Hook, Line, and Legend

It’s National Fishing and Boating Week—a perfect time to grab a rod, hop in a skiff, and remember that every cast in Tampa Bay connects us to centuries of tradition. If you’ve ever cast a line here, you’ve dipped your toes into waters rich with history. Here, Spanish rancheros dried mullet on the shore long before condos and causeways.

Early net spread used for drying in Cortez.

Fishing on the old wooden Cortez Bridge.

Early Fishing Boats.

Salty Sol

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The earliest known fishing camps here were run by men like José Maximo, Manuel Phillipi and Juan Perico. You might recognize their names from places on your GPS: Maximo Point near Eckerd College, Phillippi Creek in Sarasota, and Perico Island near Bradenton. In the early 1800s, these Spanish Cuban fishers established "ranchos," where they sun-dried mullet and mackerel for shipment back to Cuba. According to a plaque at Eckerd College, Maximo's rancho was destroyed in the hurricane of 1838, but the names stuck like barnacles on pilings, according to "Sixty-One Years Fishing in Manatee Waters."

By the late 1800s, the area’s fishing culture had evolved into small settlements like Cortez. Folks poled their boats across the flats, especially when going after easily spooked fish like redfish. Stilt houses provided fishers a place to rest overnight, and their cotton twine nets were hung on wooden racks to dry in the sun.

One of the area’s most beloved chroniclers of this fishing life was Sol Fleischman, better known to generations of Floridians as “Salty Sol.” A radio and television personality by trade, Sol had fished these waters for more than six decades. His tales weren’t just colorful, they were first-hand accounts of life on the water. The Manatee County Historical Society interviewed him in 1980 to preserve this local knowledge before it disappeared with the tides.

Sol’s stories were filled with clever tricks and colorful characters, none more inventive than his friend Willis "Snooks" Adams, a lifelong Cortez fisherman who came up with one of the most ingenious bait-chumming methods around. He'd load fiddler crabs into a halved bicycle tire, which dangled over the side of his skiff. As each crab pushed forward, the one in front got nudged into the water, creating a natural chum line for redfish. Sol recalled the trick with wonder, calling it "Mother Nature’s conveyor belt."

Then there was Frances Livingston. Known better for her championship golf trophies at the Bradenton Country Club, Frances was a fishing powerhouse in her own right. She had her own boat, motor and schedule. Every morning before dawn, she’d head out solo and return with a full catch, day after day. "She always came home with fish," locals recalled. "Always."

The nets are nylon now. The stilt houses are mostly gone. But if you find yourself on the water early one morning, drifting past Maximo Point or watching the light break over Perico Island, think of Frances. Think of Snooks. And smile, you’re in good company.