We used to bathe at night in the mystical moonlight, when the air was heavy with scents, a belated mocking bird's song perhaps mingling with the soft rush of the tide on the shelly beach. Then we would sleep sounder than we had ever done before, till 4-30 or so, and awake keen and eager for another delightful, long, busily lazy day. It used to be my greatest delight to get out on the beach, before any of the old sailors even were about, and watch the daily miracle of the sunrise over the shining waters of the gulf, when the air seemed stilly waiting for the wonderful moment when the golden glory of the sun should flood land and sea, and chase away the dreamy evanescent hues of greys and rose and blues, which had clothed the world but a moment before.
The island is about three miles long and one mile wide, curved rather in the shape of a letter S, which made the most fascinating little bays and inlets. We used to spend all our spare time rambling about and exploring it. It is quite uninhabited except for four or five old Spanish fishermen, who have their little settlement of two or three huts and a drying shed for the fish, on the beach where we landed. The whole island is covered with trees and a thick undergrowth, with here and there open spaces covered with flowers of all varieties. The butterflies are another great feature, of every size and colour imaginable, and the mocking birds make the air ring again with their lovely plaintive note, so like our nightingale. On the beach the shells were a never ending interest to collect, so wonderful and varied they are. With all these different amusements we never found time too long, for when we were tired of investigating the hidden nooks and corners of our Garden of Eden, we could always sketch, and occupy ourselves in vainly endeavouring to reproduce the ceaselessly changing and indescribably beautiful tints of the Gulf, with its waters rippling gently on the golden shore at our feet, or the picturesque old fishermen in their faded blue garments, as seen against the dim background of the drying shed, where the fish were a mass of irridescent mother-of-pearl and jewel-like hues, and where huge, green glass demijohns for water made yet another note of brilliant light.
A GOOD BAG OF TARPON.
At Captiva you fish on the flood tide, which when we first arrived there, chanced to be about 6 p.m. so we had all the day at our disposal. About 4-30 p.m. would see us setting forth in the tarpon boats, bigger and deeper ones than those used on the river, so as to minimise the danger of capsizing. Gently pulling down to the fishing ground, half a mile or so away, we would take up our places as near a tide-rip as possible, for that is where the fish love to feed. The pass is very narrow, about a quarter of a mile across, so we and any other boats that might be there would be at very close quarters, indeed the swinging of the tide frequently brought about collisions between neighbouring boats. There we anchored, a somewhat difficult business, as the bottom is so rocky it is very hard to get an anchor to hold.
While waiting for the tarpon to begin to bite, we would pass the time catching smaller fish for the next morning's breakfast, red grouper, with their cavernous rosy-red mouth, very excellent eating; black ones of that ilk; king fish, an extremely difficult gentleman to catch, as he is very active and game for his size, and in colour and shape rather a cross between an eel and a mackerel; sea trout always welcome for the pot, or some unhappy fisherman perhaps would discover he had hooked a jew-fish, which would mean either hours of hauling and much expenditure of bad language and energy, or cutting the line and sacrificing hook and snood. The jew-fish is a horrible looking thing like a large pig, a dirty yellow in colour, covered with scales so minute that they look like a skin, and with a huge head. These fish generally weigh over 200 lbs., and fishermen naturally dread them, for they are absolutely unsporting and just bore down and down on the line, never jumping or showing any fight, but steadily resisting all efforts to raise them, till it is like trying to lift an elephant. But whenever or wherever you throw a line, a catch of some sort is a certainty, for the water simply teems with fish, and you probably get a different one every time, which adds greatly to the interest and excitement.
In bottom-fishing, as it is up the river, the more rods you have out the more chances of bites, but at Captiva the fish bite so voraciously and so incessantly that two rods are as much as you can do with, one for yourself and one for the guide. Even then if you hook one fish out of every ten strikes, you do well. In bottom-fishing you wait for the fish to gorge the bait before striking. At Captiva you must strike the very instant you feel a bite, or otherwise the tarpon spits the bait out on feeling the line, and you must strike with all your strength too, for the tarpon's vast mouth is lined with a perfect coat of mail, in which there is but one soft spot, an inch or two in length, where the bones divide. The hook is put into the bait about two inches from the end, and the shank, seized to the end of the bait, is connected with the line by three feet of piano wire, which replaces the raw hide snooding in this Pass fishing, where there is so much strain on everything owing to the difference in the way the fish take the bait, and the tremendous tide running. You need a rather more limber rod too, to help you keep a tight line on your fish, no easy matter in very rough water. The fish are in innumerable thousands in the Pass, which they must all enter on their way up the river, and it is a fine sight to see the water literally alive with these splendid fish, all leaping and playing like minnows in a pond.
I must say I felt very nervous at first as to my chances of landing a tarpon at Captiva, having been told it was so impossible a feat for a woman to achieve. Great therefore was my delight and pride, when, the second day after our arrival, I landed a fine one, weighing 126 lbs., and measuring 6 ft. 5 in. It was a thrilling moment, when, after many futile strikes, I at last got one on safe, and saw his huge silvery bulk leaping wildly into the air, while Santi threw out his buoy and we started down towards the Gulf. I strained every nerve to keep a tight line on the fish, working in the slack by a foot at a time, while keeping the tip of my rod high in the air. By very slow degrees we edged towards the shore, and at last felt the welcome grating of the keel on the beach. I scrambled out, knee deep in water, and then the real tug of war began; for it is a very difficult matter to run up and down a shelving, shingly beach with nearly 130 lbs. fighting for dear life at the other end of your line, threatening every instant to snap it, or to make a wild dash out to sea. After about twenty minutes of this, when I was very nearly exhausted, I felt to my great relief that the tarpon's struggles were becoming less effectual. We could see him occasionally, and at last I hauled him close up, Santi made his usual clever stroke with the gaff, not however till after many attempts, and much splashing and objecting on the part of the tarpon. I was decidedly thankful when I saw him lying high and dry on the shore.