Wards Island (another recollection)

[CSMarine]

Wards Island

Looming in the middle of the Aucilla River in an air of mystery, Ward’s Island was a place we had never been able to visit. To get there you had to navigate three miles down river, most of which you couldn’t tell on high tide where the river stopped and the cypress swamp started. On low tide, the current could get pretty fast in the channel as the tide rushed out over huge rocks and oyster bars. All in all, it was a fairly dangerous playground for a bunch of eleven and twelve year old boys. But in nineteen-sixty-three, in the North Florida "Big Bend", children were raised differently than city kids. Children had to learn to swim, to run a trot line, or to pull a gill net all night, then be able to catch the bus for school at daylight.
For far too long we could only dream of the island as we listen to other people’s stories, and think of the fun we could have ourselves camping, hunting, and fishing there. Then one day after much begging and pleading granddaddy agreed to lend us his mullet boat for an overnight cat fishing and camping trip on Wards Island.
There would be my Uncle Jack, who strange as it sounds was two years younger than I, my best friend Larry, and me. Although we had camped many times, this would be a special trip. For one, it would be the first time we camped in a place that wasn’t within running distance from our house, just in case a bear or wandering axe murder stumbled into our camp site. This time we were truly on our own, camping in the middle of one of the scariest swamps in North Florida.
Packing for the trip would be the same as any other camping trip we had been on before. There would be an axe, sleeping gear, fishing tackle, and each carried our weapons of choice. We packed the usual food items of grease and cornmeal for frying the hoards of catfish we expected to catch, but as a backup, we made sure there was plenty of sardines, saltine crackers, Vienna sausage, and of course our all time favorite, multiple cans pork-and-beans.
Our excitement could barley be contained as we loaded the boat for our quick get away down the Aucilla River. Quick, because the tide would be falling soon to the point that crossing the shallow rocks in a few places in the river would be impossible with the heavy mullet boat loaded with net, camping gear, and three teenage adventurers. Quick also because night would be falling even sooner than the tide, and nighttime is no time to be trying to run the treacherous route down the river to Wards Island.
I would be the pilot operating the thirty-five-horse Evenrude, Jack would be the navigator perched on the bow pointing the way and striking a pose like many paintings of generals giving orders to charge into battle. Larry would be in the middle of the boat hunkered down, nervously clutching his double barrel shotgun he had just received for Christmas in the ready position in case of attack by wild hogs, panthers, or Seminole ghost, that might jump off the bank into the boat in the near twilight. All in all, it promised to be a somewhat scary ride down the river to the island, and our chosen camping spot.
As we rounded the last curve before the island Larry hollered “duck!” and fired both barrels of his shotgun at once just inches away from the left ear of Jack who by this time was clinging half in and half out over the front of the boat as it still flew down the river on full plane. “Holy crap Larry, what are you shooting at, and why didn’t you yell duck sooner!” Jack screamed. Meanwhile, I managed through all the excitement, and mass confusion to get the boat slowed down to an idle.
“I meant Duck, not duck, cause I was shooting at the Mallard duck flying up in the river.” Larry said. The fist fight that followed between Jack and Larry lasted only a few minutes and we were on our way back on full plane again. Little did we know that this incident would be just a preview of things to come that night on Wards Island.
The immense black of nighttime in the swamp arrived early, but wood had been gathered, bush hooks set out, our blankets were spread out, lanterns filled and lit, and cooking utensils readied for the fish we hoped would soon be biting our lines.
The time came for the first checking of the bush hooks so Jack and I did the honors while a very nervous Larry hung close to the fire for comfort. The lines only produced one very long, very slimy eel. This was Jacks chance for revenge on Larry. At this point the famous age old Southern phrase was whispered by Jack, "hey y'all watch this," and with that, as Larry set huddled up to the fire with his back to us, Jack slowly lowered the wriggling mass of slime over Larry’s shoulder to just two inches in front of his face.
The scream that followed to the untrained ear would be an exact sound of a Florida Panther, or more truthfully, more like a little ten-year-old girl who might have just been surprised by a frog dropped down her shirt. Larry jumped to his feet into a dead run from zero to sixty in three seconds. We finally got him calmed down and his crying almost subsided after only an hour or so.
The second fist fight between Jack and Larry finally ended with all of us rolling on the ground with laughter, or a least two of us rolling and laughing. None of us paid attention to the fire and to the two cans of unopened pork-and-beans that Jack had placed fully into the flames for warming. The three of us had one thing in common. We had poor grades in science class. If we had been more scientifically inclined, we would have realized what happens when a pressurized container does not have a relief valve. It explodes!
The two cans exploded in almost perfect unison with scalding hot beans, bean juice, hot coals, and flaming firewood flung in all directions with the force of an artillery round going off in close quarters. All three of us were covered with the stuff from head to toe. Add the confusion of not knowing what had just occurred and you have the shock and awe factor we’ve all heard about during great battles.
We, every thing we owned, and the whole area within ten feet of the exploding concoction looked as though there had been just that, “a great battle.” As we sat there dazed, and confused, we began to see the humor in the situation and had a good laugh about it all. We did decide we had better end our adventure before someone died or experienced great bodily injury, so we packed up our bean covered gear in the dark and slowly worked our way back up river towards our grandfathers fish camp laughing in nervous whispers about the nights events, and looking forward to spending the last few hours of the night in the comfort of our screened in front porch.
Just one-hundred yards from the boat ramp the boat ran aground on the rocks and stranded us in the middle of the river, in the middle of a very mosquito infested night with no option but to just set there until morning and wait for the rising tide and release from the rocks, and welcome relief from the camping trip from hell. After the third fist fight between all three of us and the finger pointing session, we made a blood oath not to ever mention this night to anyone else until the day we died.
Larry my old friend, “Uncle” Jack, I just couldn’t help myself any longer. Besides I think the Statute of Limitations for blood oaths is only forty-five years. Please forgive me.

