By Larry Bozka
Page 2  
 

Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever damn near killed me in August '95 after I got attacked by several dozen very hungry deer ticks while belly-stalking a huge Hill Country axis buck on a hunt with my old amigo Rick Stovall of Gary Grant Sales. Prior to that I survived three separate 105-degree encounters with a violent and unpredictably recurrent viral infection that the best infectious disease specialists in the state dubbed "viral meningoencephalitis"-"fever of unknown origin." It was, they suspect, more than likely passed on to me by a malevolent marsh mosquito.

And, in a careless and downright idiotic maneuver at the Galveston Yacht Basin on Mother's Day of '96 (I remember the day vividly, because after losing two other whoppers on structure-severed monofilament, Mary caught the now-famous "Mother's Day Red" on a SpiderWire-laden SpiderCast spinning rig near Seawolf Park-a 38-1/2-inch bull that Conroe taxidermist Al Hillmeyer graciously mounted for her), I hopped off the bow of my boat, landed on the algae-covered boat ramp, slipped backward and hit the concrete with the bone-crushing impact of a runaway 18-wheeler.

But nothing, and I do mean nothing, ever hurt the way that hip break did.

Recovery time, Monmouth told me, would be three to six months. The accident occurred on May 12. I looked at my calendar, noted that I was scheduled to host Houstonian Sonny Santos and his friend Joe Stuart on a Trophy Quest trip to Redfish Lodge on Copano Bay on Aug. 17, and confidently announced to the skeptical surgeon that I would indeed make the trip.

And what do you know, Doc? Here I am, standing high on the casting platform of Chuck Scates' Shallow Sport, fly rod in hand, line looped over my bare feet while the veteran lodge manager and fishing guide poles the wide-beamed flats boat through a super-shallow cove just east of Rattlesnake Point.

It's been three months, four days and seven hours since the operation. The leg still hurts like the devil, but for a change, the pain is not foremost on my mind. Mary is at the console, tossing a Rapala Skitter Pop topwater with a new Daiwa Emblem-X ultralight spinning rig and Maxima 6-pound-line. I'm up on the platform, holding fast to Scates' every word as he points out what I'm doing wrong and, bit by bit, helps me send the mud minnow streamer 35, then 40 feet away. A fumble here, a decent cast there. When the line shoots cleanly through the guides like it's supposed to, I feel like Brett Favre firing a 50-yard touchdown pass.

Chuck Scates is a world-class flycaster. The 45-year-old pro epitomizes the term "sportsman." Back on July 8, 1989, he captured an 8-pound, 11-ounce speckled trout from the super-skinny waters of the Lower Laguna Madre that to this day still stands as the IGFA 2-pound-tippet world record. Lean, tanned and looking every bit the image of the penultimate flats fisher, Scates wields a fly rod like Mark McGwire swings a Louisville Slugger.

Last night, he took the time to rig my new Harris Solitude IV fly reel with bright orange Dacron backing and Scientific Anglers Mastery weight-forward fly line. Holding it in my hands this morning, relishing the salt-saturated seabreeze and listening to the chaotic squalls of laughing gulls and piercing whistles of early-bird bluewing teal, the 8-weight Loomis GLX feels like a magic wand. Like a slow-rising flare, the fiery August sun cooks through the looming, cotton-candy column of a colossal, ebony-laced thunderhead.

I knew I'd been missing the experience, the peaceful and gratifying thrill of being on the water. I just didn't know how much.

As my father lay on his deathbed almost seven years ago, he looked me straight in the eye and told me with a faltering but determined voice that anyone who can't sense the presence of a Higher Power as morning breathes life into the woods and waters is a person without a soul. Or, at the very least, a person who has yet to find it. Being away from the bay for so long has drained my own. But being here today is filling the void. I'm healing up, and I'm not talking about my hip.

We don't take the time to go fishing. We make the time. The bays and their unbelievably beautiful bounty are a priceless gift from God, and if it's one we've been shown, then we should consider ourselves truly blessed.

How many kids, women, and even grown men, would be out here today if they only knew it existed? How many youngsters would be changed forever, and for the better, if only someone who's been there would take the time to share this marvelous gift that we take for granted and way too often hoard for ourselves and solely reserve for our own precious time?

I sincerely believe the old adage that God does not deduct from a person's lifetime the days that he or she spends fishing. I also believe that if this glorious outdoor cathedral is destined to last, it is up to those of us who have seen it to share the experience with those who have up until now been denied the privilege.

I know a few doctors who have seen me through all of this mess, and a few close friends who have been there time and again when I've needed them.

And I already know what they're getting for Christmas.

(Publisher's Note: Speaking of Christmas gifts, "Homecoming"-the Mark Mantell original painting which illustrates this feature-is now available as part of a new limited-edition print series being produced by the Friendswood, Texas-based artist in conjunction with Texas Fish & Game Publishing. For details, check out the ad on page 54 of the Nov.-Dec. 1998 issue -Roy Neves)