Chapter 2. Fishin
If I were to invite you to spend the day with me, sittin' next to snakes, swattin' skeeters, gettin' sunburn or frostbit and pretty much promise you'd catch either a cold or hell from your wife, what would you say? Right! And I wouldn't hold it against you either.
But if I asked you if you'd like to go fishin' you'd most likely say something like, "let's go!"
And you wouldn't be alone because daily, around the world, men and women risk losing their jobs, their spouses and depending on the kind of fishing, even their lives, chasing fish.
There's no doubt that my snake and skeeter description is the darker side of the sport. Sport? I know, it doesn't make sense to me either. The only one doing anything that resembles a sport is the fish! He does all the jumping, flipping, stretching and fighting, while the fisherman does exactly what he'd be doing at home, sittin' and drinkin' beer. The fact is, the modern fisherman has really only transferred operations from the living room, to his boat.
Today, a state of the art fishing boat has all the comforts of home. The seats are as butt friendly as a slightly soiled, beer stained Lazy Boy recliner and nowadays, fishermen can even bring their remote along. It's true, the trolling motors are remote controlled and they can be about as much fun as the one at home. For example, if a fisherman in another boat is getting just a little too close to your fishin' hole, all you gotta do is scan the frequencies until you find the one that operates his trolling motor and move his butt on outta there.
There's just really no good excuse to not take me up on my offer. Bass boats even have tv's now, so you don't have to miss the game of the week and it's common knowledge that the beer's better on a boat. It could be because more often that not it's over a hundred degrees in the shade out there and there aint not shade! But the main reason it tastes better is because usually you're fishing with a good friend and what isn't better with friends?
But always take a friend, because a non- friend can make things miserable out there. Pretty much like in the real world. A non- friend might say, "get your own damn worm." Or, "clean 'em? You didn't say nothin' bout cleaning 'em." Non- friends might also descend to saying, "I know it's your boat and your RV but chip in for gas? I don't think so." Non- friends are best left dockside.
Non- fishermen can be about as big a problem as non-friends. But if they're friends or relatives you're pretty much obligated, as a sportsman and a human being, to tolerate their presence. Just remind yourself that someone had to teach you most everything you know about fishing and pretty much everything else you learned, that requires skill and expertise. It helps if I think about all the stupid things I did before I became the perfect fisherman I am today.
Like when I borrowed my buddy's best bass catching lure. That thing was beautiful, even signed by the artist, name looked like Rembrandt to me. Most likely a forgery but the fish couldn't tell, even with their well known affection for impressionist art. Well, I tied that work of art on with the only knot I knew how to tie. A granny knot. I have since learned that tying a lure on slippery monofilament fishing line with a granny knot, is pretty much like not tying it on at all. When I made my first cast that little Rembrandt went about 30 yards farther than the end of my line! I didn't know!
Like when my experienced fisherman father told me to drop the anchor overboard. Being a good son and a novice fisherman, I did as he said. And if he had told me to tie the end of the anchor line on to something I would have done that as well! He said "you should have known." But I didn't know!
Like when I was told by the experienced older person to put the outboard motor on the back of the boat. I did. When we encountered a rather sizable wave the bow went up and then down as it's designed to do. The the rear of the boat reacted just the opposite, as designed. Down then up. Now picture a slingshot. Then picture his shiny and running 25 hp motor as the projectile in your slingshot. Yep, that little prop on it probably helped it pick up air speed because it went flying past me making a bee line toward our intended destination. If it weren't for the attached fuel line it might have made it too. Needless to say we came to an abrupt halt about the time his motor disappeared into the black water. Even ran for a while down there. Then silence. But not for long because the owner of the motor wanted to talk. As we began rowing back to camp, it didn't take him long to track down the problem. Me. I didn't know!
Nice thing about fishing with an experienced friend is you don't have to talk. Nary a word. For the whole trip. It is however, customary to say "howdy" when you meet, "yep" when offered a beer, and "see ya" at the end of day. Any more palaver than that is just too chatty for most fishermen.
The silence seems to please the fish as well. First thing you learn about fishing is to not be offended when someone tells you to "shut up." It's not personal. Unless a non-friend says it. Whispering"shut up" when fishing, is the only thing a kid can yell at an adult without getting backhanded. Most times the adult will even say "sorry." It's all in the interest of catching a boat load and that is, of course, what it's all about. Isn't it?
At first glance one would be inclined to respond "yes" to that question, even as I did when I wrote it. But then I pondered it a bit and I figure that catching fish is so far down on the list of what fishing is about, that it's almost not worth mentioning. I know you must think I pondered wrong because, hey, why would they call it fishing, if it's not about catching them?
Well, here's what I figure. Most things are aptly named, like grocery shopping is all about shopping for groceries. Lawn mowing is about cutting grass and so on. But fishing is complex. And so are it's devotee's. And they're sneaky sometimes too.
More directly, fishing isn't about fishing, fishing is the excuse you give your spouse when you're asking for their blessing to go!
I suppose, part of the idea behind calling it fishing, is that it plays to the whole food gathering concept. Women love for men to gather things. A man gathering anything, other than female phone numbers, usually sits very well with women.
I mean realistically, if you said, "hey hon, me and Jim are gonna go off for a few days and sit in his boat, tell jokes, catch a little sun and drink beer, do you mind?" You don't even need to answer. Contrast that with, "hey hon, me and Jim are going to go gather some fish." "Sure honey," she'd coo. So the term 'fishing' was born! Not a thing to do with fishing. It's all misdirection!
