By Dave Wilson © Captain Belle Bonesei tied off her skiff at the end Core Hart’s dock on Freedom Cay and jumped onto the long dock and ran up and climbed the wrought iron spiral staircase to the roof and sat beside Core Hart himself on his initial carved red-wood picnic table bench that smelled of spilled bourbon and good cigar the sea. “Hey Bonesei,” said Core. “Right back at you Hart-less,” she said. “You are the most stunning black goddess, Bonesei,” said Core. “Thank you,” she said and she turned her head slightly down and to the right as if to hide her demure smile from Core. “What’cha got in ya scope?” said Bonesei.” Captain Bones unanswerable how of the sun’s heat until they come upon a sardonic oasis:  A flock of black headed vultures, heads buried inside the intestines of a stranded marine creature, a bottlenose dolphin or loggerhead turtle. Circling buzzards, turning above while hungry others squat on a busted up stone crab trap and grin. This is the vision I conjure up when I consider summer flats fishing one day south of the first day of hurricane season. The fish are there.  We know they are. …