{"id":4738,"date":"2023-03-01T13:28:03","date_gmt":"2023-03-01T20:28:03","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/fishtales.abatemarco.com\/?p=4738"},"modified":"2023-03-06T14:47:57","modified_gmt":"2023-03-06T21:47:57","slug":"marooned-in-islamorada","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/fishtales.abatemarco.com\/?p=4738","title":{"rendered":"Boating–Not Fishing: Marooned in Islamorada"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

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STRANDED: Water, water everywhere…..but not under the boat!<\/em><\/strong><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

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They say\u2014and I can attest to it\u2014that a bad day of fishing is better than a good day in the office. I\u2019ve heard the same thing about boating. But that\u2019s where I draw the line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A day of boating\u2014no matter what kind\u2014is never as good as a day of fishing, no matter how bad. And a bad day of boating is potentially the worst<\/em><\/strong> day of your life. Truth be told, boating is like being in jail with a chance to drown.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Here\u2019s proof.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For more than 15 years, my childhood and high school buddies from Brooklyn\u2014a half dozen septuagenarians who fancifully continue to self reference as \u201cThe Red Hill Gang\u201d\u2014have honored me by accepting an annual invitation for a weekend of fall surfcasting in Amagansett and Montauk<\/a>. For the sake of fishing, they put aside their well-justified prejudices against my prickly personality, sarcastic social commentary, and obnoxiously compulsive penchant to correct their spelling, grammar and tortured syntax. As adolescents, we fished for flounder and eels and crabs and blowfish along the shores of Jamaica Bay, or from Steeplechase Pier in Coney Island. Our nostalgic reunions never fail to recall those bygone times. My bounteous cooking<\/a> and miserable card playing contribute mightily to everyone\u2019s enthusiasm. But the bottom line is we gather to fish. And sometimes we do stunningly well.<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n

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THE RED HILL GANG: (Clockwise from lower left) Felix, Tony, Fred, Charlie, Bobby and Billy (standing in for Vinny).<\/em><\/strong><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

On Long Island’s east end, we cast and we reel and we catch bluefish and weakfish and striped bass. All from the beach. We hunt them and we chase them on foot, or riding the shoreline in my truck<\/a>. If we enter the water it is barefoot and in bathing shorts<\/a>\u2014weather permitting; otherwise, boots and waterproof waders. We never leave terra firma.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

However, for nearly as long as The Red Hill Gang has been reuniting on the beach in autumn, we also have gathered regularly for winter roadtrips. These jaunts have found us in Las Vegas, Florida, the Caribbean. There\u2019d always be poker. Sometimes golf. Thoroughbred handicapping if there was a nearby racetrack where we could donate a couple of hundred bucks. And whenever we were in proximity to a sizable body of water, there\u2019d be attempts to fish. Though that has always been open to interpretation.<\/p>\n\n\n

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PLAY FOR A DOLLAR: Always, there <\/em><\/strong>is <\/strong><\/em>poker.<\/em><\/strong><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Like the time in Puerto Rico when we spent more than six hours and well nigh a thousand dollars on a 40-foot luxury cabin cruiser searching the sea for big game. \u201cThe Cadillac of sportfishing boats,\u201d we were assured. But we never encountered a single bite, and I was mystified that for all our trolling and sailing from one spot to another, there wasn\u2019t a sign of another fishing vessel. When I asked the captain about this, he blithely replied, \u201cOh yes. They\u2019re out there.\u201d I rubbed my eyes, cleaned my sunglasses and looked again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They are? Where?<\/em> Short of ghost ships visible to him alone, not a ship was at sea. And not a fish did we catch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Red Hill Gang\u2019s most recent winter escapade was to Islamorada in the Florida Keys this year, where all our usual antics played out amidst idyllic beaches, infinity-stretches of tropical waters, exotic birds and sea life, and nonstop margaritas, bloody marys and pina coladas. You want a floater with that? Why the hell not!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

However, there were also boats. Two of them, purportedly for fishing. True, there were rods, reels, bait, nets and other piscatorial devices aboard. But for my money, those were mere distractions. They could not mask the truth. We were going boating.<\/p>\n\n\n

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APRES FISHING COCKTAILS: Floaters? Why the hell not!<\/em><\/strong><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

We split into two groups of three passengers for each craft, which were piloted by veteran skippers. Captain John was a professional guide, knowledgeable of the local waters, if also a bit sketchy in his approach to maritime regulations. Did he really have the proper certification to fish in Everglades National Park waters? Was his 18-foot Dolphin Backcountry skiff properly outfitted with safety and navigational gear? When we first saw John\u2019s low slung, nearly flat-bottomed open boat tied to the wharf, one of the guys turned and nearly bolted away. The port and starboard gunwales were barely a foot high and there wasn\u2019t a boat rail anywhere. The skiff looked like a motorized surfboard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I gingerly stepped down to it, and we shoved off into the Florida Gulf for a rendezvous with the other Red Hill Gang trio. They were aboard a larger, 26-foot center console Pathfinder Bayboat, with Captain Ed at the helm. He wasn\u2019t a certified captain or fishing guide; rather a professional colleague and friend of one of the boys, and an avid weekend boater. But Capt. Ed wasn\u2019t having a very good week on the water. Just a few days before, his engine conked out and he had to be towed to back to the marina. <\/p>\n\n\n

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BEING IN JAIL…with a chance to drown. The lost boys of the Red Hill Gang marooned aboard Capt. Ed’s 26-foot Pathfinder Bayport.<\/em><\/strong><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

As Capt. John zipped us over tiny swells towards our meeting point, he received a phone call. Capt. Ed\u2019s GPS navigation system was acting squirrelly. That didn\u2019t sound good. Indeed, it turned out to be horrible. Without the GPS, it was impossible to precisely gauge the water depth, which was quite shallow in many spots of the Gulf. It also made it more challenging to follow the dredged channels, which was vital to avoid running aground.<\/p>\n\n\n

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MOTORIZED SURFBOARD? Not a boat rail to be seen. <\/em><\/strong><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n