A Giant Of A Fisherman...

Jim Plastic, aka "Schnook" and "Freemirrolure Jim"

 A few years back I started thinking about all the fishing adventures I’ve had in the last few decades and decided I’d put pen to paper and try my hand at outdoors writing. I was going to write the Great American Fishing Novel. I wrote, or more accurately taught myself to type on the computer, for a couple of years and then my fishing experiences took a whole new turn. I was fortunate enough to be invited to fish with Cap. Mel. One trip led to another and another until we became fishing buddies. About the same time I had finished enough of my book to have it appraised and who better to get an opinion from than Mel himself. I remember how nervous I was when I asked for his help. After he had read the first chapter his exact words were “ I really want to read the rest of the book; so here it is Mel, the first chapter of “ Local Knowledge “.
 

  
   I don’t know exactly when I made the ethical transition from stealing my fishin buddy’s hot spots to accumulating Local Knowledge of my own. I do know the process began more than 60 years ago at a place called the Giant’s Fish Camp.

   The camp was about 10 miles south of Tampa, in a city called Gibsonton, Gibtown by the residents. The town was founded by James B. Gibson, but a career carney concessionaire, cookhouse operator, entrepreneur, and coincidentally, a relative of mine by marriage, Eddie Le May was responsible for it’s success. Mr. Gibson may have founded the town and named it but Eddie turned it into Show Town U.S.A.

   According to Eddie, he chose the area to settle down because of the outstanding fishing on the nearby Alafia River. In reality it was the remoteness and the isolation that he sought. He wanted his co/workers, like The Monkey Girl, Alligator Skinned Man, The 600 lb. fat lady, the giants and dwarfs and all the rest of natures oddities to retire in Gibsonton and live their post careers away from the public’s prying eyes. Ever the showman, (he was elected to be the city’s first president of the Greater Tampa Showmans Association), Eddie and his wife Grace built Eddie’s Hut, a restaurant they decorated with hundreds of wood framed photographs, depicting their years with the carnival. The Hut’s menu featured home cooking that surpassed anything you ever tasted at a carnival. They surrounded the restaurants with a dozen small wood cabins. These rustic, little huts were for rent but Carneys everywhere knew, if they ever got down on their luck, they could get a free meal and nights lodging, courtesy of the Le Mays.

   The Giant’s Fish Camp was located on the banks of the picturesque Alafia River, on the south side of the Hwy. 41 bridge, and for about 60 years, rented wooden boats with a “bring your own outboard” policy. Bait and Tackle along with advice on “where the big one’s are biting,” would bring you in the first time, but the country cooking at the Giant’s restaurant would keep you coming back. It was Local Knowledge, the best breakfasts in southern Hillsborough County were sometimes served by a giant.

   Although the Alafia has taken a few potentially deadly, environmental shots over the years, it has managed to survive. Chemical spills, compliments of the phosphate industry, all but wiped out the river’s aquatic life. The damage done was much worse on the fish and crustaceans than it was on the foliage. Thanks to Mother Nature’s resiliency, the Alafia never became an eyesore, but some 50 years ago it was a truly beautiful waterway and an amazing fishery.

   The portions of the river we fished were close to the camp but still had an unlimited number of fishing opportunities. There were tons of mangroves and oyster bars, deep-water channels for tankers or grass flats for fisherman. It was not unusual to spend a day on the river, fish several different spots and never see another fishing boat. Imagine your favorite grass flats with no wave runners, or flats boats buzzing by you. Imagine, no competition from the army of anglers and would be anglers that we all face today. Imagine, if you can, hundreds of game fish just waiting for you to show up. The words fishing and pressure had not yet been used side by side. Picture a fishing paradise and you’d have the Alafia River of my youth.

   If you were to fish upstream from our haunts, the scenery would change dramatically. Portions of the upper river were bordered by flat topped Cypress Trees or moss covered Oaks, and the waters were crystal clear and populated with Large Mouthed Bass, Gar, Bluegill, and Bream, and of course Gators. Salt water Mullet would venture well past the brackish water into the fresh, only to be attacked by the juvenile Tarpon and monster Snook that followed them.

   The boats we rented were sea worthy enough, but the ancient outboards my Grandfather owned was not all that reliable, so we pretty much limited our fishing adventures to no more than half a mile from the Hwy. 41 bridge. The self-imposed half-mile limit was just about the maximum distance any of us would have wanted to paddle back if the engine died. Even considering our limited range, I still recall acres of pristine grass flats packed with hungry Speckled Trout, Yellow Tailed Jacks and hordes of Redfish. When we strayed too close to the edge of the shipping channel, we would catch Sheepheads up to 5 pounds and huge Black Drum. Those dark waters would also produce some of the biggest Saltwater Catfish I have ever seen. Every once in a while we would try our luck right next to the tankers and the Phosphate Docks only to be broken off on every strike. I’d imagine those tackle busters were huge Snook. Some days we couldn’t get away from the schools of ravenous Lady Fish. Some days it would be Trout or Reds by the score. Even the occasional bad days were pretty good and it seemed like we would always manage a few filets for supper. Those really were the good old days.

   The camp’s owner, Al Tomaini actually was a circus giant, who was well over 8 feet tall. My Dad and Granddad would go Trout fishing at his camp almost every Sunday, and weather permitting I’d tag along. That was way back in 1946, and I was all of 6 years old.

   There was a huge sign out on Highway 41, in front of the camp portraying a giant of a man wearing khaki colored pants, a cowboy hat, white shirt and western boots. Add a holster and sidearm and that’s pretty much the way the real giant dressed every day. Al claimed the gun was only for Cottonmouth Water Moccasins and the over grown Rattle Snakes that abounded in the area, but his size, gruff demeanor, booming voice (not to mention the fact that he was armed) would intimidate grown men and terrify little kids like me. As it turned out, this oversized circus act truly was a gentle giant. He would constantly tease me and tell me I was too small to fish, but just the right size to be gator bait for one of his hunting buddies. Then he would grab me and put me on his shoulder and give me a tour of the camp. Today I am fond of saying that I started fishing the Alafia before I was old enough to fish.

   For the first several months, I was limited to catching Pinfish and Grunts for bait, while my Dad and Grandpa would fish for Speckled Trout. Catching an occasional bait fish with a hand line kept me busy and happy for hours on end. Occasionally, I caught more fish than the grown-ups, so it didn’t bother me that Dad and Grandpa caught all the Speckled Trout on shrimp and not with the baits I supplied. In retrospect I now understand, the best way to keep a child happy on a fishing trip is to make sure they catch something.

   I remember the day my Grandfather gave me my first rod and reel. I was promoted from hand lining bait to angling for Trout. That was pre fiberglass, so the rod was made of steel. It was slightly rusted and pitted, but I couldn’t have been any happier if it had been made of gold. The reel was an almost worn out bait caster, but it was usable and since it was mine, it was perfect. Memories from 50 years ago tend to be a little fuzzy, but I think I caught a few Trout the first time I used my new outfit. Memories can also be selective and somehow I remember that rod and reel much more vividly than I do any of the fish I might have caught with it.

   In my youthful eyes my Dad and Gramps were the best fishermen ever, so it was only natural I watched and tried to imitate them. I didn’t know it at the time, but I started accumulating my Local Knowledge in the summer of 1946.

   In the decades that have followed I have managed to gather Local Knowledge from every fishing partner I’ve ever had the pleasure of fishing with. These trips were all pleasurable to me, because I treated them like adventures. It’s easy to have a good time while sharing an adventure.

Jim Plastic
Allure of the Sea & Team MirrOlure