Fishing For Love: A Mosaic of Creature-Inspired Tales

By Linda M Guecia

Fishing For Love: A Mosaic of Creature-Inspired Tales is about creatures, life, and love on and around Amelia Island, Florida-a love that penetrates its sandy surface, floats through its air, swims in its waters, lingers in its foliage, lives inside its creature

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Marie Guecia
• Release date: Sep 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737368717

Book preview

Praise for Fishing for Love

In writing about her beloved speck of land, Linda inserts wild creatures who inhabit and swim off the shore with quirky two-legged creatures who are constantly scheming to enrich themselves at the expense of others. An interesting look at both the island’s precious wildlife and the flawed people who live here, leaving the reader to wonder which lifeform will become extinct first.

Bryan Brooks is a North Florida freelance writer and author of Sea Wyfe, Gray Wolf and the Buckskin Coat, and Palmettos and Saltwater.

Fishing for Love is a great read for beach, Tiki Bar, or sun dappled porch. A group of zany local characters navigate both the best and worst of human characteristics while leaving a smile on the reader. Be prepared for equal doses of slapstick, heartache, and heartwarming endings. An added bonus is the cameo peeks into the life cycle of Amelia Island’s favorite guest, the loggerhead turtle.

Micah Ward of Franklin, Tennessee is the 2012 Roadrunners Club of America Outstanding Club Writer of the Year, a three-time Honorable Mention Award winner for the Lorian Hemingway Short Story Competition, and former judge for Florida Writers Association Royal Palm Awards.

Linda’s Fishing for Love takes the reader on a picturesque tour of Amelia Island and its inhabitants. Its short stories make you want to visit the place, soak up the natural beauty, observe the variety of wildlife, and mingle with those blessed to live there. Her characters come to life and, as you read about their adventures, your pace quickens with every line.

Carmanita Rollerson is a North Florida freelance writer originally from Charleston, South Carolina. She chairs a writers’ critique group.

Dedicated to the creatures of Amelia Island, Florida

A portion of the profits will be donated to Wild Amelia to aid in

their efforts to keep Amelia Island wild.

CONTENTS

Amelia Island, An Introduction

AUTUMN SHOWERS

THE SEA DRIFTERS

SOLITARY C. TURTLE … Hatches

THE NOSY CRITTERS

SOLITARY C. TURTLE … Floats

AL LEE GATOR

SOLITARY C. TURTLE … Hides

WINTER HUES

A TWO-LEGGED SNAKE

SOLITARY C. TURTLE … Escapes

SEA-ING EYE-LAND POOCH

SOLITARY C. TURTLE … Explores

SPRING FERVOR

YIELD FOR BUTTERFLIES

SOLITARY C. TURTLE … Flies

A PELICAN CAPPELLA

SOLITARY C. TURTLE … Tangles

SUMMER SIZZLE

FISHING FOR LOVE

SOLITARY C. TURTLE … Freezes

THE GRACEFUL TITANS

SOLITARY C. TURTLE … Swims

MESSING WITH SHARKS

SOLITARY C. TURTLE … Fights

FALL AGAIN

WHEN VULTURES CONSPIRE

SOLITARY C. TURTLE … Mates

HER SPIRITED CARDINAL

SOLITARY C. TURTLE … Nests

THE SOCIAL CREATURES

SOLITARY C. TURTLE … Rests

Amelia Island, An Introduction

Morning flows easily on Amelia Island, Florida. The sun rises quietly behind protective clouds, not revealing itself completely until well after noon. It’s the creatures that show it’s time to start the day by making their way through the dense foliage of oaks, palms, and myrtles. Even the tiniest beings seem mighty as their bustling echoes over leaved walkways. The noisemakers might be a swarm of butterflies, a surprise visit from an armadillo or cardinal, perhaps an approaching snake, vulture, coyote, or even a friendly neighborhood canine.

