We all learn how to fish our spots. My new little hole is a little bridge that carries the alternative to 19 across a sunset. It’s my kind of hole. The silt ridden toxic sludge of a greenwood creek spills out into a clear-watered bay. The concrete bridge abutment is littered with cigarette butts and discarded tackles. The gas station across the road has a frosty selection of beer and a back room to hand select your shrimp.
It’s the kind of Florida hole that enables an alternating gaze between silver dollar corks, sailboats and shell keys.

It’s my kind of hole.

A new hole walking distance to my new hole.

Somewhere between Carolina and being down under at the Outback I found time to relocate to the other side of the bridge to Pinellas. Check another semi-sleepy Florida beachtown of my life’s list of hat racks.