The fishing trip is off to a slow start. We’re fishing heavy cover in the shallows. The water temperature is a little cool, yet. The wind has been stiff. The crappie seem somewhat reluctant to come home for supper.

This is the chance you take when you travel over 500 miles to go fishing. Just because the dogwoods are beginning to bloom back home doesn’t mean that the weather won’t turn on you. We’re an hour south of Orlando and it was 38°at sunrise on Friday.

Saturday was only a few degrees better. We held off a few hours to let the sun do us all a favor. When the temperature warmed up closer to 50°, we set off for the first fishing hole. I wore socks, shoes, shorts, long pants, one short-sleeved T, one long-sleeved T, one pull-over hoodie. I would’ve worn a goose-down parka with hand warmers had they been available.

In an open boat, especially one hurling across the lake at 40mph, the thermal effect of the artic wind cuts through every layer that covers your skin. Your teeth chatter. Your lips turn blue. Your eyes water.

Our Captain gave us the heads up, “Hold on to wha’chu’ve got.”

For about the first 10 minutes we tried to talk over the roar of the motor between shivers. We took in the sights. Kissimmee is an absolutely gorgeous body of water. We were making the best of it.

By the 15-minute mark we were hunkered down into our cotton cocoons as best we could, trying to find some relief from the cut of the wind. Marion had the draw string on her hoodie so tight around her face, only her nose was visible. We looked like Floridian Eskimos.

I am not a professional fisherman. But all professional fishermen evidently know that no fish can be caught anywhere in sight of the slough where you launch your boat. All fishing must be done at least three miles from the departure point.

There are a lot of fishermen who live by this rule. Most everyone around our fish camp waited on things to “warm up” just like we did. And we all left for the same fishing hole at the same time. Multiple boats cause multiple wake lines across the open water.

So, not only are we huddled up against the cold, but our backsides are bouncing up and down off the seats in a boogie-woogie beat to the rhythm of the boat slapping the crest of each wave in front of us.

Ka-chung. Ka-plunk. Ka-chung. Ka-plunk. Ka-chung.

We thawed out about noonish. The layers came off, the sun warmed our bones, and we bagged 28 fish by nightfall.

I wish you could see the sun setting over Lake Kissimmee. We were fishing the grass line along Jack’s Slough, about 100 yards offshore. Long-necked birds of some kind were resting in the branches of a small dead tree that was standing above the grass. Their wings, like a Phoenix, were spread out in perfect form. Their backs to the sun. Silent and still as statues.

Florida is an unknown world to me. The flora and fauna are strangers to a boy raised in the piedmont red dirt of Georgia. Which makes the beauty of it all even more mysterious.

By the time the sun kisses the opposite horizon of the lake, which is several miles away, the surface of the water becomes perfectly still, like a huge plate glass. Not a wrinkle anywhere in the reflection of colors from the evening fire in the sky. The waterfowl call out to each other. The alligators grunt their language of love to one another.

There’s a symphony of the wild being sung to us at no charge. There’s a painting on the western horizon that speaks to our souls for free. And for a few minutes, I forget that there’s a fishing line in the water that needs my attention. I forget that coming here is about more than just fishing.

We went to church on Sunday morning. I wouldn’t want the church police to think unkindly of us for skipping out of town on the Lord’s Day to go fishing. Seems to me that we had two services that day. One inside a white building, and one out on the water at sunset.

By comparison, the sunset spoke a better sermon.

I can’t decide exactly what kind of church we went to. The preacher asked for a lot of “amens” from the pulpit, which made me think about my Baptist brethren. The coffee and snacks made me think of my contemporary Community Church friends. There was a piano and organ, so definitely not Church of Christ.

I’m guessing it was simply a good old-fashioned non-denominational gathering where they still sing the old hymns, and everyone there over 60 has a sun-soaked tan and wears flip flops.

Let the church say amen.

Today, we got our rental boat from the fish camp. Up until now, we have been guests on our friend’s boat. Now we can fish as long as we want, wherever we want, and as often as we want.

We took about a 30-minute ride up to Bird Island this morning. We have been told, “That’s where they’re biting.”

What they didn’t tell us is that Bird Island is swarming with a critter called a blind mosquito. They thrive in the tall grass where we like to fish. When the tip of the boat first hit the edge of the grass, it was like a midge explosion. I counted somewhere in the neighborhood of 683 quintillion aquatic midges that immediately swarmed our boat and turned the sky black.

The good news is that they don’t bite. They just fly into every available orifice on your body, which is annoying when you’re trying to set a minnow on a tiny hook.

You stop the boat. They settle down. You fish for a while. Then you move the boat, and the swarm blocks the sun all over again.

Even though the fishing seems slower than last year, it’s early in the week and I am still pumped about what might be ahead of us. We haven’t hooked ‘em hard yet, but with the temperatures beginning to warm up over the next few days, I can dream that our day is coming.

This is the lore of the fisherman. That the next spot will be the honey hole. That the next day will be the one where we can’t get the fish in the live well and the hook back in the water fast enough. That the next cast will be the one to make you forget all the hours of just drowning bait for no apparent reason.

Mercy, I sure do love fishing.

I don’t have the stamina I once had. My back gets tired. My tendonitis aches if I hold the pole too long. I get cross-eyed staring at my bobber. I have to take a break every hour or so.

But tomorrow is another sunrise. Another beautiful day. Another day of adventure, midges, and mystery.

And you know what?

I get to go fishing again.