The island hugs thirteen miles of the northeast coast of Florida, just south of Georgia. It’s rich in cultural diversity from its early indigenous inhabitants to explorers from eight flags who fought for control—the French, Spanish, English, Spanish again, Patriot, Green Cross, Mexican Rebel, and Confederate. It’s steeped in intriguing and scandalous political and social history nourished by visitors settling on the island after arriving by ship, railroad, or over scattered bridges. A lighthouse attends the north end, illuminating a slice of the Atlantic coast, and providing a clear view of adjacent Fort Clinch built to defend against amphibious attacks before Florida became a state.

Egans Creek Greenway abuts the fort with its three hundred acres of virgin land. Oak trees stand twisted from the ocean winds, afternoon rains, and unwelcome hurricanes. Spanish moss hangs off wandering branches, providing a venue for spiders to weave their webs. Relentless vines travel up long skinny pines. Palms pierce the sky like diurnal stars. Giant myrtles provide sanctuary for snakes, marsh rabbits, armadillos, river otters, bobcats, and turtles. Egrets, blue herons, ospreys, and alligators splash in the nutrient-filled waters. Eagles and hawks fly through the multi-dimensional sky. Island grasses sway with the slightest motivation. All of this within walking distance of miles of wide life-infused sandy Atlantic beaches where manatees, fish, sea turtles, and jellyfish live in harmony among hungry sharks.

The island is noted for tourism, attracting beach goers, boaters, golfers, nature lovers, history buffs, art seekers, festival enthusiasts, car aficionados, shoppers, and foodies. Visitors dock at the marinas or drive in from neighboring locales. Centre Street, the historic main street, bustles with shops, restaurants, historic homes and buildings, marinas, and brown pelicans.

Factories, shrimping, and railroad industries thrive on the island as well. Log trucks push their way along 8th Street, hurrying to processing plants. Pulp factories stand sentry on the northern corners with smokestacks streaming the sky, adding thick texture to amber sunsets. The smell of sulfur permeates the air, replaced swiftly by the salty scent of the ocean and the fishy odor of the Amelia and St. Mary’s Rivers. Trawlers search the Atlantic for sweet white shrimp. The wheels and alpine horns of sauntering trains echo across the island’s two-and-a-half-mile wide stretch temporarily displacing gull squawks. The island’s own active airport showers residents with frequent hums as planes maneuver along its diminutive runways.

Pristine golf courses, condos, resorts, specialty shops, multi-million-dollar mansions, and bridges flank the south side of the island. Mid-century homes made with tinted glass provide a bullseye view to the ocean. Italian provincial stone homes with ostentatious statues and fountains compete with sprawling, cedar shake homes with Bahama shutters abutting every window, while small rustic beach cottages barely stay upright. Anglers stand shoulder to shoulder on bridges immersed in the songs of the birds as waves assault concrete pillars.

The stories contained in these pages are about one year of life and love on the island. Read them in order of appearance to become familiar with the human inhabitants as many reappear in subsequent stories. Follow the solitary sea turtle as she weaves through a quarter century of her life’s tapestry, carrying out her mission, surviving the storms, embracing it all, even encountering some of the stories’ human inhabitants.

Experience civilization and nature orchestrate life’s symphony as high and low notes penetrate the souls of humans and creatures alike. Listen to the roar of the ocean, wildlife demanding to be heard or insisting to be left alone. See canopies of oak trees stretch along water and roadways. Feel the sun signal high noon, ripening the ocean and rivers with hair-raising, mosquito-fortifying humidity. Share the magnificence as amber sunsets melt into the ocean. Cry beneath the romance of a moon too big to be real. Meditate under the night sky exploding with stars. Enjoy the land, inhale the air, ride the waves, get the thrill, participate in the intensity.

And above all … fish for love!

AUTUMN SHOWERS

Bond with jellyfish.

Nose around with armadillos.

Help an alligator protect her hatchling.

THE SEA DRIFTERS

Haywood places his elbow on his desk, lowers his head, and holds his hand over his eyes. He sits in his six-hundred-square-foot leased space in a strip mall on Amelia Island. He owns an advertising agency, Do It with Dignity, whose only client is Mano and Ware, an everything law firm in Jacksonville. Pressing the phone to his ear, he listens to the friendly, yet firm voice of his loan officer.

