I am not a son of Florida. My experience here is mostly limited to the sunshine of the Gulf Coast. Pristine swimming pools. Old cottages within walking distance of the blinding white beaches. Body surfing in the waves. Thrill rides along the Miracle Strip and approximately 4,392 games of skeet ball in the arcade at PCB.

My family did venture down into the everglades once upon a time the year we went all the way to Key West. In college, I visited Daytona Beach during spring break and got the top of my feet so blistered I couldn’t wear my shoes for a week. When my kids were young, we rented a condo on Cape San Blas.

I have lived the life of a Florida tourist.

Back last fall, Marion said to me, “You should go fishing with me when I go down to the fish camp in the spring.”

I like fishing. I like catching. I especially like eating fish. The idea appealed to me.

What I did not accurately calculate until yesterday’s drive was that it was going to take 17 years to get here. We drove over to Jenkinsburg, Georgia to pick up Joe and Romona, shot across to I-75, drove south past Mickey and Minnie’s home, and kept going until the earth ended.

Marion and Romona are serious fisherpersons. This became obvious when early on they threatened us menfolk, that if we weren’t ready to go when they were ready, they would leave our behinds in the wind, and we’d have to find our own way. This was something which they held over our heads for most of the trip.

Joe came up with a counter plan. One of us would stay with the truck at all times. When we got to Buc’ees, Joe held it while I went inside to use the facilities. When we got to the visitor’s center south of Orlando, I stayed with the truck while Joe took his turn. Neither one of us wanted to walk back to Georgia.

I am now at Grape Hammock Fish Camp. Middle Florida. Live Oaks the size of an aircraft carrier. Spanish moss dripping from the trees like stalactites. There is no beach. There are no condos. No arcades and no water slides. Only make-shift singlewide trailers converted to look like fishing cabins. The air smells of fish and bait.

The first order of business, once we put our bags away, was to go buy groceries. The menus had been planned out and a shopping list made in advance. Having travelled all day, we only needed to get back in the truck and ride another 24 miles to the closest store. Walmart came up on the GPS first.

A Florida Walmart is different than, say, a Walmart in Columbus, Georgia. Flip flops are way more common. Spanish seems to be a primary form of communication. Tanned skin that looks a little like leather is on display for the world to see. I’ve seen fully cooked hamburgers with way less burned flesh than some of the local shoppers.

We made a stop by a roadside fruit stand. The lady was working the crowd hard. She was cutting and handing out samples of oranges and strawberries and anything else you might want to taste. We left with handfuls of whatever we could carry.

For the next 10 days, we’ll be living on the waters of Lake Kissimmee. K-i-crooked-letter-crooked-letter-i-humpback-humpback-eeeeeee. We hear the crappie are biting. Or to use the native expression, the “specs” are tearing it up.

The name, Grape Hammock, goes back to the late 1800s when goods and travelers were transported by boat up and down the Kissimmee River. A landing near where the lake narrows and the river heads south to the Okeechobee was built as a rest stop and delivery point. The live oaks were full of wild grape vines that hung within the tree canopy like woven hammocks. The name caught on and stuck.

To a rookie like me, this place is the mysterious side of Florida. It has a natural and wild beauty that is so different from the coastlines I knew as a kid. The flatlands of marsh and reeds extend to the horizon. The Arrowheads are in bloom, both white and purple. Sand cranes, blue herons, gallinules, white ibis, wood storks, and great egrets work for their living among the shallows. The frogs bellow at night and the gators roam beneath the lily pads during the day.

We took an airboat ride to explore the lake up-close. Our captain, JC, educated us on our surroundings.

“Kissimmee is a massive 35,000 acre lake that is 17 miles long and 8 miles wide.”

Most of it is no more than 6 to 8 foot deep. The topography of the lake is more like a dinner plate than a bowl. He gave us specific instructions about boat safety and the location of the life jackets.

“If you get thrown out,” he said, “stand up. The water is only about 6” deep where we’re going.”

This was not encouraging to Marion who cannot swim.

“Besides,” he added. “If I do my job right, you really shouldn’t fall out of the boat.”

I don’t know who invented airboats. It was probably a teenager with one too many beers and no fear. The whole idea is to take a wide, lightweight aluminum boat, strap a 750 hp diesel motor to the back with a 4 blade propeller capable of producing 140 mph winds, and see how fast you can go where no normal boat could ever go.

“Rudder check!” JC warned us two seconds before we did a 360° whirly-gig. Cracker cattle grazed in the mushy grass layers. Small gators darted for cover.

We road up the shoreline a ways, crossed the main water, and entered the world of Brahma Island. This 5,600-acre island is a private wildlife preserve and home to buffalo, deer, cattle, turkey, and more gators. We got a chance to see an eagle’s nest with fledglings stretching their wings.

“This is the fifth year I’ve seen this pair raise fledglings in the same nest.” Long pause. “God, I love my job.”

Evening came. Terry and Sandra, more friends from Georgia, came over for supper. We made fishing plans for the next day. We devoured a south-of-the-border-like dish made in the crockpot, the name of which no one could remember. But more importantly, we got down to a serious game of dominoes.

I am not a domino player. So, the rest of them helped me learn the fish camp rules. They took it easy on me the first time. From what I can tell, this particular version of the game should never be played with a knife or loaded gun in hand.

Grape Hammock has been in the Chandley family since 1949. Third generation grandsons, Barrett and Kevin and their wives, run the place now. They sell fishing licenses. Check. Bait. Check. Rental cabins. Check. And they make folks feel like part of the family.

They’ve been doing this for 75 years, now. Lordy, I hope they can survive us the next 10 days.

Especially, the way we play dominoes.