Big Fish, Skinny Water

A Writer Pursues the Perfect Fish in the Perfect Setting

by Bruce VanWyngarden
photography by Richard Bickel

As the small plane slips under the thin cloud veil on its approach to Tallahassee, I look out my window and see nothing but trees below, a green, rolling forest that stretches to the horizon. The hazy morning sun flashes off scattered lakes in the distance. I see no roads, no strip malls, no high-rises. This was not the Florida I knew—or expected.
           
My destination is the Gulf Coast, about 35 miles south of Florida’s capital city. The tiny village of Shell Point, Florida, to be exact. I was going to spend a couple of days fishing for redfish and speckled trout in the shallow channels of Oyster Bay with local guide Jody Campbell. “Skinny water,” he called it, and during our conversation by phone the night before, he’d said I needed to hurry up and get there because the fish were biting—now. 
           
I’ve fished Florida's panhandle from Pensacola to Panama City dozens of times and I’ve wet a line or six in the Keys and offshore around St. Pete and Naples. But this trip would open my eyes to a different kind of Florida experience—one that now eclipses the others in my memory.
           
A Different Kind of Florida

At the small, modern Tallahassee airport, I get lucky in the rental car lottery: My little Hyundai is black, not the usual neon aquamarine or Day-Glo red. I take it as a good omen and head south on Florida State Highway 319. One look at my newly purchased gas station map solves the mystery of the endless woodlands I saw from the plane. Highway 319 skirts the eastern edge of the Apalachicola National Forest, at 571,066 acres, the largest National Forest in Florida. The vast tract stretches from Tallahassee almost to the Gulf and is split by two rivers, the Ochlockonee and the Sopchoppy, both part of the state’s recreational trails system. Once scrubland, due to early twentieth-century timber and turpentine industry practices, the Apalachicola Forest is now, according to a brochure I picked up at the airport, “a healthy, diverse, productive forest with the largest red-cockaded woodpecker population in the world.”

And from Highway 319, it certainly appears healthy and diverse. It’s also simply beautiful. I cross an occasional bayou filled with clear, dark water. The streams provide brief interludes between long stretches of tree-lined road. A great blue heron soars over my car at rooftop altitude. There is little traffic. As I turn east on to Highway 98, the Panhandle’s coastal highway, I keep looking for the Florida I know, the one with countless tourist souvenir shops and miniature golf courses and chain restaurants with funny names and tacky T-shirts. But it never comes.

My hotel is called The Inn at Wildwood. It’s on Highway 98, about 10 miles north of Shell Point. There is no lodging in Shell Point, I’m told by the desk clerk, and I believe her. The Inn at Wildwood itself is very nice, but also quiet and remote, the only structure of any consequence for miles. There are maybe five cars in the lot. It’s a nature-centered, “green” hotel, with recycling bins near the elevators and no-smoking rooms. A golf course behind the facility is free to those staying here. But I didn’t come to frustrate myself on the links. I came to fish.

It’s mid-afternoon, so I decide to give Campbell a call to work out the details for the next day. He answers, but the connection is garbled. I’m not sure, but I think I heard him say, “Come on down. We’ll go out this evening.” I call back but get only static.

I dial the desk clerk and she tells me that cell phone reception is “spotty” in the hotel rooms. But I’m nothing if not resourceful, especially when there’s potential fishing involved, so I open my room window, dial Campbell’s number, and lean out, hanging onto the window frame with my free hand. This time, the connection is clear, and it turns out I’d heard him right. We’re going fishing today.

“Welcome to Shell Point”

On my map, Shell Point sits on a thumb of land jutting between Goose Creek Bay to the east and Oyster Bay to the west. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive on well-worn backroads from the Wildwood. Eventually I see a sign that says “Welcome to Shell Point” and assume that I’ve found the place. But it’s just an assumption. There’s no apparent downtown or business district, no high-rises, no souvenir shops. No shops at all for that matter. No restaurants, either. A small Century 21 realty office appears to be the only business. At Shell Point, what you see is what it is. All of it. There are a few dozen homes, many of them pastel vacation spectaculars, but many are modest—and modular. But every residence, large or small, seems to have a channel out back or nearby bay access with a boat tied up. 

Campbell’s house is a modular unit on one of the canals. He’s a tanned, blue-eyed fellow with a brushy mustache who greets me with a grin as I pull up. “Come on back to the boat,” he says. We don’t have to walk far. It’s practically in his backyard, resting in the water a few feet from his porch.

I figure it’s always a good conversation starter to ask a boat owner about his boat, so I do. “It’s 26 feet long,” Campbell says. “It’s got a v-hull, but it has a real shallow draft. And once we get out there, you’ll see why. They’ve got a saying around here,” he continues. “If you haven’t run aground in Shell Point, you haven’t had your boat in the water.”

