The Adventures of the Saltwater Cowboy

Better Than Twins 

 I was flying by the time I reached the last stop on my marathon errand trip that I’d put off since Thomas and I visited Smallwood’s Store last July after a fishing trip of a lifetime that I wrote about in my previous story – “Silver King.”  

Everglades Fishing Company (EFC) has the best swag, tackle, gear, and breakfast sandwiches for anglers in Collier County. Every person who walks in is a potential reader. Everglades City is home base for the 10,000 Islands, my nirvana, and the Everglades City Mullet Rapper gave me a start printing these stories. There couldn’t be a better-suited location to display a poster of my book– an artist's rendering of an original print of me looking astern of my Beavertail at the famed Cape Romano Dome Houses. From the camera angle, the houses are surrounded by water, giving the photo an “apocalyptic” vibe.  

I was sorry Jimmy Wheeler, the owner, wasn’t in, so I could thank him in person. “I’ll have him call you,” said Josh, Jimmy’s man behind the counter. Holding the 18” x 24” print, he said, “I’ll go ahead and put this up, too.”  

A Sheriff’s Deputy had come in. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him standing flatfooted in the center of the thoroughfare, to my west/southwest at about 110 degrees. What had I done now? I ran through my mental checklist, all systems go, then it occurred to me. I must be behaving erratically.  

A brief rundown on the chemistry of my brain, as I understand it. The manic side of my bipolar two diagnosis can manifest in a similar fashion to being high, stoned, or zooted, because this wasn’t the first time that someone, usually in a position of authority, has stopped me and forced me to prove to them that I was “of sound mind.” You’d think I would be offended by this point, but I get it; sometimes I act and look crazy. It’s a good thing I ended up being a writer, or I’d be weird for no reason.  

The behavior also manifests upon a splendid mood, the creativity is flowing, and my jokes are killing – all characteristics of the manic side of a bipolar brain. On this day, I had much to be grateful for and many reasons to be happy. 

It makes sense when you think about it. A sense of euphoria is associated with indicators that a dream is coming true. Strange to say, the interaction looming with the man in my peripherals was the crescendo of the most self-gratifying and confidence-building hour and a half of my writing life. Mega affirmation for my craft – something that has consumed thousands of hours of my life since I began writing. 

Beginning at Smallwood’s Store, where I looked out over Chokoloskee Bay, and waited for the precious young lady behind the counter to finish with her customers so that I could drop off the stack of books titled, Adventures of the Saltwater Cowboy, to sell in their collection of literature related to the area. Once she was free, I told Ava, the great-great granddaughter of Ted Smallwood, the Postmaster on the Island back in the infamous days of the outlaw, Edgar Watson, “I spoke with Lynn a few days ago, she’s expecting these,” and handed her the books. “Don’t worry about the paperwork. I’ll deal with that later.”  

She wasn’t tracking my story, a common occurrence while communicating with humans. I explained to her that my friend, Thomas Woods, and I had been in the store a few weeks prior and had arranged the transaction. She laughed at my bizarre humor as I asked her a few historical questions before moving to my next errand, the Everglades Visitor’s Center, to see Patty and check how book sales were doing.  

Patty wasn’t in, but I spoke to Don. They’d sold all but two of my books, more good news. “Fantastic,” I said, leaving instructions for Patty to call me. My next stop was the ‘The Everglades Museum, to check on some post-Hurricane Ian storm repairs related to my day job.  

I walked into an omen – a Randy Wayne White display I did not know was happening. A black poster with a smoldering cigarette caught my eye - Tampa Burn. That book cover is responsible for me writing creatively. I wasn’t a fiction reader until I picked up a copy in the airport and headed to NOLA for a fishing trip. The cover enticed me. I read the book jacket: a carny psycho versus a marine biologist/assassin, set on the coast of SWFL and the Caribbean, written by a tarpon fishing guide out of Sanibel. What? I’m in. 

I read every book, the Randy Stryker novels, and the non-fiction books. I read RWW’s influences, including John D. MacDonald and Peter Mathiessen. One day, I had an idea for a thriller and wrote a plot summary for a novel called Gulfstream featuring the character, Captain Max Dean. When I was done, I read it as if I hadn’t written it, and knew I was a writer. I didn’t have to run it by anyone. I created a world inside my head; I knew each character by heart and could answer any question a person might have about them. 

