Black Spotted Beauty

                 The sound of thousands cars driving across the Bridge, transporting their coffee fueled owners to their 9 to 5 existence. Thunderous bangs of cranes, wrecking balls, and jackhammers constructing the million dollar condominiums that will soon eclipse the sun. Yachts speeding down the channel, creating a wake big enough for surfers to ride on. In your mind you are probably picturing New York City. Sadly, I am not describing The Big Apple, but describing St. Petersburg, Florida after 8:30 in the morning.

               However, half a mile from the high rise-cloaked shores of St. Petersburg lies a sanctuary of salt water, sand, and sea grass. This is where I sit. Half a foot above the water in a faded blue kayak, casting aimlessly through the brisk spring air. The water is like glass, and the wind is non-existent. The wealthy Mediterranean-style homes are silent and still like a church town on a Sunday, and the sun has barely grazed the tips of the earth. I wait patiently, observing the vacant surroundings, waiting for something to strike the end of my line. It is calming to sit on this emerald green patch of ocean called Tampa Bay before the city awakens.

             Just like the osprey perches upon the number 9 channel marker, intently gazing at a school of spotted sea trout below, I wait still, hoping to land the perfect catch. As the sun begins to peak over the tops of the tall buildings, reflecting on the backs of numerous schools of silver minnows turning the water into glitter, I fade out of reality and day dream back to being a child. I remembered how I use to hate the water, fishing, and even being in a boat. Luckily, at some point in my life, the Chason family gene kicked in, and fishing became a way of life. The memory of the first trip to the flat was vague and blurry, yet I sensed happiness. I remembered half of the flat was covered with sea grass, thicker than the forest in the smoky mountains, and the other half looked as desolate, bare, and sandy as the Sahara. Yet amongst, the underwater Tundra was a community more diverse than the likes of New York City. The silver and golden tint of the spotted sea trout gleamed in the sun, as if a light were shining off a mirror, swam around preying on white bait, and shrimp. Flounder lay at the bottom, camouflaged with the grass and sand, so the tiny, gray, coarse skinned, black tip sharks do not feed upon them. Blue crabs floated across the top hoping to pick off scraps of bait, or tiny shrimp laying in the seaweed. Pestering seagulls glided in circles above the anchored boats hoping someone will fling a piece of bait off their line. The flat was a lively place, every creature and plant dancing with each other in a strange yet harmonious matter.

                Slowly, I begin to regain consciousness and come to reality. I then realize I have been on the same flat I was on 11 years ago for over 2 hours now. Waiting. Hoping. Tragically, the dark green sea grass is not as abundant, and it looks more like desert than forest. I begin to ponder whether the lack of animals, and plant life has something to do with the reconstruction of St. Petersburg. I am mostly likely jumping to conclusions, yet somehow I feel I am not. I begin reeling in my line, for I have given up hope on catching any sort of fish. Suddenly, I feel a tug at the end of the line. As I reel in the fish, without much of a fight, I see a black spotted beauty of a trout at the end of my hook. Although, the trout was not big enough to make even a sandwich, it was big enough for me to feel optimistic on the existence of the flat in the future . As I set my rod back into the old faded blue kayak and begin paddling back to shore I become sad, feeling as if this may be the last time the flat will ever produce a fish. With the quietness of the early morning fading, and the roar of society approaching , I begin hoping the tiny, silver and gold, black spotted trout is not bittersweet.

                Although, I have moved 150 miles north to the opposite side of the spectrum. I still visit the little piece of aquatic paradise now and again. Hoping, not one spec of concrete has touched it. Hoping the sandy bottom is still a working community. Hoping it will still exist the next time I return.