You’re delinquent on your account. All late payments are due by the end of the month. No more exceptions. Sorry, Mr. Proud.

Yes, of course. I understand, he whispers, hoping to keep his staff from hearing his exchange.

He places the phone in its cradle, sighs in despair, and blinks three times transmitting an S.O.S. signal. The righthand drawer of his ‘70s warped wooden desk sticks as he tries to pull it open. He pulls harder, causing the desk to wobble and its legs to rock rhythmically on cracked lettuce-colored floor tiles. He reaches for his coffee cup, hoping to avoid a spill.

Too late.

The coffee splatter adds another stain to the desk’s multi-blemished, creviced surface. He opens and fumbles through the drawer, retrieves the agency’s bank statement, and reviews it from every direction, hoping to transform debits to credits. No luck. He breathes in deeply, chokes from the dusty air, and directs his attention to his motley crew—Jack, Stella, and Tara.

Jack, the agency’s technical expert, camera and muscle man, cleans a spot on the filthy window which expands across the front of the office. He presses his nose against it and peers out onto 14th Street, a busy island thoroughfare, as if searching. He’s wearing his typical garb—faded t-shirt, pressed jeans, and scuffed white sneakers. He’s not being productive but at least he’s standing.

Stella sits at the desk opposite Haywood. She writes the agency’s slogans. Her spiked, bleach-blonde hair lightens the small office like a flickering candle. She taps her temple with the end of a chewed-up pencil and sucks on a straw protruding from a Wine Rules mug. The scent of chardonnay floats through the moldy, damp air as the air conditioner turns on with a clang.

Tara’s desk is next to Haywood’s, opposite Jack’s, and close to the front door. She’s the agency’s artist who designs and creates art and logos but hasn’t completed a single project in the last six months. Her frizzy hair catches the sun’s rays barely seeping through the clouded window. She covers her face with her large muscular hands, massaging it softly.

Haywood’s head falls onto his desk and the spilt coffee. He doesn’t care. He rocks his head like a seesaw, wetting his forehead. He opened his advertising agency nearly two years ago. It was his dream.

Growing up in Ithaca, New York, as the only child of busy agricultural research scientists who emigrated from England, Haywood depended on television for companionship. He was lured by commercials promising a technicolor life of family love. He especially liked the Folgers commercial where Peter, the collegiate son and brother, came home for the holidays with a stack of finely wrapped presents and shared tender moments in the kitchen with his little sister while brewing a pot of coffee. The smell of Folgers roused the family from bed. Father, mother, and older sister ran down the stairs and kissed and hugged Peter. The mother’s eyes sparkled like the stars in heaven. Her hair glowed like a halo.

Watching that commercial over and over again warmed Haywood’s heart and soul as he traveled through his childhood and into his teens whispering to the console, More please. But after he purchased pound after pound of coffee and didn’t get the same result from his family, he became disillusioned by commercials. Then one day, on a sweltering afternoon in August, he realized that the problem wasn’t the commercials, it was his parents. They rarely spent time together as a family. That was the day he met Theo Venn.

As Haywood sat on his front porch drinking coffee, the Venn family’s moving truck pulled in front of the house across the street. He’d met the parents a month prior as he sat on the very same porch holding the very same mug. Mr. Venn was to be the new high school principal, Mrs. Venn the trigonometry teacher. The movers unloaded mattress after mattress from the truck like giant peppermint Pez, only to be consumed by the Venn’s front door. Haywood lost count of the mattresses when a brown Chevy van pulled into the driveway and three small girls in matching pink sundresses bolted onto the front lawn, followed by three larger boys in blue jeans and t-shirts. Each set of three was identical. Then a tall boy around Haywood’s age exited the van and walked toward Haywood.

My name is Theo, he said.

Nice to meet you. I’m Haywood. Can I offer you a coffee?