To this day, RWW remains my most significant influence, along with James Lee Burke, and he knows it, I’ve told him. There would be no Captain Max Dean without Doctor Marion P. Ford, as I imagine there would be no Doc Ford without Travis McGee (John D. MacDonald), no Scott Harvath(Brad Thor) with Mitch Rapp (Vince Flynn R.I.P.), etc. 

Back at EFC, “May I help you?” I said, no attempt to hide my contempt for the Sheriff’s Deputy, whose name I don’t remember, with a milder-mannered partner. He figured he had me dead to rights on something, I reckon, the way he stood, blocking my egress from the establishment.  

“Are you alright?” he asked, with what we call a S’ eating grin.  

“Well, hell yes,” I responded in cheer. “Did I park illegally?” 

“No. 

“Jaywalk?” 

“No.” 

“Am I behaving erratically again?” I went ahead and asked, knowing what he was getting at. 

He didn’t respond, yet his body language answered. The game commenced. He had me nervous as a blind cat walking on tin foil with Scotch tape stuck to its paws, peppering me with questions. Where am I coming from, where am I going, blah, blah, blah. He was getting nowhere fast;therefore, I asked, “Well, what’d I do?”  

He said, “Nothing.” What in the wild world of sports is going on here?  

I could tell by the questions he asked and the way he asked them that he thought I was impaired. I was not, so I decided to push the envelope—caution to the wind. “Then why are you jacking me around?” One of my gifts that can also be a curse is that I’m incapable of not saying what I feel compelled to say.  

 “I just want to make sure you’re ok,” is all he could say. Slowing down, I explained the nature of my personal business related to my book and the various stops along the way. 

He patronized me further, “I’d like for EMS to come check you out, if that’s alright,” leading me to a lounge area at the front of the store, setting me down while he called the paramedics to ensure that I was “ok.”  

“Man, I don’t have time for that,” I said, sitting down, as if I had a choice. He stood board straight, intimidatingly close. A few seconds passed, and I said, “Man, back up.” He looked surprised. “Why are you crowding me, dude? Back up,” I said again. His partner now looked alive and had moved close but remained quiet. So far, it was just Officer Blow Hard, his partner, and Josh, Jimmy’s Counter Man – no one had come in. That was good. He didn’t move an inch. My redneck blood boiled. “You’re going to feel silly when you find out I’m just bipolar and in a good mood.” Boy, I was, too,riding a natural fifty-foot-high wave. Again, he didn’t respond, which I thought was well-played.  

The Collier County EMTs, three of them, showed up just in time. They were my saviors, the voices of reason, the Three Wisemen. However, it was one wise woman. When they realized that I was not only not impaired but sharp enough to hold court, they began asking the Deputy questions that meant, “Why did you call us?” Without asking directly, presumably to save face for their contemporary, admirable. 

I addressed the elephant and stated the obvious. “Yeah, why did you call them?” 

“To ensure that you were ok, sir.” 

With a nod and a wink, I said, “Right, right, exactly.” Who knows why he was busting my balls, but not for the reasons stated. All the Sheriff’s Deputies I know are cool dudes, and probably he is, too. We’ll see.  

I’d already explained, ad nauseam, why I was there and what I was doing. A poster of my book was visible on the counter; a copy sat on the coffee table a few feet away. I said, “Exhibit A: a collection of published short stories here and on Marco Island, 30-something. Some are about fishing, a couple are fictional prose, but most are accounts of things gone awry, fails, follies, accidents, near misses, and brush ins with authority figures.” 

I’d yet to realize the gravitas of the situation, that I was living out a story in real time. Then it hit me. “Don’t you see?” I asked them, “This story is writing itself.” Aside from one person, the EFC collective erupted in raucous cheer, prompting my following comment, which came fast and sharp. Looking at the deputy, I watched his swagger morph to doubt as his posture changed, and he faded towards the back. I said, “You may want to be careful, Bubba. What you do in the next few moments could seal your fate in local pop culture.” (More laughter).  

Adventures of the Saltwater Cowboy prints in the Mullet Rapper and the Coastal Breeze News, which are outside of the stores (all kinds), restaurants, parks, and offices. It's the local rag typical of every community. People are gonna read it. I told him on my way out, “Don’t sweat it. I’ll go easy on you.” And I have. 

My life is a series of short stories fueled by a steady flux of events uncommon to most people. I’m a Gonzo journalist (Hunter S. Thompson) covering the rip-roaring roller coaster ride that is my life.  

Jon Edward Edwards is the local author of “The Adventures of the Saltwater Cowboy: and avid sportsman.