So where to fish? It is a critical aspect of fishing. Most folks call a fish camp to ask them a few basic questions. Like, "how far away is the lake, do you have kitchenettes, a restaurant, and a bar?" That's all you really need to know but if you're wife's in the room, while you've got them on the phone, go ahead and ask if the fish are biting. Oh and don't forget to ask what bait they're using to gather 'em!
Once you get to your lake and the boat's in the water, you've got to try and figure out where the fish are located. Most folks just ask somebody that looks like a good fisherman. Just some general tips here. Don't ever ask a guy that has a hat with fishing lures hooked on it. They are not his personal lures. They were already on the hat when he bought it at the Crackerbarrel gift shop. Or a guy that has to take 5 passes at trying to back his boat in before his wife has to take over. I stay away from guys that are a bit too chatty out there too, usually they're like me, gathering information.
The guys I want info from always have a local tag on their car, and if it's not local, Georgia tags are acceptable in any state in the union. The guys I approach have a minimum of 12 rods and reels and a cooler the size of large man's coffin. Their boat cannot be well polished and if I can get close enough to it I peek in and look for fish scales on the floorboard and bite marks on a Rapala. Now all those positives can be cancelled out if I spot a tube of sunscreen or an umbrella.
But no matter who your source of information is, keep this in mind... fish do not stay in one place. They move vast distances in search of food. Like Americans every Saturday night.
But with fish, there's one commonly understood, fact. The fish are never located anywhere near where you are! They are always, without exception, at the farthest possible place accessible by water, from you! Now, don't go trying to outsmart the system by putting in at that far away spot because the fish will move before you can get there. I can't it explain it anymore than I can explain gravity, so just trust me and bring along an extra gas tank when you go fishing.
Here's a story that might help demonstrate the point.
My brother Doug has a home in the quaint Florida town of Satsuma on the beautiful cypress lined banks of Dunns Creek. Satsuma is about 3 miles from Crescent lake by water and Crescent Lake is about 10 miles from one end to the other, with Dead Lake being at it's farthest end.
"Where are the fish bitin?" I asked him. "The word is they're up around Dead Lake" he said. Now, if you took a map and looked for the farthest place from Doug's house, you'd find Dead Lake, it's about 13 miles from his back door.
Not that the distance was a problem because he's got one of those modern bass boats I was talking about so, though it's a pretty good drive from his backyard to the fish, it's a very comfortable ride and pretty too. Which is another reason people fish, sightseeing and nature gazing.
Doug figures it's about a 2 hour drive, when you figure slowing down for manatees, fallen skiers, logs, crab pots, sand bars, fallen trees and de-throttling for the ever present tiny boats that have 7 kids and 2 adults piled in.
Those boats are usually only about 12 feet long and it's difficult to detect where the water and the top sides of the boat begin and end. They are so close to swamping, that excessive laughter can tip them over.
Those boats are usually occupied by people that live where their only exposure to water is a horse trough and learning to swim is generally something they just never got around to.
On those boats, the life jackets are always left at the dock because "there just aint enough room for them", you know, with all the people on board.
That boat is generally borrowed from someone that is either dumb about water safety or they have a sizable life insurance policy on one of the occupants.
That boat is the one you read about, that for some unknown reason, tipped over and 9 people drowned.
Every pass time has it's people that don't know what the heck they're doing and hey, like fishermen, we all have to learn sometime. Up around Daytona you can drive on the beach. The beach equivalent of over packing a john boat, is parking too close to the ocean. The real blame for that parking decision should be laid at the feet of the public schools for not teaching people that tide is not just a laundry detergent.
I've seen many a couple walk off hand in hand only to come back and see their car turned into a salt water aquarium.
Getting stuck in Florida sand can spoil a fun day in the sun as well. There's not a Cracker been born that hasn't been stuck in that dry, white quicksand known as Florida top soil. Getting stuck aint really all that hard. But trying to get out without exacerbating the problem is where you separate the natives from the folks that just own timeshares. Visitors tend to floor it. You ought not to do that. It has the immediate effect of digging you in deeper, making it harder for the always willing Florida Crackers to help push, pull or drag you out.
Now once they've got you out, don't insult them by offering money.. a six pack'll do just fine.
Florida is beautiful but she's wild. Our Rattlesnakes are long, our hurricanes mean and our riptides are heartless. Like a woman, her beauty can lull you into believing she is harmless. And there's not a better way to soak her beauty in than by standing in 4 feet of her pale blue brine, while her waves kiss your lips and caress your body.
Odds are, if you're doing that, you're probably more worried about sharks than you are riptides. But you shouldn't be.
A riptide is not a tide in a lunar sense. It is a brief and deadly phenomenon that occurs on ocean beaches after a wave, that has broken on the beach, decides it wants to get back out to sea. Immediately. It is a frightening experience the first time you are caught in it's grip. The natural and immediate instinct is to resist it, giving it everything you've got to try and make it back to shore. If you choose to fight it, you have chosen wrongly. It is the decision most people make, prior to drowning.
I know it doesn't make any sense but that powerful rush of water that seems to want to draw you out to sea, will dissipate the further out you go. Another feature of a riptide is it only operates in a somewhat narrow band. In other words, it may not be affecting people within 20 or 30 yards, up or down the beach from you. So the way you handle it is swim parallel with the shoreline and try not to be bothered if you are still being drawn out because it will release you long before you get to Africa.
Ok, no more PSA's. That fulfills my obligation to the Florida Department of Tourism. It wasn't all that much work for the cool million I got. Naaa! the humorist is kidding again. Fact is, I don't get nothin' from the government, I'm a white male you know. Now that's the satirist speaking. Pay no attention to either of them because right now I want to get back to fishing with my brother.