They soon became inseparable. If Haywood wasn’t with Theo in class or on the baseball field, they were just hanging out. Years later, they attended Cornell University together. Haywood majored in advertising, Theo in accounting. School energized Haywood, it gave him the family he longed for. The boys were like his brothers, the girls his sisters, and the professors completed the happy family.

After obtaining their bachelor’s degrees, Haywood and Theo went to New York City and got jobs. There Haywood spent fifteen years working as a gofer for a large advertising company. Frustrated with big business, he followed Theo, who was offered an accounting job at a real estate development company, to Amelia Island with the hopes of opening his own advertising agency.

And he did.

I can’t stop thinking about Gigi, Jack shouts.

Jack’s outburst jars Haywood’s woeful deliberations. He looks up and asks quietly with attempted interest, What are you talking about, my good man?

Jack walks to Haywood’s desk and leans forward with each echoed word. Gigi. She’s hot, hot, hot. I’m in love, love, love.

Haywood dismisses Jack’s reiterations with a wave of his hand. You say that every time you go out on the town with a new woman.

Gigi and I have been together for five whole days. This is real. Jack lifts his t-shirt, exposes his hairless chest, and pounds as he yells like Tarzan.

Haywood crosses his arms and waits for Jack to complete his drama. Glad to know you’re gaga for Gigi, but do you think it’s at all possible to act in a slightly more dignified manner in the situs of your employment, amongst your colleagues and the gentleman who pays you good money for your futile attempts at artistic endeavors? He removes the handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wipes the coffee off his head.

Stella chimes in, "I’m working on this slogan. Mano wants all car accident victims to go to them. The bigger the damage, the better. I was thinking, When you’re in a crash, make a dash for Mano Ware. If you have a slash, call Mano Ware and get the cash. Something is missing, but I’ve been working on it all morning and need a break."

Haywood looks at Stella, raises his eyebrows, and takes a long despondent breath. He’s somewhat calmer now. At least one of his employees is attempting to work. You’ve been working on that slogan all month, and I must say, you haven’t gotten very far. I am most disappointed. Mano and Ware depends on us to expand their client base and what do we do? Dillydally. What am I going to tell Mr. Mano during our teleconference tomorrow?

I don’t know what you’re going to tell him, but I’m tired and need a break. Stella bangs her fist on her desk. The sound of wood cracking echoes through the office space.

You must complete the slogan straightaway, my dear. Haywood returns the loan statement to his drawer, away from prying eyes.

Tara agrees, You’re certainly taking your sweet little time with that teensy slogan, and I’m getting tuckered waiting on you to start my sketches. Do y’all mind if I go home to rest my head? It’s just splitting. Maybe the little old nurse over at Quest Diagnostics will be kind enough to test my blood in case it’s serious.

When Haywood first came to the island, he found and leased a filthy, bug-infested office space that had been unoccupied for years. It was all he could afford. And as he swept up dead palmetto bugs, Manny Mano sauntered through the door searching for a restroom and remained for hours until Haywood secured him as a client.

He quickly hired employees who displayed extraordinary talent and drive during their interviews. Jack showed him a short film he produced entitled Girls!. Granted, it was teetering on pornographic, but it was well focused and edited. During his interview with Stella, she created rhyming slogans in response to each of his questions. Quite remarkable. And Tara’s mastery of color launched him on an emotional journey. He actually cried. He hired her before she could carry her remarkable creations away.

Haywood spent his savings on the first six months’ rent, security deposit, and office furniture he purchased at a bargain from Goodwill. In order to pay for everything else, he secured a twenty-thousand-dollar loan which, due to his lack of collateral and credit history, Theo, who had a generous employment contract, cosigned. The agency buzzed during the first year but the excitement and productivity dwindled quickly as his employees drifted into their own individual worlds unable to complete their assignments. And because of this, Haywood couldn’t expand his clientele or make regular loan payments.

