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