Now the reason we were gonna to drive all that way to Dead Lake was because that's where all the local folks in Satsuma said the fish were. So off we went. It was a beautiful day, made even more lovely by the addition of our mates, Doug's wife Donna and my girlfriend Nancy.
They probably wouldn't have come along normally but since we were driving so far and were sure to catch something, we thought it would be a good opportunity for Doug and I to bait a few hooks and demonstrate our fearlessness at impaling worms, crickets and minners. It's not that men enjoy doing that any more than women do. It's just that there's just so danged few ways for a man to show his manliness these days. Oh, I know cussing is still effective and men can still get a " how did you do that!?" reaction when you open a can of pickles the little lady's been working on for a while. But short of those, it's hard for a guy these days to distinguish themselves from the ladies.. besides baldness.
Yeah, before the turn of the century men had injun fighting and cattle ropin, sodbustin, tree toppin and barn raisin that all said "I am man." Now, being privy to this ladies, if you happen to be one of those women that doesn't mind impaling God's little creatures, before you do it, consider the life you are impacting. No! Not the worms. The mans!
So we get to Dead Lake and we find some lily pads and fish our butts off for 6 hours and don't catch nothin'. But we did laugh a lot and watch the game on his 21 inch Sony but caught nothing. "13 miles, and fishless, we could have done that at home!" I thought. I didn't say it because everyone was sounding a little mutinous for the same reasons and I didn't want to be the one that lit the match.
So we motored on up to Flagler fish camp, about a hundred yards up the way, to stretch our legs on solid ground.
That fish camp is at the farthest possible point from Satsuma where Doug lives. If you wanted to go further from Doug's house, you'd have to park the boat and walk. Which we did.
When we got up to the camp, Doug and I started talking to the guys that were hangin' around. It wasn't because we're such danged friendly people. No. On this day our friendliness was more scheming than cordial. We were on a mission. We wanted information and we wanted it fast. Where are the fish? Specifically! No pointin' to where they are. Don't say "over yonder or bout a hundred yards from that ol tree that looks like Abe Lincoln." Or "just up from where Johnny Mayhem caught that 12 pounder in '68." If you're getting those answers from somebody, you've got a guy that does not want to help! So you might as well terminate that conversation and try someone else. Preferably, a guy that's cleaning fish!
At least you know, he knows where they are, even though you might be hard pressed to get him to tell you the exact location. One thing to keep in mind. Extracting from fishermen that do not know you, where they caught their fish, is an art form. There should be a course taught on it in college. A major! A PHD!
Here's a quick primer. Rule one. Never, ever, look startled when he opens his cooler and you see hundreds of fish in there. Resist the urge to yell "oh my stars, did you catch all those? Honey muffin, come over here and look. Where did you catch all those fish?" I know it seems like it would be flattering and direct but believe me, you'll scare him off. I've done it! Honey muffin and all!....You got to play him a little bit and reel him in nice and easy. It's ok to be startled by the quantity of fish. That's human nature. But contain your enthusiasm. Remember, he's watching you and he's already suspicious of you because you've been there 2 minutes and you aint cussed or spit.
And if you're wearing bermuda shorts with socks and leather sandals, well, don't. Ditch those things and put on some sneakers And if you're in Florida, barefoot's preferable but old, not new sneakers is acceptable cleaning station attire. Then walk up, spit and say something like what we said, "how da heck'd you guys do today?" They won't answer. Don't worry, that's normal, just keep talking, "We didn't catch crap. Brought our girls and.. well, wanted to show 'em a good time and all...well..you guys have all been there." If you're delivery's good and your story is perceived as sincere, pretty soon a kind soul, which all fisherman are at heart, will ask you. "Where'd you fish?" On that day, as if choreographed, Doug and I both pointed to the lily pads that were visible from the cleaning dock and said, "over there." There was a pause. The friendlier fish cleaner put his knife down and looked up from the sink full of fish guts and filets to make eye contact with us. "Where'd you fish?" he asked. Again we both pointed to the lily pads. This time, when we said it, the whole dock started vibratin' from the laughter. Doug and I looked at each other wondering what was so danged funny and when the laughin' died down, the main guy says, "You aint gonna catch no fish on this side of the lake, the fish are all up around SATSUMA. Ya'll know where Satsuma is?"
Screaming would have been inappropriate but it would have really felt good. And crying fishermen are only socially embraced when a big one gets away or you get a life altering back lash in your zebco right when the fish are turnin' on. So my brother and I, in relatively tight unison, mumbled variations of,"Satsuma? Uh, well, yeah, uh... we've been there before". Never, have truer words been spoken! For as you know Satsuma is where our journey began. 13 miles we chased those danged fish and all along they were in our back yard! That couldn't be!
Fortunately our mates heard none of that, so Doug and I tried to sort things out. We knew his fishing friends in Satsuma weren't lying to us and without question these guys were all telling the truth because they all laughed at the same time. So the only way it could be explained is, we figure we were caught in a sort of Twilight Zone moment. We were experiencing that moment when the fish moved from the farthest point of the lake, to the other farthest point. We figured they probably passed right under our boat while we were driving to the farthest point. It's the only way to explain it! Defining gravity would be easier.
