Last week, we talked about watching a fellow kayaker pull a keeper-sized redfish off the blueway. I vowed to get back out there and get one of my own.

Turns out, the hubby, kid and I hit the trail on Sunday just after a rainstorm and a few hours before sunset.

Did we see redfish? You betcha.

Did we catch redfish? No.

But no one was angry enough to see red.

The clouds hovering above the horizon to the west were pink.

The heron’s blue feathers shown like they were painted on.

The osprey calling from a snag had a chest so white it was like cotton.

The seatrout my hubby caught had shimmering, silver sides.

The green blades of seagrass were so healthy it made me practically tear up.

The chocolate brown mangrove roots looked lovely.

By the time we returned to shore, no one cared about the red side of a redfish anymore anyway. The blueway had been blissful. Wait, did I say we didn’t care we were skunked by the reds? Well, that is, until next weekend when we get to go fishing again.