by Captain Gary Henderson

Fishing is my religion. Pure and simple. As I look back at little over a half-century of my life, I often replay the memories I’ve stored up of this sport I became so involved in. It was all because of my dad, and it started out in a small, hand-built, wooden skiff. It was light green in color, and probably a few other colors underneath the hardened, smooth enamel green that I first remembered it being. He and I spent many hours in that old boat, and I learned many a lesson about life, about nature, about lakes and rivers, and most importantly, about Dad. He’s gone now, but those memories I have tucked away are as colorful now as the day they happened. And they all started by being in an old, wooden boat.

Looking back over these years, I can recall owning at least eight, perhaps nine boats, if I count the little canoe. Some were basic and only provided a flotation platform for me to reach fishing areas I couldn’t get to by walking an earthen bank along a river or lake here in central Florida. The largest allowed me to venture far from shore out in the Atlantic to hunt for big game species such as sailfish, dolphin, wahoo and marlin. Some were kind, some were almost to the point of being demonic, some I adored and romanticized, and some I cursed and almost hated.

As my wife, Linda, and I began to build a new home, I had to make a decision about a certain boat I owned at that time. It was a high-end flats skiff made by a reputable boat builder in Fort Pierce, Florida. I had wanted that boat for years, not because of the namesake, but because of its reputation of being one of the finest skiffs made. And in 1996, I purchased her, and in the same week, I married my soul-mate, Linda. I taught my wife to fish in that boat, and how to run it. Seven years later, as we pulled away and left her with her new owner, I felt a lump come up in my throat and a mist cover my eyes. It was like leaving a child behind as we watched her grow smaller in my rearview mirror. Nothing would ever compare to that skiff, but every one we looked at after owning her would be compared to her.

Last year, Linda and I bought another boat. It wasn’t a flats skiff, but close enough, we thought. I could turn her into one. I could add things to her that would transform the utility style boat into a fine, flats skiff. Her hull was flat, she was plenty big enough; she was light and would almost float in mud. So we added a poling tower and platform, push-pole holders, an extra front deck hatch, and rod holders down the insides of the gunwales to hold nine-foot, fully rigged fly-rods, but she possessed a mean streak that would prove to be almost deadly. She didn’t want to go on her trailer, any light wind that came up on our home waters of the Indian River Lagoon and she would spin and take off like a loose duck feather upon the water’s film. Linda hated her and I think the new skiff hated us as well. I made the decision to rid myself of the uncontrollable beast.

Two weeks before Father’s Day, I discovered a boat I wasn’t all that familiar with, Scout’s Costa 190. A love affair began right there in the dealer’s showroom. The flare of her bow, the smooth and soft curves of her lines, the almost countless amenities, she seemed to speak to me. But I feared she would be too heavy in the shallow flats of the Indian River Lagoon. With a hull weight several hundred pounds heavier than I was used to, and a big, Yamaha 150 hp four-stroke, would she be a pig?

A water test was scheduled a few days later and the dealer put her in the lake behind the shop. Definitely not a pig, far from it, actually. She came to life, she planed out in less than two seconds, graceful, fast and responsive, and could turn as quickly as a cutting horse heading off a steer. But another question arose. Being a licensed, retired captain and guide, I would perhaps, one day, use her for a guide boat where I would put clients on redfish and sea trout in waters less than a foot deep. Could she get me back in there? Would she be as responsive to the push-pole as she was under power? I would have to make the purchase to know for sure. So, four days later, we pulled the trigger and bought the Costa 190, Stu Apte Tournament Series.

One week from the day I put her through her paces on the lake behind the dealership, I proudly towed the skiff to her new home here in eastern, central Florida. And for two days, it rained! But, as they say in Hawaii, “If it rains on you as you arrive, it is good luck.” I certainly hoped so, especially after our ordeal with the demonic beast we had brought home a little more than a year prior!

The sun hadn’t quiet pierced the horizon that Friday morning as we dipped her foot, for the first time, in the brackish waters of the Indian River around the Titusville, Florida area. Golden and purplish tones cast Van Gogh-like hues on the smooth, mirrored surface of the eastern flats that are within sight of the space shuttle’s launch area. And, even though I have several decades of experience in and around boats, from twelve feet to forty-eight feet, I was a little nervous. All of the “what ifs” were looming and waited to be asked. Anticipation seized my nerve. The powerful engine roared to life and she slid from her trailer as graceful as a queen entering the grand ballroom. Other boat owners shot envious glances in my direction as I eased her to an awaiting slip; a fine lady on the arm of her proud captain. Linda parked the truck and trailer and stepped into the new boat as I pulled away from the launch area.

Three-hundred yards from the shoreline, I eased back on the throttle and shut her down. This would be the key that I hoped would unlock the door to my unanswered question. This would determine whether I had made a huge mistake. Would she deliver us to the extremely shallow water where redfish, trout, snook and tarpon feed?

Climbing atop the platform, as Linda brought out the rods, I began to quietly push the skiff through the slick surface of an early morning flat. Within a few minutes my question was answered. Twelve inches of water was beneath the hull of the new Costa and no indication of her sticking to the grassy bottom! With her eight and a half foot beam, she responded to my every movement of the twenty-foot push-pole. Perfect!

In less than an hour of our launching, Linda casts the golden spoon at a redfish tail that pierces the surface of the glistening water. He explodes on the spoon, sending a geyser of saltwater skyward! She sets the hook and the fight ensues. He doesn’t realize it, and doesn’t care that he is the first to be fooled from this magnificent machine. Linda brings him to boat side and to an awaiting net where he is freed from the golden ruse, revived and sent back to his domain to fight with someone else later. Within minutes, the scene repeats itself and we decide to put a little time on the new engine and become more familiar with the boat.

The second day, the strong winds caught us a little off guard. The river was white-capping with a push from fifteen knot, easterly winds. The Costa smiled at the opportunity to prove herself in heavier seas, and that she did. Five miles into a port, quartering sea, I turned her around and headed back. She had my confidence; the most important factor in owning a boat. I had asked a lot from this new skiff in a very short time, and she provided me with all of the answers. In the years to come, I may have to ask more from her, but as for now, I believe she already knows what to deliver.