Duck Hunting as Teenagers Homosassa River 1970's

Duck Hunting Homosassa in the 70's Buzz and I would go duck hunting every day we could. Hunting season only lasted a couple of months.  Almost every day we would get the boat ready after school.  We had it made because his Dad(Mr. Duncan) owned a bait shop(since 1953), that he just happened to have a dozen rental boats and a lot of shotgun shells he sold.  Mr. Duncan was gracious toward us.

The male or drake is one of the most handsome ducks of all.   The hens are less colorful and mostly brown.  They are very good eating and our method was to pluck every single feather off each duck. Mrs. Wilma(Buzz’s Mom and mine too) could bake them so they were moist as duck can be dry.  Every Christmas dinner wood duck was the main dish.

Just after school, we ran two routes, up or down the river. We would check every creek for wood ducks with either 20 or 12 gauge shotguns loaded with No. 6’s.  Their would be almost always a few woodies in the smaller creeks where they would be feeding on acorns from overhanging oak trees.

In pursuit, the wood ducks would stay on the water until we were just in range, making it a challenging shot from the speeding boat.  We were pretty good shots.  At the time, I did not know shooting from a moving boat was against the law.  We just did it and the subject never came up. 

I was almost always sitting on the bow seat with Buzz shooting over my head those years, I partially lost my hearing in one ear.  We never knew what earplugs were.  And ringing of my ears was sort of normal from each hunt, until one day it did not stop.  Oh well, it was well worth it at the time because I got first crack at them. Hitting the rock was not so bad.  But if you are reading this and have not fired a gun.  Always use ear protection as you fire your first shot and every shot thereafter when you can.

Our quarry while running the engine wide open, would stay on the water until we were just barely in range making it a challenging shot each time, as they are wild birds..  We were pretty good shots but always a few got away as they are very fast.

One day Buzz let me drive. The tide was up enough to cover the prop sized rocks that otherwise would be exposed on low tide.  We were in Petty Creek and Buzz warned me to veer left, rock ahead.  I plied straight ahead and he hollered, “ROCK RIGHT HERE, BAM!!” He said to me, get up on the bow, now. We did not hurt anything. Funny was what it was.

Some afternoons we would ride up the Halls River if it was cold. Once arrived we idle into the marsh flags to camouflage us from the eagle eye of the speedsters..  We would wait patiently until the sun had set.  I imagined it was past time to shoot a duck legally, but we fired away as they would whistle just before landing in the small creek giving us a head’s up.  And all you could see was the silhouette of them.  We would find most of the downed birds using a spotlight as we could motor through the freshwater marsh slowly

At anytime, there use to be two or three shorthair liver/white hunting dogs that laid around the bait house for generations. Shorthairs make great pets when they are not hunting.  The names I  remembered most, were Rex, Vic and Ike.  Vic was old and pretty much retired in.  So one day Buzz decided we would bring him along to retrieve ducks. He was just laying around anyway. The plan was to see if Vic would jump out of the boat to retrieve the wood ducks that landed into the marsh. To our amazement, Vic did real good bringing back most of the ducks never mashing it too hard in its mouth. He's not a breed to be a retriever. He's a pointer for quail. Maybe he knew it was his last chance to hunt. He sure had a nose on him.

One day Vic got hurt. Out in the marsh, sawgrass has sharp edges on each side and can cut ya. After several hunts with Vic we noticed a sore about the size of a dime infected his right nut. Turned out that Mr. Mac had to have Vic castrated. Buzz’s Dad lectured us, saying we ruined his quail hunting dog.  Mac(Dad) was right, as ole Vic lost all his pizazz and just laid on the wood floor of the bait house except to eat and back up to a tree both legs down..  

There’s plenty more tales to write about.  More later…

The 70's in Florida - First Tarpon Trip

Before I tell you about my first tarpon, in 1963, my first memories of fishing were walking down to the tackle shop to get some line and hooks.  I never spent a nickel.  RV was brand new and one of the employees knew who I was and gave me stuff.  Most of the time I would take shrimp off the boats left over that the owner Dunc, did not care.

I would catch huge bluegill bream that lived under the fish house dock, that required sliding it through the gaps of the widest section to land it.  I would break the shrimp in half and peel the hull off.  Solid meat and smelly.  The fish loved it.  One of my friends caught a 2+ pound bluegill that made into the newspaper with a picture.

I remember scaling the bream, cutting its head off and have Mom fry it for me.  Many times I would catch a stringer full of mangrove snapper in front of RV by some marsh flags.  It was where Monkey Island is now, but had not been constructed.  I was 10 years old then and allowed to be out in the boat alone or with a friend.

I would bring the snapper on the stringer upstairs to the restaurant where my Mom worked and trade them for either breakfast or lunch depending on the time of the day.  I wonder now, what they did with those fish, as they were whole.

