The thing is, reproduction in mammals is a self-contained product you can take anywhere, but redfish are sloppy, allowing their environment to play a major role in propagation. For example, like humans, redfish frequent oyster bars for social interaction. But if a lady redfish in a moment of weakness should let go her eggs right there, the preoccupied males would fail to notice and mother nature would not be served.
Redfish are particular about their salinity d'amore. The love medium must be sufficiently dense to float the released eggs above the bottom, where two or three male reds will attend them with milt. This response is triggered by either smell, sight or getting nudged in the ribs and winked at by a passing pigfish. In the oyster bar stage, the 3-to-1 male-to-female ratio holds for humans, demonstrating again the continuity of life.
This egg buoyancy requires higher salinity than the typical estuary can offer, so late August through October, reds forsake these bitty bars and head for the big ocean rave.
Except for the voluntarily landlocked redfish in that iconoclastic East Central coast waterworld, Mosquito Lagoon. They play by their own rules in this 25- by 2-mile anomaly and the redfish don't bother leaving to procreate, which results in a resident population almost as inert as the United States Senate. For this reason Mosquito Lagoon fanatic Capt. Mark Benson knows most of them personally.
“I want to introduce you to some of my friends,” he said, alluding to a congregation of reds he'd spotted.
“You don't have any friends,” I pointed out.
“There's Fred,” he said, ignoring me. “Fred's always up for tug-o-war. Watch this.” His topwater plug lightly splashed down about six feet in front of some tails. Sure enough, one twitch and a red ran out, clobbered it and started playing.
“I think they're all named Fred,” I mumbled.
“You're right,” Mark chuckled as his drag ran out like peanuts at an elephant party, “but this one's Fred Flintstone.
“Mosquito Lagoon is its own special place,” he rhapsodized, rod bent, clearly in love. “Just look at it. If you lived here would you ever want to leave?”
I gazed all around at the yellow fringed cirrus clouds of the morning sky scattered across the smooth lagoon surface, the early, rich sun on distant mangroves, storks winging overhead and scratched my ankle. “No, absolutely not. Where else could I find mosquitoes in such fabulous concentrations?”
The redfish probably don't know how lucky they are to live underwater. Many Central Florida placenames don't fit, like Altamonte Springs (no springs), Mount Dora (no dora) and Lake Wales (where's the wales?). But dusk to dawn you're not left wondering where in the heck Mosquito Lagoon got its name. Planing out of the boat ramp one summer night with Mark and an anti-mosquito suit with his buddy Charlie sweating inside it, I was inclined to ridicule Charlie, until we stopped.
Soon there was little air between our mosquitoes. Drifting into a wind shadow, we practically drowned in them. Mark and I just constantly sprayed our hands, faces and my thin shirt. I was happy to see they even annoyed Charlie behind his screen. We got one hit, a smashing redfish strike to Charlie's floater at the boat. I think the fish glimpsed his suit and went insane.
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Mark knows many of the different redfish schools and usually where to find them, recognizing the same exact fish. Students of the lagoon agree these home-loving redfish pretty much don't ever leave. Mosquito Lagoon reds are the first ever documented to spawn in an estuary, taking advantage of their home's unique characteristics. Where other estuaries are infused with fresh water, lowering their salinity compared to the ocean, Mosquito Lagoon's lack of dilution keeps it thick enough to buoy the eggs, even at its period of lowest salinity when the reds spawn, right after the rainy season.
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