He thought it was his fault. He’d never run an agency before, never managed anyone. He did some research—read through his college texts, borrowed management books from the Nassau County library, searched the internet—all in hopes of a remedy. Through this research, he concluded that in order to be productive, employees must work as a team. This made perfect sense, but how does a man with one client, three drifters, and a stack of overdue bills (that will soon become Theo’s responsibility) inspire teamwork? Then he came upon an article about team building exercises. He took careful notes, woke early, hurried to the office, and resumed his research. And just as he was on the brink of coming up with a plan, he got the call from his friendly, yet firm loan officer, and spilled his coffee.

I must say, I pay this motley crew lots of money and receive very little in return. Jack is obsessed with women, Stella with wine, and Tara, quite frankly, with Tara. When it comes to work, you three just fritter away your time like creatures drifting without purpose. You dawdle, goof off, piddle, lollygag, and … float. Haywood plays a waltz on an imaginary airborne piano. That’s what you are, a bunch of jellyfish. He wants to say brainless jellyfish, but controls himself. He stands and paces between the four desks with his arms folded against his chest.

Then a singular thought enters his head and he must release it quickly before it passes. When I was at university, our professor would plan excursions when we got lazy. He found that excursions would make us more balanced, help us get along, expand our creativity, realign our chakras, clarify our focus, allow us to understand the true meaning of life.

He positions himself like a standing Thinker statue and closes his eyes as his mind travels to years gone by. He speaks softly, thoughtfully, almost childlike.

We had such fun in the wilderness. We camped in tents, cooked over open fires, told ghost stories. He can smell the campfire and burnt weenies. He can taste roasted marshmallows sticking to the roof of his mouth, their blackened surface, soft texture, gooey middle. He can feel the cold water waken his skin as he jumped into the crystal blue lake. He pictures himself reading Thomas Hardy by flashlight after the others slipped into dreams. He returns to the reality of the present, the materials he read on the importance of teamwork to enhance productivity, and the usefulness of teambuilding exercises. And suddenly!

He points.

That’s what we can do. But where?

The room is silent.

He paces, arms out like an A-frame, eyeglasses sliding down his nose. I’ve got an idea, a splendid one if I may say so. Here goes. Are you listening?

He pauses, pushing back his glasses as he waits for Jack to stop looking out the window, Stella to finish slurping, Tara to remove her hands from her face.

No luck.

Haywood continues, Theo has a fishing boat. It fits four perfectly fine. I’ll ask him if I can borrow it for an excursion. We can get away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life and partake in team building exercises.

He scans their three blank faces. They ignore him like elevator music. He clears his throat in an attempt to get their attention.

We’ll venture to Cumberland Island, stay overnight. You three can bring your own sleeping bags and personal items. I’ll take care of all our other needs—food, exercise materials, what not. Is everyone in agreement? He stops, clasps his hands, and smiles wide. He feels like he did when he followed Theo to Amelia Island. Hope penetrates his bloodstream, goosebumps occupy his skin and awaken every muscle in his body as he thinks about an excursion to the quiet island of Cumberland, Georgia, just a short boat ride north.

What about Hurricane Laurel? Jack asks.

Hurricane Laurel? Oh yes, there’s a hurricane stalled somewhere in the Atlantic, but it’s weakening and forecasters say it will likely turn east. Besides, a hurricane hasn’t hit the island for many years. That’s what he’s been told.

Look at the sun shining brightly, straight from the heavens. Haywood points to the filthy window Jack cleared a spot in moments ago. If we leave straightaway after my teleconference with Mr. Mano tomorrow, we’ll be back and working diligently before we see any signs of it.

A threat of a weakening hurricane out in the Atlantic isn’t going to get in his way. This excursion must transform his drifters into a productive team or he’ll lose his dream, his business, and his best friend.

He calls Theo who’s happy to lend him his boat and tents, but cautions Haywood about the hurricane and the legal and physical restrictions of docking by Cumberland. Haywood listens as they each check the weather online and confirm that Laurel is stationary and, according to the forecasters, the pressure will push it away from Florida’s coastline when it proceeds.

But keep an eye on it, Haywood, forecasts do change, consistently wise Theo warns.

