The other day as I was jacking my jaw, a typical Yebel (that’s a Yankee transplant who thinks he’s form the South—you know, one that says “ya’ll” after being here three years!) stopped me in the middle of a half truth or a half lie (I can’t remember which one) to tell me I was pronouncing it all wrong.

“It’s Pithlachascotee—not cootie! That’s a bug kids get!” she said.

Little did she know that she had hit a soft spot—that those waters run deep through my life as sure as the blood in my veins. Being the smartass that I am, I informed her the actual name is Askachascootee. The Pithla probably came along to try to legitimize the story the postman stole from Pocahontas, and the reason there is a Chasco is it rhymes with Pasco. (That got her!)

My first Cootee encounters were as a small boy during the occasional boat ride up river.

It was Jungle Jim, Tarzan and the African Queen all rolled into one. It was jungles, turtles, spiders and snakes. It was love at first sight!

I remember my father telling us to keep our hands out of the water because of the large gator that swam in the river. The gators on the bank already had us convinced.

Sometimes we would picnic or go to the mouth of the river to watch the sunset. The part that I liked best was that I got to sit in the front of the boat.

Living in downtown New Port Richey, as soon as I was mobile the river became my south and west boundaries. My friends and I spent most of our time playing and building forts in her hammocks, swimming and fishing in her waters. Sometimes we built a raft to float like Huck Finn.

The Chasco Fiesta was no doubt the biggest event in our lives. There was a circus and rides, hot dogs and cotton candy, and we got to dress like Indians. . . what more could a boy ask for?

When the boat parade came, we were ready, having built a palm frond teepee on the old raft. Our mother’s best lipstick was war paint. We paddled the river, sure we would win the grand prize!

There were two bridges we called the day bridge and the night bridge. The day bridge on the Boulevard was where we went to smoke, cuss and do the things our parents told us not to. We always went under the south side, never the north as it just wasn’t cool. That meant most of the time I had to pass by the Toll, a local bully who was always ready with a wedgie or a toss off the bridge. Sometimes I think he started the north side taboo.

On a summer evening with nothing to do, we would go to the bridge on Main Street. There, the old men of the town would be arguing as they figure-eighted their long cane poles with handmade plugs on the end—each one sure to catch the granddaddy snook!

Sometimes they would let us try as we listened to their words of wisdom. They said things like “the big ones always get away” and “when you catch one, nobody’s ever around” (that goes for fishing as well as politics).

When I was about 12, we moved to the other end of the Boulevard in Port Richey. Along with the house came an old wooden rowboat which I commanded after weeks of begging.

My new friends and I christened her The Yacht and spent everyday after school fixing and painting and making her almost seaworthy. The day of the launch was extra special to me—not only was I the captain of my own ship, but my father showed up with the rules and an old Johnson outboard! I knew it was his way of saying, “I trust you, son—you’re a man . . .”

All summer long we sailed the blue river (we weren’t allowed into the Gulf—one of the rules) as true Pirates of the Cootee!

Sometimes on a Friday night, with a flashlight tied to her bow, we’d go to town to take in a movie or to go to Roscoe’s for a Cherry Coke.

I remember my first kiss was at Sims Park where young lovers came to sit on the bank. I was smooth as Errol Flynn as I launched into the moonlight while my true love waved goodbye from the shore.

A couple of years later, the old Yacht was dry-docked for an unauthorized trip up the river during school hours and ended up in the wood pile. I’ve had a few boats since then, but never that much fun. This old pirate still floats the Cootee, now with my sons and grandson, or when I need an old friend to talk to.

So, when you hear me say her name wrong I don’t mean no disrespect. I’m probably just running my mouth so fast I can’t get the whole word in. A rose by any other name is still a rose.

Written by Terry Kline. Kline is the president of the West Pasco Historical Society & Museum, and a life-long resident of our county.