 1959).

holidays

Yesterday, fraud on my bank account, with two credit cards and my checking suspended. Two supposed purchases last week from China, and one yesterday coming in from Anadyr, Siberia. Bank suggested that I freeze and close all accounts.

Late last night, a phone call from an ancient friend in Virginia, saying that a good, long-ago buddy of mine, wants to see me one more time - apparently now, dying at our Sarasota Memorial Hospital.

Woke this morning, and the house - nearly quiet as a mouse. To set this Christmas Day straight, decided instead to go for a long ride, just somewhere out east.

On the way home, Waffle House always open, and all I could 'cash' afford.

My new smiling WH friend, Helene (who received a needed, big cash tip).

Ten Thousand Islands .....

... maybe more.

It had been twenty-eight years since my last visit, then camping with my two youngest boys, in the wilds of a remote and uninhabited, unique southern part of Florida. We did it then by motorized canoe, traveling nearly 40 miles in 5 days - eating what we could catch, while carrying only a simple skillet, five gallons of fresh water, and a minimum amount of gas.

Thought it might be time to do it all over again, once more. So last July, I began by emailing my now grown, 41 year old son Matthew. He enthusiastically agreed. Then this past week, Matt flew in from California for the 4 days needed.

This time, with a fully loaded canoe we headed out using the same route, down the Blackwater River towards Gullivan Bay - out amongst the outer isles that eventually spill-out into the southern Gulf of Mexico.

On the outside, we scouted for a suitable campsite on an island, a sandy area, where hopefully we'd find an isolated, soft sandy beach. Ideally, we also needed an onshore wind, or a crosswind to help keep the numerous biting insects at bay. At our launch site, the "no-see-ums" were bad. So quickly, we had thrown everything into the canoe, and somewhat haphazardly.

After a little scouting, we finally chose a remote stretch on Turtle Key.

Matt setting up his fancy, high-end camp gear in about 20 minutes (telling me he now camps up to 30 times a year). He arrived off the airplane with only a back-pack and a small waterproof duffel, which included all of his vegan planned, freeze dried meal packets. I typically start-off with a fully packed truck load.

Matt cut the wood and built the fires.

Matt's glowing campsite beneath the moon and stars ......

And my "lodge" tent with a bright moon, and a passing small evening cloud .....

I acted as captain, guide, and as the stealth paddler - quietly paddling Matt amongst the countless (10,000) mangrove islands. For Matt it's about fly-fishing. And, primarily putting him within casting range, while searching for that elusive and finicky Redfish.

His first 'Red' on the fly.

Our 'Mary-Lou' sitting pretty in the shallows.

Fly casting on the flats.

The signature spotted tail of the Redfish.

Back at our base camp, Matt starting a new evening fire.

Next day, more fishing, more fish.  Matt with some nice spotted Sea Trout.

At camp, I found a few surrounding things to play with. A dinner placement with a baby Horseshoe crab.

Two years earlier, Hurricane Irma had devastated the Ten Thousand Island's, scattering the majority of wildlife while disrupting the extensive marine fishery, leaving eerily behind, the outer islands stripped of their protective mangrove shoreline.

 

 

On that final passage heading home, we interpreted our bearings by using an old folded-up and worn-out marine chart, identifying and pinpointing the numerous backwater channels while passing each.

To be certain, Matthew can fish. Between the two of us (small on my part), we caught about every available game fish out there, with the exception of the grand Tarpon. Even then, in what we still can't agree upon, a possibly caught Tarpon that leaped from the water, and easily broke off a 20lb leader.


Aerial view.
Photo Credit; Carlton Ward

the good, the bad, and the ugly

Shired Island  (locally pronounced; "Shared" Island)

Suwannee National Wildlife Refuge - Florida's Big Bend Region

the Good; 

Old Florida, a natural wilderness shared only by a few. Daily; countless flocks of migrating White Pelicans flying low overhead, heading south for the winter. Evidence of wild boar and alligators all along the beaches and creeks, now bedded down from the recent cold weather. The good - exploring the great tidal marshlands of Black Needlerush and Smooth Cordgrass reed, all by canoe.  And, all those fine dreams of mine, fly-fishing for "Reds".  And, all the locals - way too friendly.

the Bad;

Consecutive cold fronts over 6 days - low's in the 40's, highs near 65.  Daily shifting winds - from the northwest to northeast, sustained between 10 to 15 knots. Most days - grey and wet with low cloud cover. The bad - Canoeing and motoring into the Gulf's 3 to 4 foot 'whitecaps'. And, with those constant northern winds - unable to even pull the fly-rod out.