In 1971, age 16, my hero, Dad, took Buzz and I out tarpon fishing during the Spring run, where literally a thousand or more would show each year.  He always left the dock before sun up.  He could navigate the river with his eyes closed, had he chose to.

This was and still is the best day of my life tarpon fishing. Each trip requires preparation before going out.  Dad just used eye to land navigation and a few markers that dotted the cost.  He slowed as we neared the channel.  A bust or wall of white water 6 feet high erupted.  Not once but several times.  Tarpon make this show with their tails to impress the females.  My Dad related it to spawning and I believe he was right about everything when it came to fishing.

He idled the 24’ Pro until we were within paddling distance.  Buzz and I on one side, Dad on the other.  We were stroking it stern first as hard as we could.  Fish rolling everywhere in front of us.  Breathing hard, like 4th quarter football.  I was very excited and my heart was pounding.

We were in range.  This rod I never had casted one this big with a lure that felt like a chunk of lead.  My Dad casted his a hundred yards it seemed.  Buzz, the same.  Me, about a 100 feet.  We had three on a time but mine did not jump.  Their fish were putting on a show leaping and silver shining and reflecting off their sides from the bright sun.

Their fish were gaffed and pulled into the boat.  That’s the way it was done back then, kill ‘em.  A tarp was put out and laid out on the deck in case the fish spermed, if they were males.  Messy stuff to get off the boat. And the females were slimy, too.

All were females over 120 pounds, not bad for overgrown herrings.  Except mine, while they were fighting theirs’, I have a huge cobia on, maybe 50-pounds.  They were too busy to help.  As I bent over to grab the gaff, my line got caught under a loose screw head on the bow rail and popped my line.  SOB!  Here I have food while they are messing around with non-edibles.

Back to fishing, all I can say is, it took a long, long cast, reeling fast as you can and twitching the lure. I couldn’t do it well enough.  Maybe if I would have had a chance to get the hang of casting it far enough, I could.  But Dad handed me a rod with a tarpon on.  This is what he would do for all his clients if they were weenies.  If their were 4 in his boat, all got numbered 1 through 4 and take turns jumping tarpon that would average 30 per morning.

On the way in, Dad saw three cobia, all huge.  He casted out and the biggest ate. He said, “Here’s your cobia, boy!”  63-pounds, it was.  Plus a 143, 138 and a peanut, 120ish.

Back then it was all show and tell.  It was how my Dad got new clients.  And it was bragging rights.  Each tarpon, always had the weight posted on it’s side.  When I was 8 years old, I began to see these giants hanging from the scales and this helped to give me the eye to guess the weight of one alongside the boat.

Fortunately, for the fish, not many guides pursued the mighty silver king.  And these days, only world records are kept.

Give me any fish and I will be happy.  Big or small.  Wait, please no catfish!

The 70's in Florida

The 70's - Kicker Bar - I’m sitting at the picturesque kicker bar overlooking the Homosassa River sipping on a cocktail when a tall gentleman followed by three of his buddies walked in and pulled up a bar stool beside me.  After a while, the tall guy introduced himself and he had heard of my last name from my Dad and Grandpa's guiding prowess.  At the time I was 17 and still living at home.

There was a dance floor next to the boat-shaped bar and every weekend starting at 9pm, a band would play some popular songs of the 70’s mostly fast ones so as to tap dance on the wooden parquet floor. Also, a few slow ones were played, so you could get close to your girl.  I'll never forget the guitar player, Steve. He would call out while on stage; Hammer-Wammer-Slammer-Jammer! That was me!

Our conversation halted as the band performed songs.   It was too loud to talk without shouting in each other’s ear. The fast dancers were first to shake a leg and it was free style but nothing dirty.  It was all eyeballs on the dance floor and quite entertaining. I did my share of it and was dressed to the hilt with my duds and high dollar dress boots that were dirty dishwater blonde.

When the slow songs were played, the majority of couples would step onto the dance floor holding hands and to snuggle up. The girls left sitting were examined by the men for a possible relationship. The band took a break and that's when a few guys scoured the tables for a single or two to start a conversation by offering to buy them a drink. Of course, the men did not mind getting close to the girls ears to ask for a dance while the loud band played on.

My brand new friend, Tommy, (the tall one) said with his gruff voice, “Hammer, I have a cabin down the river about 2 miles, only accessible by boat.  I know how to get down there.  But, I am starting a fishing club and the new members have no idea how to get down there.  I can’t see them driving my boat while drunk or bad weather conditions come in, like fog. They will get lost and either tear up my boat or worse possibly hurt themselves!”

Tommy further stated,” I would like to know if you would be interested in taking my friends to the island as they come in?”  Also, would you like to stay on the island where we have a small caretaker's cabin? In addition you could guide from my 24’ Pro-Line boat. Plus I will provide you with a small skiff for personal use.” I thought, this sounds pretty good but got to play it cool. I guess 5 seconds is long enough to say yes.

