Yesterday morning found me back on the Narrow River, revisiting a promise I had made to myself a few days earlier—to reconnect with a pair of Bald Eagles that had briefly graced me with their presence and then vanished like a good plot twist left unresolved.
I came prepared. Very prepared. I had a 1.25× Nikon teleconverter mounted, stretching my focal length to a ridiculous and glorious 1,000mm. As hunters like to say, I was loaded for bear. Or in my case, loaded for eagle… or anything else foolish enough to pose within range.
Speaking of hunters—wow.
The moment the clock ticked to the officially sanctioned time for hunting (30 minutes before sunrise), the river erupted. Not gently. Not subtly. It sounded like someone had scheduled a fireworks display without bothering to invite the town. Shotgun blasts echoed up and down the waterway with such enthusiasm that for a brief moment I wondered if I had wandered into the opening act of the Fourth of July.
Which brings me to the sequence that made me laugh out loud.
A boat appeared, carrying two hunters who were clearly calling it a morning and heading back to the ramp. The engine was running hard, and one of the men stood on the bow, peering into the water—classic shallow-river choreography. Anyone who’s ever boated a skinny channel knows this move. It’s the nautical version of tip-toeing through a dark room, hoping not to stub your toe on something expensive.
Then, suddenly, the engine cut.
A moment later, both hunters were out of the boat, standing in ankle-deep water, pushing it by hand to find the channel again.
And I lost it.
Not because of their misfortune—this happens to the best of us—but because my mind instantly snapped to a moment from long ago that has become permanently etched in my mental highlight reel.
Sanibel, Florida. A fishing charter. Trish’s birthday.
She had booked the trip after seeing the captain on one of her favorite fishing programs. Everything was calm, pleasant, and professional as the captain finished his safety briefing. Then Trish raised her hand.
She asked where the life preservers were.
The captain explained, politely but with a look that suggested this wasn’t a common follow-up question.
Trish then explained—calmly, earnestly—that she couldn’t swim and wondered if he’d mind taking one out so she could grab it quickly if needed. Seeing it, she said, would soothe her anxiety.
To his credit, the captain was wonderfully kind and immediately obliged.
Then he paused, looked at her, and said:
“Well… if you end up in the water for any reason, I can throw you the life preserver… or you can just stand up. The water’s four feet deep.”
That line has lived rent-free in my head ever since.
So there I was on the Narrow River, watching two hunters push their boat through water shallow enough to soak a sock, and suddenly I was back in Sanibel, reminded once again that depth—like perspective—is everything.
I didn’t get my eagles that morning. But I did get a good laugh. And sometimes, on an otherwise uneventful morning, that’s more than enough.
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