and the Ugly;

A strong cold front, a heavy squall line passed through on our 2nd night tenting.  40 to 50 knot winds with 4.5 inches of rain blowing through around midnight. The ugly - In the early morning light, I found the campsite underwater. The canoe half sunk, tackle box with all our fishing needs gone, a paddle and a treasured Stetson hat had all disappeared - all blew or had floated away. Our stacked firewood and campsite were all soaked. No tackle to fish with, a paddle long gone, a hat missing and a heavy rain leaving behind a gallon container of gas now contaminated by water for the canoe's little engine.


Shired Island, the first day out - sunny, chilly, and all alone. At the far point of the island, an archaeological 'shell midden' left behind from an early native American coastal settlement. 

  

Alone, except for this mystery

 Exploring a distant, Big Pine Island by canoe.

 

A shore lunch of canned, Chef Boyardee's Macaroni & Beef.

My fellow camper and old friend, Randolph Armisted Peek, returning to camp with his found 8 inch, or possibly 9 inch, wild boar tusk from the beach across from Big Pine Island. The boars hoof tracks, and their 'rooting', up and down that beach had spooked him. Randy, always a good sport, didn't run, but he sure felt he wanted to.  (note; the changing weather in the background. The last day of early sunshine before that evening's big storm hit).

An ideal tent set-up with a late afternoon, Gulf front view.

My new best buddy, an 83 year old Herbert Cannon, visited the campsite daily to collect his camping fee of $10.00 per day. He and I hit it off immediately. Cannon is a 4th generation islander. The Cannon family name is one of only a few island families still around, still respected. His historic family 'logged' timber for a living, for the old growth cypress and the early long-leaf pine, now long gone out on Shired Island.  Herbert answered many of my many questions, "Yep, not much school, not many playmates growing-up. Hard work daily, just gettin' that mule hitched up."

Herbert's childhood friend and good buddy, Jimmy 'Big Gun' Forehand.  Jimmy, like Herbert, grew up logging and today now runs a chainsaw repair shop in nearby Cross City. I asked what's the biggest, meanest chainsaw you got, "This here is a 570cc Husqvarna, it does what I want, when I want." My response, "How do ya spell that name?" Jimmy answers, "Hell if I know."

After that midnight, big 'no-name' storm, I found the canoe's stern deep under, with items missing or some having floated off.

That same afternoon, Randy and I headed out leaving a sad canoe behind. And instead, explored by back-roads, the tidal estuaries through-out Suwannee's Wildlife Refuge.

Now following the local 12 mile Dixie Mainline Road, we headed south for the town of Suwannee. Hunting season had just opened, when we came across a dozen or so deer hunters parked along the way.  With guns in hand, and one with a shattered windshield (a little camera shy), all the hunting males appeared finely dressed, all camouflaged from head to toe.

Alligator resting area amongst the Black Needlerush, along the banks of upper Sander's Creek.

Reflecting palms common along Sander's Creek.

The closest I ever came to a Redfish in the town of Suwannee.

On our last day pulling out, the sun finally appeared and the winds subsided, all on a fine rising tide flowing up into a tranquil Shired Creek. 

back in the chair again

This morning I went through a 3 1/2 hour sitting, and once more in a prone dental chair. First, grinding 2 teeth to seat a temporary bridge needed after an upper molar was recently pulled.  Teeth # 2, 3, 4 (bridge prep for upper right rear molars).

And, as if by fate, I badly cracked an old crown the night before, which split the tooth in half. That tooth also grounded down for a new crown replacement.  Tooth # 14 (upper left front molar).

They're a good natured dental shop. The dental assistant and dentist talked through-out most of the procedure, about what each were having for lunch after.  They seemed relaxed, and like to laugh a lot. So, being free-wheeling, I kindly asked if they would allow me occasionally to get up and take a few shots. They liked that idea.

A whole plethora of probes, tools and syringes.

Grinding to fit the temporary (three tooth) bridge.

Finished - the assistant, Marlena surprising me with a parting gift.  My old (20 something year old) 18 carat gold crown. Actually pretty hefty.

Though, the biggest excitement came when I went to check out - $6,569.00. And supposedly, the little dental insurance that I do have will only cover about one third of the cost. The office secretary rang it up on my card and then mentioned casually - that, that old gold crown might be worth something.