[FUTCHCAIRO]

WHAT A GREAT STORY, MEMINDS ME OF A FEW TRIPS I HAD IN MY YOUTH. WHEN ARE YA GONNA FINISH THE BOOK, I BET IT WILL SELL LIKE HOT CAKES. THANKS FOR BRINGING BACK SOME OF MY MEMORIES AS A YOUNG YAHOO IN THE EARLIER 30'S.
GREAT READING OF SOMEONE ELSE IN THEIR EARLIER DAYS OF GROWING UP.
PA
SEMPER FI

[DixieReb]

Great read, Billy. Reminds me of some camping trips me and my cousins used to go on. Those were the only times I ever ran a trot line, still remember the ugly snappers we caught along with catfish. Where is Ward Island?

[DixieReb]

I bet it's the big island in the middle of the river at cutoff creek. On the East bank from the island, on the oyster bars, I caught the most reds I ever caught. Years ago.

[CSMarine]

That's exactly where it is Reb. Funny how things turn out, my cousin owns Wards Island now. As far as a book. I took 20 years to finish our family history book. Found out a 500 page book was way too expensive to publish, so I released it free on the Internet It's "Hillhouse Kinship" if you google it. That book was too much like work! Now I write just for pleasure.

[Cranfield]

That was a very enjoyable read ,if you write some more, I will certinly look out for it.

[CSMarine]

Cran,
I have a few more that I posted a few years ago. I'll re-post a few just in case any new to the site wants to read them again. They are all about my childhood growing up in the Big Bend of Florida. Thanks for reading them.

[DixieReb]

I thought that island was nothing but reeds. It doesn't look very solid but it is big. There is a smaller island over in what we call the ditch.

[CSMarine]

Wards Island is a large island with a number of camps and used to be one large camp that was built many years before I was born as I understand. Leaving the boat ramp heading back up river it is right below where the Wacissa and the Aucilla join together.