I needed a loophole. I needed a way to execute some highly malicious compliance. I started by looking up the legal definition of fishing in the state of Florida as I pulled up the Florida administrative code and the state statutes. I scrolled through pages of legalese until I hit the jackpot. Florida Statute section 379.101 definitions.
I leaned closer to the screen reading the text carefully. The statute defined the act of fishing strictly and explicitly as the catching, taking, or attempting to catch or take wildlife. I blinked. I read it again. Wildlife.
Fish, frogs, turtles, gators, living organisms. I leaned back in my chair. A slow, predatory grin spread across my face. What about taking metal? What about extracting inanimate, non-biological objects from the substrate of a community waterway?
That wasn't fishing. By the strict legal definition recognized by the state of Florida, that was something entirely different. I opened a new tab and went to Amazon. As I searched for magnet fishing kit, I bypassed the beginner models. I didn't want a toy.
I scrolled down until I found what I was looking for. A double-sided neodymium magnet with a certified tested pull force of 1,200 lb. It came with 100 ft of heavy-duty marine-grade paracord and a pair of thick tactical gloves. It was designed for pulling engine blocks out of canals. I hit buy now with next-day shipping.
2 days later, the Amazon delivery guy lugged a surprisingly small but unbelievably dense box up to my front porch. He dropped it with a heavy thud, wiping sweat from his forehead. I dragged the box into the garage and sliced it open. The magnet was a thick silver disc, heavy enough to alter my heart rhythm if I held it too close to my chest. It felt like holding a piece of a collapsed star.
I tied the specialized knot the instructions recommended, securing the thick orange paracord to the heavy steel eyelet on the magnet. It was Thursday at high noon. The Florida sun was beating down like a hammer, turning the neighborhood into a sweltering quiet oven. Most of the retirees were inside enjoying their air conditioning. It was the perfect time for a test run, but I also wanted an audience.
I wanted Ashley to see this. I threw the heavy coil of rope over my shoulder, grabbed a 5-gallon plastic Home Depot bucket, and marched down the street toward the pond. I marched right past Ashley's house. Her golf cart was in the driveway. I knew she had a ring camera.
I made sure to look directly into it as I walked by. I arrived at the exact same spot where Tommy and I had been evicted. I set the orange bucket down. Once I slipped on the thick tactical gloves, I gripped the heavy magnet in my right hand, feeling the sheer density of it. I wound up, mimicking a discus thrower, and launched the 1,200-lb magnet out into the center of the pond.
It flew through the air in a graceful arc and hit the water with a massive, echoing kerplunk. Ripples shot out across the glass-flat surface. I let it sink. I waited until the paracord went slack, indicating it had hit the murky bottom. Then I started to pull.
Immediately, there was resistance. Not the jerking, frantic pull of a fish, but a heavy, dead, dragging weight. It felt like I had hooked the tectonic plate. I planted my boots into the soft grass, leaned back, and hauled hand over hand. The squelch of the mud at the bottom of the pond vibrated up the rope.
I could feel the magnet dragging through decades of accumulated sediment. Then I felt a distinct, solid clack travel up the line. Metal engaging metal. I pulled harder. The water near the bank started to churn, turning dark brown and bubbling with trapped methane gas.
Finally, the payload broke the surface. It was a monstrosity. The magnet was completely covered in a thick layer of black, foul-smelling sludge. But sticking out of the sludge in every direction were jagged pieces of rusty metal. I dragged it up onto the grass.
I knelt down and started scraping the mud away. First throw, a heavily rusted shopping cart caster wheel, three spark plugs, a pair of completely disintegrated pliers, and stuck fast to the very center of the magnet, a clump of about 30 crusty, black, oxidized quarters. And I tossed the junk metal onto the grass and dropped the chunk of coins into my orange bucket. They hit the plastic bottom with a hollow, satisfying rattle. This pond, having been a public park centerpiece for 30 years before the HOA took over, was a gold mine.
It was a massive, unregulated wishing well. I threw the magnet again. Kerplunk. I dragged it back. This time, it was heavier.
I hauled it onto the grass. More sludge. I wiped it away. Three Matchbox cars from the 1980s, a metal dog tag, and a fist-sized cluster of pennies, dimes, and what looked like a silver dollar. Into the bucket it went.
Clatter. I was on my fifth throw, hauling in an unrecognizable piece of an old bicycle frame, and another handful of change, when I heard the siren. Wee-ooh, wee-ooh. It was the electronic toy-like siren attached to Ashley's golf cart. She was tearing down the paved path, her amber light flashing furiously.
She swerved onto the grass again, skidding to a halt just feet from my bucket. She leaped out of the cart, her face flushed completely red beneath her visor. "I told you!" she screamed, pointing frantically at the pink laminated sign on the post. "I warned you! No fishing!