Sarasota Bay
Accordingly, in a few days I left Tampa on the steamer for Braidentown, on the Manatee River, at the beginning of a norther. At Braidentown I engaged a carriage and drove across country, through the pine woods, to Sarasota Bay, arriving at The Palms, the charming little hotel built by good Mother Jones, who is now in Heaven. I enjoyed one of her matchless suppers after my drive through the rain and in the face of the fierce norther.
Interviewing the Captain
I found that the shanty of Captain Faulkner, who had charge of the pound net, was adjoining the hotel grounds. I interviewed him that evening, when he promised to go out to the net the next afternoon if the wind abated. As I knew that the northers of Florida lasted several days, and my time was limited, I replied that I would visit the net the next day.
The Start for the Pound Net
On the next afternoon the norther was in full force and the sea running high. It required a good deal of persuasion for Faulkner to consent, but fortunately he yielded at last to my entreaties. We embarked in a sixteen-foot rowboat—Faulkner, a white man, a negro, and myself. The net was two miles down the bay. The wind was behind us, so we were soon there, drenched with spray, and quite cold.
The Expected Happens
The painter of the boat was made fast to one of the net stakes, and the men got into a large bateau that was moored alongside the trap of the net. After closing the tunnel of the net and loosening the stays they began hauling up the trap. Then the expected happened. A tarpon leaped high in the air in his attempt to escape, but striking one of the stakes, he fell back again into the trap.
"Captain!" I cried, "don't let him get away; that's the fellow I'm after!"
The net was swarming with fish of all kinds and sizes, from a ten-inch mullet to a ten-foot shark. Finally Captain Faulkner got his gaff-hook into the tarpon's gills. "What shall I do with him?" he asked.