Skinny water, indeed.

After we leave the protected inlet, Campbell revs the engine, and we hit cruising speed, weaving a braided wake as he swerves to follow the narrow channel. The sky is big and a faded, late-afternoon blue. There are no other boats in sight. Soon the houses fall into the distance and the world is nothing but distant forest, sky, and seawater.

Campbell finds a spot to his liking, though to me it looks no different from the water we’ve been traversing for the last twenty minutes. It appears to be about 5 feet deep, and the bottom is covered with waving sea grass. My guide hands me a slender, 6-foot rod with a lightweight Penn spinning reel. I’ve used heavier equipment on freshwater bass. “This will bring in anything we hook tonight,” Campbell says, perhaps noting my skeptical look. “Of course,” he winks, “if it’s real big, we might have to chase it a little bit.”

The line has a large bobber set about 4 feet above the hook. Atop the bobber are several plastic beads loosely stacked on a wire stem. “What is this?” I ask.

“It’s called a Cajun Thunder bobber,” Campbell replies. “Watch.”

He puts a soft plastic Berkley “Gulp” bait on the hook and flings the bait and bobber 60 feet off the starboard bow. Every few seconds, he snaps his rod upward, causing the bobber to emit a distinct and surprisingly loud click.

“The trout are attracted to the sound and come to investigate,” Campbell says. “When you see it go under, set the hook.”

It’s an awkward combination of weight and line to throw, but I manage to get the rig out fairly close to Campbell’s cast. Before I can try the clicking method, the bobber disappears. I set the hook and am immediately into a nice-sized trout.

“You must have hit him on the head,” Campbell says, as he releases the fish.

“Beginner’s luck,” I reply.

And perhaps it was. After the initial bite, things slow down. We land a few more fish, but Campbell is disappointed. “We’re kind of between tides,” he says. “It’s better when it’s coming in or going out.”

After a couple of hours, we decide to head back in. It’s a pleasant trip. Four dolphins swim alongside for a few minutes, emerging and disappearing and emerging again. A lopsided V of pelicans cruises by, skimming the water with their wingtips. The sky is pink in the West and a thin crescent moon hangs over Shell Point. There are worse places to be, I think.

Panacea, Florida

“Now, let me tell you where you need to eat tonight,” Campbell says, as we disembark at his dock. “It’s called Posey's Beyond the Bay, and you will love it.”

“How about if I take you to dinner with me?” I ask.

“That sounds great, thanks,” Campbell says. “I’ll pick you up at the Wildwood in an hour.”

Posey’s is just east of the delightfully named hamlet of Panacea, Florida, down Highway 98 a few miles from my hotel. It’s a nondescript-looking place, but the parking lot is filled with pickups, which I always take as a good sign when choosing a restaurant in small-town America.

If there’s anyone in the restaurant who doesn’t know Jody Campbell, I don’t see him. The amiable guide walks from table to table, chatting about local politics, Florida State football, and fishing. Every table in the place is packed.

We get icy-cold Budweisers from a waitress dressed in what is apparently the unofficial Posey’s uniform of T-shirt, short jean shorts, and white rubber boots. (This, too, may have something to do with the popularity of the joint, I suspect.) Campbell practically insists that I try the grilled flounder, and I do. And it is a good recommendation—a thick slab of crusted, seasoned fish, deeply crosshatched and grilled to a perfect golden hue. It was one of the best pieces of seafood I’ve ever eaten. I recommend it to anyone who visits Panacea.

Back on the Water

I get up early the next day to make the drive to Shell Point and catch the falling tide. Outside my hotel window, a thick foggy mist shrouds the parking lot. I drive gingerly, with headlights on low beam, as my trusty Hyundai cuts through the gloom. When I get to Campbell’s house, he’s already lowered his boat into the canal, so we quickly get underway. The fog is even thicker on the bay. Through the mist, I spot a pelican sitting on a piling, but otherwise everything is a deep, endless shade of gray. We head west through the soupy air, across Oyster Bay to the mouth of Spring Creek. Campbell confidently threads his way through the fog, swerving this way and that. I ask about the possibility of running aground. He doesn’t seem worried. He’s done this before a time or two, I suppose. So I sip my mug of motel coffee and stare into the fog.

Off to the right a cormorant dives, the only visible break in the fuzzy line where sea and sky meet. After a half-hour, the fog begins to lift and we can see patches of land off the starboard bow. Campbell says we’re going to fish the area where Spring Creek pours into Oyster Bay. It’s a tapestry of small, sedge grass-covered islands, sliced by shallow, narrow channels of tidal water. The falling tide has reduced passage between islands to a narrow strip of 2- to 3-foot depths of water. Campbell slows the boat to a crawl as we work our way through the maze. The bottom is covered with oyster shells, easily visible in the shallows.