I had already bought an old 22-foot guide boat from Billy Trotter that was unfishable.  It was unrigged, no engine or anything, just a bare hull.  It sat in our front yard upside down for months. The $200 purchase was from money I saved from cleaning the guides fish catches brought in daily to Riverside Villas(RV). So, I sold the boat since I had use of a free one. One less thing to think about.

RV was built in ‘63 and quite the full service resort.  Progress, we don't want, is what some would say. The history and appeal of the decades old palm log cabin bait shop was torn down to be replaced by a much larger building; a bait shop and restaurant above it. Windows three sides on both levels to see the river and fishermen going by.  

Included at RV were 96 rooms within 4 villas, a big swimming pool, boat storage, of course mentioned above, the huge bait shop(where the kicker bar was added in the place of the bait shop) and a beautiful restaurant upstairs(My mom was the first waitress), the old past gave way to the new look of the Homosassa River.  The bait shop was moved behind the bar that included docks and a ramp that is still in operation today.

RV was Dad’s meeting place for his clients and where he sold his catches of mullet, a hundred pounds at a time to the restaurant.  I had to scale all these fish and after a while I got tired of looking at a mullet.  Fortunately, RV bought an automatic tumbler scaler and I was thankful for it.

The same year in ‘73, I was asked to work at Florida Power to help build the third power plant near Crystal River, a new nuclear power plant.  I began making money 4 times the minimum wage.  So I was rolling in the dough.  The new job at the Club guiding on the weekends and making at least $40 a day on.  I was a happy camper.  Life was good.

In the back of my mind, I wanted a guide boat of my own.  The Pro 24 owned by the club was the best back then, but independence is important.  So, I was riding down the river and saw a new wooden boat being constructed by Alvy Head.  The boat was just starting to be built. New wood was very appealing to me and I knew the type of skiff he was building.

It was a well-boat, meaning their is a well in the front center for the engine.  The purpose of this is to run in shallow water.  I could go on and on about the design.  Let’s just say it was the shallowest running boat made except an airboat.

I asked Mr. Alvy if he would sell me the new skiff.  He said, “Hadn’t thought about it boy.”  Well, he did for $600.  I painted it Forest Green with brown trim.  I made a box to sit on and bought a brand new 25 HP electric start Evinrude. I named it the "DUCKFISHER".  More on the boat at a later time.

The day I moved in, my belongings would fit nicely into a Glad bag from clothes out of my dresser. A few sweatshirts and a coat or two were thrown into the boat. Of course, my guns, ammunition and rod/reels were carefully placed and took up most of the space in the little 20' by 20' caretakers cabin that became my first home away from home.  With help, I built a small porch.  In retrospect, I would have not built it.

What I was allowed to do is move into the main cabin when no one was staying there.  I slept in every bed to see which one was more comfortable but they were all the same except for the view of the master bedroom.  

This log cabin was built in 1935 from rough-cut cypress.  And the interior was cypress as well, including all the furniture and bed frames.  The kitchen though was painted light blue and I supposed the bare wood must have become unsightly.

The water supply came from rain that fell on the roof and drained into a 5000 gallon tank from the gutters.  It was sweet tasting water and was reserved for drinking and cooking water.  River water was used for the shower and toilets.  I learned to take a shower with the bottom of the tide going out.  Fresher that way.

My favorite of the cabin was the beautiful fireplace.  I was quite naive about using oak as the main wood.  I don’t know why as my GrandPa would put a thick oak log before he went to bed. That was the only source of heat then.  Or maybe, it was because I knew where there were loads of lighter pine knots on the ground in the reserve that I collected all I needed in just a few hours.

Incidentally, everything had to be hauled three times to get it to the island.  But the pine was full of sap that you could light a piece of kindling with a single match.  And man, the heat it put out was intense and warmed the living room very fast.  Sometimes it was too hot but I would impress my friends who I entertained.  Finally, I gave into using cedar and I loved the popping sounds and sparks it made. There was a screen that kept the sparks from starting a fire in the living room.  This was a marvel, especially to those who did not own a fireplace.

Another vivid memory was the clay thrower situated on the dock that faced the river.  All the boaters/fishermen would go by on a plane, except when four of us are standing on the dock with shotguns, they would slow to idle.  That was humerous!

Of course, shotguns makes me think of ducks, quail, dove and back then some birds we should have not shot.  Crows were one of my favorites from the cabin as they went by in the late afternoon heading toward their roost by the flocks.  When you wound a crow, he sounds an alarm call, then the flock would circle and the shoot was on.  Crows are a nuisance and legal game.  My best friend, Buzz, was my hero and teacher back then, who I hunted with the most.  We were like peas and carrots they say.  But ole Buzz could call in the crows using his voice.