The Tacklebox Syndrome and Other Wisdom

The Banks
The water off Marathon was never just blue. It came in layers—pale green over the sand, bright turquoise over the hardbottom, darker streaks where the channels cut through. When the wind laid down, you could see coral heads from the boat, scattered like stepping stones across the banks.

That’s where we went lobstering.

It was usually a family crew—me, my sister, my mom, my dad, and his cousins Susan and Nancy. Later on, my wife and children would joined us too. Over the years the people shifted a little, but the routine stayed the same. Someone always packed too much food. Someone forgot something important. There was always at least one pair of fins that didn’t fit quite right.

We’d idle out of the canal early while the air still felt cool. Dad handled the boat like he always did—calm, focused, already thinking ahead. Nets stacked. Tickle sticks lined up. Gauges clipped where they belonged.

We never wore wetsuits. Just swim trunks, masks, fins—and if the sun was going to cook us, we’d throw on old dress shirts. Button-downs that had seen better days. They floated around your arms underwater and stuck to your back when you climbed into the boat, but they kept you from getting fried.

The first jump in was always a jolt. Warm water, but still enough to wake you up.

Then the hunt started.

You’d float face-down, scanning the bottom until your brain switched modes and the details started popping out—antennae sticking from under a ledge, a shadow tucked too perfectly into a hole. Once you spotted one, you started seeing them everywhere.

Dad was the best at it.

He’d hover over a coral head like he was weightless, tickle stick sliding behind the lobster with slow patience. The bug would creep forward, trying to escape the pressure, and then—bam—the bully net dropped over it.

He’d hold it up underwater so we could see, eyes smiling through the mask.

When I was younger—when he still had his commercial license—we sometimes got a lot more than just a recreational limit. Those days felt different. The cooler would start filling early, antennae sticking out everywhere, and we’d keep moving spot to spot while Dad worked with this steady rhythm that never seemed rushed.

I didn’t think much about it at the time. It was just what we did. Looking back, I realize I was watching someone who really knew what he was doing.

After the commercial years ended, we still went just as often. We still got our limit most of the time. The only real difference was how many ended up in the cooler.

Our hands would be scratched up by the end of the day—not from coral, but from the lobsters themselves. Spines digging in, tails snapping when you grabbed them wrong. Little cuts across your fingers that burned when the saltwater hit.

Nobody complained. That was part of it.
On really calm days, when the ocean looked like glass, we’d run out to Sombrero Reef.

The water there was deeper, clearer, the coral bigger. Parrotfish, yellowtail, sometimes a barracuda hanging motionless in the distance. It felt like another world compared to the banks.

Those were the days you remembered.
We’d climb back in the boat between spots, drinking warm Gatorade, eating smashed sandwiches, laughing about who missed an easy one or who chased a short across the bottom like an idiot.

“You’re rushing,” Dad would tell me sometimes. “Slow down. Let them make the mistake.”

By afternoon the cooler would be thumping with bugs and everyone would be tired in that good, sun-drained way. The ride back always felt quieter. Mission accomplished.

I haven’t been back out there in years, but I can still picture it pretty clearly—the old shirts, the turquoise water, the sound of fins slapping the surface, everybody spread out over the bottom looking for antennae in the rocks.

It was just something we did.

And it was good.