Yep, it's true, the fish were all where we were!! We could have been sittin' on lawnchairs in Doug's back yard on solid ground and loaded the cooler up. But as we know that's not what fishin's about. It's complex but like so many things, when you take a good look at them, to see what makes 'em tick, it's all about the basics. Fishing's got more to do with experiencing some of the best and most basic things God's world has to offer. Like the joy on that day of being with people you love. Like standing in the midst of inspiring sunrises and majestic sunsets. It's being on, near, or in, God's life sustaining water and capturing glimpses of our shy neighbors, the Florida wildlife. And there's the personal things experienced while fishing. Things like solidifying old friendships and making new ones. It's about memories, for some of the best fish stories have nothing to do with fish at all. Fishing is also about the character building stuff like, facing the elements and adversity, sometimes even to the extremes of survival. Fishing can even teach us to accept losing and how to win graciously and to develop patience and perseverance and learn to be at peace with nature and ourselves.
No doubt fishing is mostly about things that have nothing to do with it's name but that doesn't mean we can leave the poles at home guys. Cause remember, you aren't ever gonna make it to the boat launching, sun worshipping, beer buddy stage if you're honey ever finds out that it's not all about gathering fish...
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My earliest memories of fishing go back to before I was born. Oh yeah, I can recall hearing dad declaring to mom, when I wasn't no more than T-minus 7 months and counting, "honey I'm gonna go fishing this weekend with G.W." Then she'd declare back, "oh no you're not".
At least that's what I thought they were saying because things were a little garbled sounding from where I was. But even if I got the details of that earliest memory wrong, the whole scene was repeated enough through the years to confirm that, sometimes dad won and sometimes mom won.
Now that was all when they were nearly newlyweds because after being married about 10 years, the fights ceased. In fact, I can recall many times mom suggesting, "Earl, why don't you take the boys fishing for the weekend, in fact why don't you take the whole week and go fishing." That's a sure sign that the new car smell is wearing off a marriage. But it happens to all of them and in this case, the little distance that was growing between them just happened to benefit us boys, cause we got to go on a lot of fishing trips.
Sometimes mom would go along with us if one of her favorite people in her soap opera had got killed off. And I always liked it when she did because it usually meant everything was going to get upgraded. Instead of sleeping on the ground under the stars, we'd stay in a motel. Instead of fishing from the bank, we'd rent a boat. And having mom along meant eating out, or rather in. What I mean is, on 'dad only' trips, we'd eat outside. And dinner usually was a can of beans we'd pass around. And maybe a piece of bread that was all our own. When that menu was being planned back at home, we didn't pack any meat because we always planned to eat the fish we were gonna catch. The best laid plans of mice and fishermen..
It's not that we weren't good fishermen, it's just that you have to know a lake before you can extract fish from it. Unless, of course you use a net or electricity or some not so subtle dynamite. We were sure some of those guys with the loaded down coolers at the fish cleaning stand had incorporated at least one of those fish gettin' tactics. There was no other way to explain it. We all left the docks at dawn with empty coolers. We all fished all day. When we all returned, magically, their coolers were too full to shut and ours were full of air, half a can of beans, 2 plastic beer ties and a fish or two so small they could have easily been mistaken for bait.
These guys would swing up to the dock in their 20 foot bass boats, with a wake and a motor bigger than our pontiac. They worked in unison, like they'd done it all a thousand times. They were obviously pros. They had patches on their matching outfits that showed they belonged to professional fishing societies. They had more stickers on the sides of their boats than an entry in a NASCAR event. And they spoke very little, if at all. Their arrival seemed more like a military landing than a family outing.
As a young guy it always struck me that those guys didn't seem very happy. It was weird. It was like they had taken something they originally loved and had turned it into an enemy. Not something to savor but to be beaten. Fishing to us was symbolically, a mountain that we loved climbing. These guys seemed more like they'd rather take a helicopter to the top. We didn't have but 2 lousy specks laid out on that fish station but I'd venture to say that, in some ways, we had a better day than they did.
Now don't get me wrong, they had fish and to the person, they were cordial. Business like but cordial.
They'd come up with one of those white, casket size coolers with 4 pol bearers hauling it. They'd pop the top on it and reveal to the audience the fruits of their days work. There was generally a collective gasp because the casket was always full to the bream with bream. Some bystander would invariably try justify their failure by whispering, "I'd sure hate to have to clean all those fish."
I envied their skill and knowledge but I wouldn't have traded places with them. Those guys had so many poles hanging off the sides of their boat, that from the air it must have looked like a giant millipede walking on water. I was happy just holding one pole. I liked the simplicity.
I would have liked to have caught more fish but truthfully not as many as they had. But a few. It was a dream of mine to discover what beans tasted like with fish.
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If a fish can be an enigma, the largemouth bass is one. They're hard to figure out. Those things are mean as a gator yet can be tender and friendly as a 60's flower child. Even a small bass can swoop in outta nowhere, grab a shiner and by the time he returns home with it to show Mrs. Bass, he'll have that sucker scaled and ready to serve. Yep, even male fish take pride in their fish catchin.
Largemouth bass have been known to attack birds sitting too close to the water and eat snakes so big that I wouldn't get close enough to, to shoot. Bass are fearless.
But yes they can be friendly too. Saw a guy on tv that had a few trained out in the river behind his house. He even got to where he could hand feed them. The males and females both have strong sense of family, not unlike some humans.
Sadly fishermen use that instinct to their advantage. At spawning time the female will make a nest in shallow water. Both her and the male will patrol the area to keep predators away from the eggs. The fishermen cast lures up around the beds knowing the bass will perceive any thing that moves in the area as a threat and will pick it up to move it. The male being the most expendable in all species, tries to move the lure, and is boated. The larger female will do the same thing on the second cast. Usually catching the male generates a little excitement in a boat that's fishing the beds because they can count on getting the bigger female with the next cast.
