The rain has moved in overnight. It’s constant but light. I could hear the pitter-patter on the tin roof around 5am this morning, which was right before I felt the pressure on my swollen bladder. Trying to hold it while listening to the sound of pitter-patter is difficult, to say the least.

We turned in the rental boat yesterday evening. I have mixed feelings about this. It’s sad because there will be no fishing today. I suppose the fun must end eventually. Besides, we wouldn’t be out on the lake in the rain. But I am also relieved because I do not own a $50K boat that I now have to tow home and store in the shade under a tarp for the next 12 months.

My motto: Use somebody else’s boat and then give it back.

Although my brief tour of duty as captain of the SS Minnow is over, I have a ton of memories to take home with me when we leave tomorrow. Let me take a moment to share a few of them with you.

Fish Camp is home to a lot of nice folks. Some of them are permanent residents.

Take Robert. He’s 63, retired Navy, retired rodeo roughneck, and expert cyclist. Wherever Robert may have traveled across the globe by ship, and wherever his other adventures may have taken him, he has chosen to call the fish camp his home.

He has a camper set up deep under the live oaks on the backside of camp. A nice boat, which I never saw in the water. And a bicycle. Robert rides 50 miles every day. His bike is not a sleek racing machine. It’s more like one of the old Schwinn bikes with big tires that we used to have as a kid.

Robert is a slight-built man. He wears jeans, not speedos. He wears a T-shirt, not spandex. No helmet. His long blonde locks flow out from under his ‘Navy Veteran’ cap. I’ve only seen him walking one time. He rides the dirt roads around camp constantly. Always a smile. Always a greeting.

“Aren’t you hot in those jeans?” I was curious. Doesn’t everyone in Florida wear shorts?

“My wife doesn’t want me to show too much skin. Too many scars. I’ve been put back together a few times, both from the Navy and the rodeo.”

There’s one image of Robert that will stand in my mind for a long time. I’m bringing the boat down the canal to the dock by the store to turn it in yesterday. I’m at “no wake” speed, just above idle. A Blue Heron steps slowly in the tall grass along the edge.

As I got closer to the dock, I could see Robert on the rise above the canal. He’s sitting straddle his blue bike, maybe 30 yards away. Navy cap pulled down close over his eyes. He’s looking directly at me.

I don’t know why I did it. I’m not military. I’ve heard that it could be an insult, or at the least, inappropriate for a civilian like me to salute anyone, even in jest.

I brought my hand up to the brow of my cap best I could recall from 10th grade ROTC. Robert made his legs a little straighter, brought his shoulders back a bit, and gave me a proper salute. He finished off with a crisp snap below the chin.

For a moment I felt like a captain.

Every morning down at the boat ramp by the dock, there is a hustle and bustle of folks milling around. The store opens up at 6am. Marion and I would get there around 7am with coffee and cameras to watch the morning sunrise and socialize with the other weary fishermen.

I can hear a morning dove cooing nearby. A long-legged-Florida-something-or-another squawks and spreads his wings down by the water. Across the canal is a small herd of goats. Like clockwork, each morning about 7:30, they head off for the barn in a single-file line.

We met two brothers one morning. They come from north Florida to fish the lake. Both pushing 80. One hobbles a bit more than the other.

“You folks been out much this week?” they ask us.

“We’ve been out a couple days.”

“What’s biting good right now?”

“We sat on a Shellcracker hole yesterday and caught a bunch.”

“I reckon that’d suit us. We don’t care much what we fish for. We just like catching ‘em.”

As of last night, talk was that close to a thousand fish came out of that one hole this week. They say the boys from Kentucky caught over 300 of them in two days.

We were told, “When they’re biting like that, you invite all your cousins and close friends to help fish out the hole.”

One afternoon, there was as many as eight boats sitting over the top of the lily pads. Each one just far enough apart as not to slap the guy in next boat with the tip of your pole.

“That’s how you fish down here,” they said. “And that’s how you meet some of the nicest folks you’d ever want to meet.”

I have really enjoyed this lake. I can’t even describe to you what a 35,000-acre body of water is like. Most days it’s a little choppy. For a brief time yesterday, the wind died down and the surface was as smooth as glass. You could see a shoreline in every direction, but in some directions, it is a line so thin on the horizon you can barely make it out.

My job, as captain, has come to an end. I have learned parts of the map and am able to recognize some of the landmarks. I can toss an anchor with the best and, in spite of a recent video, I’m not half bad at sliding up to tie off at the dock. I got choked up a little when I had to surrender the keys to the boat.

As much as I have enjoyed our brief time in Florida, I’m still not convinced I’d ever want to pull up stakes and move here. I prefer much less sand in my shoes. I can do without the gazillion and a half bazillion flesh eating skeeters. And I’m not fond of having a gator grunt at me every time I walk out my front door, especially since it’s mating season.

Heather, who opens up the store each morning, gave us the best lesson of the week.

We’re standing out getting the usual sunrise pics. She comes out of the store to get her own picture. It is a particularly stunning view out across the lake.

“You come out here and get a picture every day?” I asked her.

“I do,” she said.

“I bet you never get tired of the view.”

“Nope. Not even on the bad days.”

Not every day can be perfect. Not every view is gorgeous. If you’ve got it in you, you can learn to see the best in every day, even the bad ones. True in fishing. True in life.

These Florida folk may know a thing or two.