Haywood devotes the afternoon to planning the excursion, developing team building exercises, and collecting the items they’ll need. The boat is docked at the Fernandina Harbor Marina. They’ll shove off late morning, spend the remainder of the day participating in team building exercises, tent for the night, and return the following day. With increased productivity he can pay his debts and live his dream.

By Jove.

§

The next day, Haywood’s MINI Countryman is filled to the brim with supplies, but the four manage to squeeze in between.

As he drives north on 14th, Haywood looks out his windshield and watches the clouds hurry by. The tops of the trees circle like paint brushes darkening the sky. Just drifting clouds like any other Florida day. He radiates with optimism. This could be a turning point for his business. Why didn’t he think of this before? His agency would have been a cash cow by now. He sings a song about being hopeful as he draws his attention to his three employees hoping for equal enthusiasm and excitement.

Stella and Tara are in the back seat. Stella sips wine from a flask she carries with her at all times. She claims it contains green tea, but Haywood smells the white wine’s acidic sweetness. Tara twirls her hair, her eyes closing slowly as they flicker with each breath. Jack sits beside him with a faraway look on his face, puckering his lips, kissing the air.

Haywood continues singing, but fails to get their attention. He shakes his head. This is a start of a new era. He’s tolerated their aimless work behavior long enough. He’ll transform his motley crew into a cohesive and productive team or he’s doomed, doomed, doomed.

In an effort to show his employees who’s in charge, Haywood borrowed a fisherman ensemble from Theo. He’s pulled together like a professional angler in a matching beige camouflage outfit with a hat, fishing vest, cargo shorts over swim trunks, and camouflage-print rubber boots. Tara, Stella, and Jack are wearing their work clothes which are the same as their non-work clothes: Tara in wedge sandals and a peasant dress, her hair braided in pigtails; Stella in leopard-print stilettoes, black halter and mini skirt, heavy face powder, and inch-thick eyeliner; and Jack in a purple Amelia Island t-shirt with faded white lettering, sneakers, and jeans. Haywood hopes they’re wearing their swimsuits under their outfits as agreed.

If anyone is interested in the results of my conference call with Mr. Mano this morning, listen up. Haywood looks around. His employees remain in their respective trances. "First of all, Stella, Mr. Mano chose, Call Mano Ware. We care. We’re fair. We swear. We’re the answer to your prayers, over the other two slogans." Haywood looks in his rearview mirror.

Stella ignores him and drinks from her flask.

Haywood looks over at Jack. "And Jack, you need to be there at three next Thursday to shoot the commercial. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours. And if he wants his mother to be in the commercial again, just appease him. I don’t want another incident. After all, he is our bread and butter."

Jack doesn’t react to Haywood’s directive.

Haywood makes a left on Atlantic Avenue then continues west as it becomes Centre, the island’s main street in the historic district, bursting with shops and restaurants.

Jack peers out the window. I should buy Gigi a present while we’re here. Can’t afford jewelry. Maybe a t-shirt like mine. That’s it, matching t-shirts. Jack looks at Haywood and smiles.

Haywood talks of important news about his conference with Mr. Mano and all he gets is a summary of Jack’s love life, finances, and poor taste. He drives over the railroad tracks, makes a left toward the marina, and a right into the parking lot. Boats of all shapes, sizes, and colors are secured to the dock. Sailboat masts rock with the wind. He parks, exits the car, and spots Theo’s small beige fishing boat. It looks like a toy amongst the larger vessels. There’s a man and a woman in what looks like civilian sailor suits rushing to the high seas. The sight of other boaters ignites Haywood’s spirits.

Jack, Stella, and Tara remain in the car.

Haywood ducks his head and speaks through the open car window. We’ve reached our destination. Let’s pack the boat and shove off.

A gust of wind lifts his hat. He holds onto it and scans the horizon as the sun blinks through the clouds drifting like smoke from a strong but distant fire. Haywood listened to an updated forecast on Laurel this morning. It’s moving again, but slowly. He thinks about the Folgers commercial, his years as a gofer in New York City, losing all the money he’s invested in Do It with Dignity, collectors harassing Theo, living in the streets. Some wind and clouds aren’t going to deter him.

"Come