We don't like to fish when they're on the beds. At that time of year the females are often full of roe and the fish aren't necessarily biting out of hunger, they're removing a threat.
But fishing the normal way, I believe is a good thing for people and the fish population. I truly believe it is the way of things. Jesus even picked fishermen to be his right hand men. But I have a feeling He wouldn't fish for em when they're on the beds.
For the most part, I've done very little damage to the supply of fish in the world but it wasn't for lack of trying! So don't go patting me on the head. I was as determined as the next guy to load the boat. One thing is certain, it's not catching fish that keeps a body coming back, cause if it was, I'd have fallen out of love with it years ago. I guess the name of the sport kinda tells what to expect, I mean it's called 'fishing' not 'catching'.
Good fishermen usually will catch fish. So if you consistently don't catch fish you might do well to check your techniques. Maybe you don't tie the lure on right. You laugh, but it's true. How you tie that sucker on can be as important as what you're tying on. One time me and Uncle Deke, and dad were fishing out in Dead Lake. Uncle Deke was the only one catching anything but we figured it was because he was in the bow. The person in the bow generally gets first shot at any passing fish. Plus, we were fishing for specs and his store bought fiberglass rod was called a 'spec rod.' Mine and dads were called cane poles. After a while dad asked Uncle Deke why he's skinnin us. He said "how you tyin your lure on?" Dad, a little put off said 'with a knot." Uncle Deke took a look at dads lure and it was identical to his but the knot was wrong. Because the knot was wrong, the lure wouldn't hang proper when you're jiggin. Well, me and dad both retied ours and lo and behold it was like when Jesus told Peter where to throw his nets. All of a sudden we were good fishermen too.
Uncle Deke was short for Uncle Deacon Roy Horne. He was momma's little brother. In his time he was quite the jock as well. He told me that he was the one that introduced the one hand push shot to the southern basketball world. No one ever has corroborated it but no one ever disproved it either. Considering Uncle Deke's profession I suspect he was telling the truth.
Uncle Deke was a policeman, with the accent on the first syllable. He was in broad terms a policeman, but specifically, he was a Chief of Police. Chiefs of anything give a lot of orders. It is their job to command people. It's the rare person that can do something all day and then turn it off when they leave the office. Uncle Deke did a pretty good job of being a civilian. Pretty good.
Fishing is generally regarded as the time and place, to turn whatever it is you are in the real world, off. Bombastic politicians as well as hard charging men of industry undergo a metamorphosis like personality change when they're holding a cane pole. It is one of the mysteries of life and a very attractive thing about the sport. For a day, we are all equals. We all bait our own hooks and clean our own fish. The millionaires rub noses with the hand-to-mouth folks and unless you're prone to braggin, no one would ever know which one you were.
Like I said, Uncle Deke did a good job of leaving his police badge at the precinct but sometimes the Chief in him would just bust out. "Mike!" He'd growl. "Grab those rods and carry 'em up to the house". Or "Dougie, grab that 500 pound motor and carry it 2 miles up the road." Lest you think Doug's command was more severe than mine, given our differences in build those rods were as heavy to me as that motor was to Doug!
Uncle Deke put on all the fish fries at the camp and back in Jax. He taught us all how to fish for specs and where to catch em. And he even let us use his cabin on Dead Lake.
That camp was a work in progress. Don't get me wrong, we were thrilled to have it. But in it's early iterations it really was just a small step up from a tent. It did have an indoor bathroom. That was at the same time, a good feature and the most repulsive thing about the cabin. All bathrooms, all of them have 3 walls and a door. It says so in the name, bath "room". But that fish camp had a shower curtain around the whole thing. And it shared the room with the bunk beds. Women that stayed over would just hold whatever needed holding til they got back to civilization but us guys didn't have a big problem with it. I always suspected he kept the bathroom so bad to discourage females from showing up. It was effective.
What was amazing about that 2 room cabin was the walls. That primitive cabin with the indoor outhouse, had pictures all over the walls. After close inspection, you'd find that you recognized those guys. Senators, congressmen, famous football coaches and actors were all up there adorning his wall. And those pictures were all taken at 'the camp'. They stayed at that camp! I was sure I was too good for that place until I saw those people then...well, no I still felt I was, I mean it had curtains around the toilet people!!
But I'll tell you what, when the fish were biting, we'd put our names on the list to borrow that place because chasing fish is far more important than bathrooms.
I made one rule when I started this book. Don't say anything about anyone that you wouldn't say to their face. Particularly a Chief of Police! I loved Uncle Deke.
He was a man once met, you would never forget. There's only one way to explain why those Senators and men of industry stayed at his place. It was because DeRoy was there. Oh, ok and maybe he fixed a ticket or two!! But mainly it was because he was an original.
Uncle Deke had that Chief of Police gruff side but he had a sweet sentimental side too. It was never more evident than when he was talking about his dogs. He'd fall out of his chair talking about his bird dog Brownie. Southern joke telling I'd wager is about 75 percent delivery and 25 percent substance. I'd say Uncle Deke's was more a 90/10 split. The joy of his storytelling was rarely in the punchline. It was in the ride. In watching him it was evident he loved what he was talking about. He was moved to laughter about things that dog did. I don't recall any of his stories, not one. But that's my point. He was the story.
I can't tell you how much I wish that I could have just one more chance to row him up Haw Creek. I suspect Earl and Dougie miss him too... even though he gave us this flawed bald gene!