Finally, we find a spot where there is room to cast, a football-field-sized pocket of water surrounded by grassy islands.

“Wood stork,” Campbell says, pointing to the West. The huge bird slowly flaps its way across the gray morning sky, like something out of a fairy tale. In the distance, through the remaining mist we can see lollipop-shaped palms and a few bare cypress trees. A deer splashes through the shallows, oblivious to our presence.

“Time to catch some redfish,” Campbell says. I’m ready.

Today we’re using live shrimp. Apparently, I fished well enough the night before to convince my guide that he didn’t need to burden me with too much instruction. He shows me how to put a shrimp on the hook, walks to the front of the boat, and makes a long, quick cast. I’m on my own. I look into the live well and see a few dozen shrimp swimming around leisurely. I reach in and try to grab one. They’re quicker than they look, but I finally get one of the squirmy things in my hand, only to have it wriggle out and fall back into the live well. My sleeve is wet, my hand is cold and smelly, and I’m thinking this is harder than it should be. Then I notice the little dip net hanging inside the live well.

Oh. That would make it easier, I think.

I glance at Campbell, wondering if he’s seen my little shrimp-fishing faux pas, but he’s focused on his bobber, clicking away. I dip the net, scoop up a few fat shrimp, and slide one onto my hook. Campbell looks back, nods, and then says, “You might want to put those shrimp back in the live well. They’re not real fond of air.”

I’d left the dip net, with its load of shrimp, lying across the top of the live well. Oops. Net loss of fishing cred.

I make a decent cast off the back of the boat and commence to clicking my Cajun Thunder. It moves erratically but never goes under. Last night, the trout were not hesitant. When they hit, you knew it. Today, whatever’s under the bobber is just nibbling. I retrieve my line, and the hook is empty. Campbell’s having similar luck.

“We’re just feeding the little ones,” he says. After a half-hour or so of this tease routine, he says, “We’re going to move.”

And we do, but not far. After we anchor, Campbell decides we need to switch to the plastic Gulp bait we used the night before. It turns out to be a good decision. Within minutes, I’ve hooked my first redfish of the trip. It’s not large, but it’s a good sign that the day is about to turn. Campbell quickly hooks another, a little larger, maybe 17 inches. As if on cue, the sun breaks through and the bite is on. Seemingly every cast brings a fish. I land a big sheepshead and a feisty bluefish and several more nice redfish. Even a speckled trout takes the bait.

The Best Kind of Florida

Campbell is an excellent guide, funny and good-natured, and he’s done the most important thing a guide can do: put his client on some fish. But as I watch him cast and retrieve with a steely-eyed concentration, I realize he is at heart a fisherman. This is a labor of love.

We take a break for a moment, and Campbell grins. “Not a bad way to spend a day, huh?”

No, it’s not, I say. Campbell has the contented air of a man who has figured out what he wants to do—and found a way to do it. The night before, in the restaurant, he’d told me how he’d worked for the IBM corporation in Atlanta and Tallahassee for years before he realized his dream. He and his wife finally escaped to Shell Point, and for twelve years, he’s been living the life he loves—and it shows.

By mid-afternoon, we’ve taken maybe fifty fish, including some memorable big reds that taxed our light tackle to the max. But Campbell isn’t ready to quit.

After easing us out of the shallows, he aims his boat south and we head to a reef about twenty minutes away. We anchor and break out the shrimp again. For an hour or so, we fish shrimp on the bottom and land grouper after grouper—until it almost becomes boring. Campbell pulls up anchor, and we motor back toward Shell Point. What a perfect day, I think. But it’s not over.

“How about a few more trout?” Campbell says, slowing the boat. He’s obviously having as much fun as I am. We find a spot not far from Shell Point and begin the now familiar routine of clicking our Cajun Thunders. Within minutes, I hook the biggest trout of the day, a nice 4-pounder. As Campbell continues to fish, I set down my rod, pull a cold beer from the cooler, and savor the moment.

The sun has fallen behind broken clouds in the western sky. On a small nearby island, a large cluster of great white pelicans, among the largest birds in North America, brightens the beach. Clouds of ducks fly in formation overhead. There’s not a house to be seen, just trees and water and sky. The silence is broken only by the sound of Campbell’s clicking bobber and the cries of circling birds. As I watch, a translucent curtain of light breaks through the thin clouds, turning the water below a bright silver—a magical sight. I want to take a picture, but I know a camera won’t truly capture this light, this moment—this Florida.