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The biggest bass I ever saw was up in a little creek Dad and I found on the way to getting lost. We weren't technically lost but there was a little confusion bout our specific location. We knew where the boat was, underneath our feet, we just weren't real sure where the trailer was. You often encounter that on the water, for as you know, there aint no signs in the swamp. If we'd have only had a GPS all would have been well but back then about the only way of determining where you were was, well, there really was no way of knowing. And if you got lost deep enough, things could turn ugly, fast. In Florida, without a can of 'OFF', if they didn't find you in a few days you'd be sucked dry. That is, if you didn't get snake bit, taken by a Florida panther, eaten by a gator or just plain die of fright. But dad and I weren't panicky lost yet, so we just decided to stop, anchor, eat and think for a spell.
While we were doing the thinking part I happened to look under a big overhanging bush and there, basking in the shade, was a bass so big it looked like a log. In fact if it weren't for the pulsating gills on it, I'd have never made the distinction. I was frozen. This was the biggest largemouth bass I'd ever seen, either on a wall or in my dreams. We were in a tiny creek not more than 20 feet wide. It was so far off the beaten path even water would get lost seeking it's level. The view upward wasn't blue but rather brown with a thick canopy of vines and spider webs that scarcely let a ray of sunlight pierce through. It was Florida hot, not a breath of air and quiet as a strip show at a Baptist convention. A perfect hideout for a 'mossback' a 'hawg' or in terms non-fishermen will recognize ' a huge fish'!!
Without saying anything to dad, I quietly picked up my cane pole that was already loaded with a worm. Ok. Sidebar. All you bass fishermen are already laughin aint ya? The first thing that got you going was I chose a cane pole. You figure that initial decision sealed my fate because no cane pole on earth has got more than 8 pound test line and less than 10 feet of line to play that fish with. And the drag on a cane pole is rather preset. Yeah, well I'd have to agree with you but the reality was that big fish wasn't more than six feet away from me. Plus we didn't have our rods and reels rigged with a rubber worm, much less a live one. So I figured the best bet I had to have any chance at all, was that cane pole.
Now there were some other problems with that choice. Cane poles usually only have a hook smaller than the smallest paper clip and honestly a paper clip would be considerably stronger. But my mini hook did have a live, ready, willing and able worm on it. I was counting on that worm to do his part and dad and I would take care of the rest.
But I still hadn't said a thing to dad as I lowered the worm into the water about an inch in front of that behemoth. Surprisingly he wasn't startled by the presentation, so I was encouraged. I slowly dragged the worm toward his steadily breathing mouth. Next thing I knew my worm was gone. I don't know if that fish ate him or just breathed him in along with some black creek water but he was now in full possession of that bait.
Now it's important to note. There was no big commotion at that moment because apparently I was the only one that knew that fish had a hook in his mouth. Neither dad, nor the fish, had a clue what had just transpired. That hook was so small in comparison to that creek monster, he felt nothing. Plus I hadn't set the hook. Now you fishermen know that's a critical moment in fishing. When to set the hook. Some say wait, give the fish time to eat the bait. Some say set that sucker with all you got soon as you feel anything remotely feels like a fish on the end. I subscribe to that technique. Not so much because it's better but it's just what I always do. I mean I'd like to wait a bit for the fish to swallow or do whatever he needs to do, but I don't or rather can't. I think my problem is I catch so few fish that when I do feel like the opportunity has presented itself, I just yank. It's all a reflex and all out of desperation and surely out of my control.
Fishermen that catch a lot of fish are much more calm about the event. Kind of like you'd imagine how Sean Connery might react. I was more like Don Knotts. A seasoned fisherman can take a drag on a cigarette after they feel a fish down there. I've seen em on tv where they can even talk and say something calm like " you know, I think I've got one on, after I finish this sandwich I think I'll give it a yank." Those guys must be on Valium cause nobody I ever fished with could do that. Me and my dad are yankers.
But not on this day. No sir, this fish catching experience, from the moment I saw him, had been an exercise in control and patience. So I continued. I began to slowly drag the line in the opposite direction to see if that 'paperclip' might grab. It did!! Ok I will admit my heart started getting a little out of control but I knew this was more like surgery than fishing. Or like defusing a bomb and the wrong move at the wrong time and this whole thing could blow up in my face. As soon as I'd made contact with the bass I knew it was time to bring in reinforcements. So I said in a quiet, careful voice you might use if you were looking at a ghost and said "dad, would ..you ...please.... hand... me... the.. net"? Real calm like. I did not want to generate any undue excitement that might set that bomb off.
You see my plan was to get that big boy in the pen without a fight. If there was a fight we were going to lose. Boating a 15 pound bass with 10 feet of line on a cane pole with a bream hook is impossible using traditional tactics. It could only be done by deception or even better one of those darts they shoot bears with. What I would have given to have a dart gun about then. Heck, even if I had that fish on the rod and reel, like the bass fishermen were telling me to get, I would probably lose him. That creek was only 20 feet wide and a veritable mine field of underwater former trees. Honestly, with all there was against me, I figured I was in about the best position I could expect to be in.
And things continued to look up because I was dragging him toward the boat...and he could could not have appeared to care less! It was all kind of surreal. I didn't know if he was asleep or just playing opossum or what. I knew he wasn't dead cause like I said, his gills were working. But he was coming to papa. Me that is. The other papa had just seen what I wanted the net for. Dad's eyes got real big but he was quiet. Perhaps frozen is more descriptive. It was the moment that worried me most and why I had kept that fish a secret because I could be responsible for my emotions but I couldn't be sure how newcomers would respond. Another thing that worried me was dad used to wear these big heavy leather hunting boots while fishing. I know, that's what I would ask him too. Besides being real loud on the bottom of the boat, there was the safety concern. If he ever fell overboard wearing those 20 pound boots he would be drawn toward the bottom like a magnet to iron. He wouldn't be all that hard to find down there because he'd be standing up but still, 'get some sneakers dad', I'd say. But dad's never do what son's say, I suppose it's considered a sign of weakness. The first time you do what your son says pretty soon a son might start to think he's not a complete idiot and blow years of parental training. And then the power structure breaks down. The only reason it works so well is because the father is perceived as all knowing, infallible so he was keeping his boots for hell or highwater. Literally.
Like those bass guys thought earlier, dad said to me"why the hell you got him on that cane pole, son?" As we've established, it is a fair question but I was busy at that moment and really didn't think talking was a good idea. So I ignored the question and re- requested the net. "But please dad...be..as..quiet.. as you can".
It wasn't rude of me to say that because for dad to be quiet was going to take some kind of higher intervention because we had an aluminum boat. Not like a fancy carpeted aluminum bass boat has, this was your basic riveted john boat. They are known for their ability to send sound waves for hundreds of miles through the air and even further through the water. So dad really had his work cut out for him and I thought it important to stress silence because I had come to believe this fish was actually sleeping. I mean he had to be. Everybody's got to sleep sometime and it was about noon. He'd probably just eaten a 10 pound catfish and was taking a little siesta in his never before visited by man, back water creek.
He was probably born and raised back there and quite possibly, had never seen anything that didn't breath water. That is, if he even saw us at all, cause like I said, the way he was letting me drag him around he had to be asleep.
Well of course our net was under every danged rod and paddle, jacket and rope on the boat. So dad was trying to take each item off quietly like the bomb squad begins snipping the outer wires first. On a normal boat, with good fishermen, that net wouldn't have been so deep down and inaccessible but I suppose if we used it more it would've been near the top. Fact is, half the time, when we're packing the boat up, one of us would hold the net up and ask "think we oughta take this?" "Yeah, we better, you never know, we might drop a sandwich or beer overboard." So we'd pack it. But I'm gonna tell you that little whale was gettin closer and dad was havin' a whale of a time getting to that aluminum net.
Yeah that's right it was aluminum too. You got the picture? Aluminum on aluminum. When dad did get his hand on the net there was such a horrible clanking going on that I knew that bomb was going to go off. It was then I tried to get the Lord involved. I know, but people use God for all sorts of things. People score a touchdown, they say God did it. People make money on a business deal, they say God did it. People successfully hold up a bank, God did it. You get my point. Catching this bass surely rose to the level of those requests. Heck, we were looking at gettin' our pictures on the front of Bassmasters Magazine. I envisioned my own video series on "the secrets of sneakin up on bass". I could even be a spokesman for the cane pole and paper clip industry. That's all very good stuff. And I thought that if God had a spare moment, he might just find this fun and help us land that mossback. Hey if you don't ask...
Amazingly, all that aluminum on aluminum didn't wake him. But I'll be honest with you, I could have sworn I saw an eye move. Kinda like he looked up at me and just looked away when I saw him. You know it occurred to me when I thought I saw him look at me, that this ol fish just might be messin' with us. But then that would require some kind of higher thought process, heck even a sense of humor or a sadistic streak. You know some kind of human quality. That's impossible, I thought. This was just a fish. A record fish certainly. But still, just a fish.
Now we really were just one maneuver away from landing that bass in the boat and me in the record books. Dad must swoop in, ever....so...quietly...and ..pick ...him...up...Because my line prevented a frontal approach, dad was forced to come in from the rear. And in an abduction like this, a stealth attack would have been our MO anyways. Dad and I looked each other in the eyes and he said "lets do it" I nodded in the affirmative, we synchronized watches. Ok scratch that, I got carried away, but it was go time.
Dad lowered the net in the water masterfully, barely making a ripple. He began to slide it around the slumbering fish. When he got the net near, about half way up his body, and it was almost lifting time, somehow or another that big bass got wind of the kidnapping underway and with one slap of his giant tail he sent a wall of water at me and dad that rocked our boat and pushed it back 3 feet. The sound of the splash was so loud it echoed in the jungle causing birds to flee the trees. We both instinctively tried to turn away to avoid the mini tidal wave rapidly approaching but alas we were too slow. We were drenched from head to toe. The scene was pure pitiful.
There we were seconds away from the greatest catch of our lives and now pop was sitting holding his bent aluminum net with water dripping off his big Irish nose. While I was in a state of shock clinging tightly to half a cane pole, staring at the whithering whirlpool left by that monster.
I don't recall who spoke first. Actually I don't think either of us said a word for quite a while. It was partly because there are moments that if you can just stay quiet you won't cry. But there is also the concern that once you open the floodgates of emotion you might cuss too much and just plain act immature. Besides dad and I had lost fish before. Never anything that big but fish. At least that's what I kept rolling over in my head as I calmly placed the half pole on top of his net.
As we weighed the anchor, cranked the motor and putted slowly back to whence we came, I thought to myself, this was no ordinary fish we lost. We just lost the Superbowl. Our reaction was more like what you always see on the losing side line. They're speechless. Grown men reduced to tears. But silent. What was there to say? Who could we blame? I did my part, dad did his part. The only baffling thing is that fish. I mean dad and I were acting just like all human fishermen. We saw a fish and we tried to catch him. But nothing that fish did from the very beginning was even remotely related to how a fish ought to act. At least a normal fish.
As we headed out of that creek that time forgot, I just couldn't get over how I thought I saw his eye open and look away when dad was going for that net. So I wondered then, even as I do today, did we awaken a sleeping giant? Or did we encounter, in that quiet creek, a lonely and bored fish with a flair for theatrics and a great sense of humor. I'll tell you this... I don't believe for a minute that fish was sleepin'.
We had some good days fishin', dad and I. We caught the same amount of fish that day as we usually caught. None. But we never had a story or a moment we enjoyed recollecting more than that encounter with that bass.
There's just more to fishin' than catchin' em.
If I were to invite you to spend the day with me, sittin' next to snakes, swattin' skeeters, gettin' sunburn or frostbit and pretty much promise you'd catch either a cold or hell from your wife, what would you say? Right! And I wouldn't hold it against you either.
But if I asked you if you'd like to go fishin' you'd most likely say something like, "let's go!"
And you wouldn't be alone because daily, around the world, men and women risk losing their jobs, their spouses and depending on the kind of fishing, even their lives, chasing fish.
There's no doubt that my snake and skeeter description is the darker side of the sport. Sport? I know, it doesn't make sense to me either. The only one doing anything that resembles a sport is the fish! He does all the jumping, flipping, stretching and fighting, while the fisherman does exactly what he'd be doing at home, sittin' and drinkin' beer. The fact is, the modern fisherman has really only transferred operations from the living room, to his boat.
Today, a state of the art fishing boat has all the comforts of home. The seats are as butt friendly as a slightly soiled, beer stained Lazy Boy recliner and nowadays, fishermen can even bring their remote along. It's true, the trolling motors are remote controlled and they can be about as much fun as the one at home. For example, if a fisherman in another boat is getting just a little too close to your fishin' hole, all you gotta do is scan the frequencies until you find the one that operates his trolling motor and move his butt on outta there.
There's just really no good excuse to not take me up on my offer. Bass boats even have tv's now, so you don't have to miss the game of the week and it's common knowledge that the beer's better on a boat. It could be because more often that not it's over a hundred degrees in the shade out there and there aint not shade! But the main reason it tastes better is because usually you're fishing with a good friend and what isn't better with friends?
But always take a friend, because a non- friend can make things miserable out there. Pretty much like in the real world. A non- friend might say, "get your own damn worm." Or, "clean 'em? You didn't say nothin' bout cleaning 'em." Non- friends might also descend to saying, "I know it's your boat and your RV but chip in for gas? I don't think so." Non- friends are best left dockside.
Non- fishermen can be about as big a problem as non-friends. But if they're friends or relatives you're pretty much obligated, as a sportsman and a human being, to tolerate their presence. Just remind yourself that someone had to teach you most everything you know about fishing and pretty much everything else you learned, that requires skill and expertise. It helps if I think about all the stupid things I did before I became the perfect fisherman I am today.
Like when I borrowed my buddy's best bass catching lure. That thing was beautiful, even signed by the artist, name looked like Rembrandt to me. Most likely a forgery but the fish couldn't tell, even with their well known affection for impressionist art. Well, I tied that work of art on with the only knot I knew how to tie. A granny knot. I have since learned that tying a lure on slippery monofilament fishing line with a granny knot, is pretty much like not tying it on at all. When I made my first cast that little Rembrandt went about 30 yards farther than the end of my line! I didn't know!
Like when my experienced fisherman father told me to drop the anchor overboard. Being a good son and a novice fisherman, I did as he said. And if he had told me to tie the end of the anchor line on to something I would have done that as well! He said "you should have known." But I didn't know!
Like when I was told by the experienced older person to put the outboard motor on the back of the boat. I did. When we encountered a rather sizable wave the bow went up and then down as it's designed to do. The the rear of the boat reacted just the opposite, as designed. Down then up. Now picture a slingshot. Then picture his shiny and running 25 hp motor as the projectile in your slingshot. Yep, that little prop on it probably helped it pick up air speed because it went flying past me making a bee line toward our intended destination. If it weren't for the attached fuel line it might have made it too. Needless to say we came to an abrupt halt about the time his motor disappeared into the black water. Even ran for a while down there. Then silence. But not for long because the owner of the motor wanted to talk. As we began rowing back to camp, it didn't take him long to track down the problem. Me. I didn't know!
Nice thing about fishing with an experienced friend is you don't have to talk. Nary a word. For the whole trip. It is however, customary to say "howdy" when you meet, "yep" when offered a beer, and "see ya" at the end of day. Any more palaver than that is just too chatty for most fishermen.
The silence seems to please the fish as well. First thing you learn about fishing is to not be offended when someone tells you to "shut up." It's not personal. Unless a non-friend says it. Whispering"shut up" when fishing, is the only thing a kid can yell at an adult without getting backhanded. Most times the adult will even say "sorry." It's all in the interest of catching a boat load and that is, of course, what it's all about. Isn't it?
At first glance one would be inclined to respond "yes" to that question, even as I did when I wrote it. But then I pondered it a bit and I figure that catching fish is so far down on the list of what fishing is about, that it's almost not worth mentioning. I know you must think I pondered wrong because, hey, why would they call it fishing, if it's not about catching them?
Well, here's what I figure. Most things are aptly named, like grocery shopping is all about shopping for groceries. Lawn mowing is about cutting grass and so on. But fishing is complex. And so are it's devotee's. And they're sneaky sometimes too.
More directly, fishing isn't about fishing, fishing is the excuse you give your spouse when you're asking for their blessing to go!
I suppose, part of the idea behind calling it fishing, is that it plays to the whole food gathering concept. Women love for men to gather things. A man gathering anything, other than female phone numbers, usually sits very well with women.
I mean realistically, if you said, "hey hon, me and Jim are gonna go off for a few days and sit in his boat, tell jokes, catch a little sun and drink beer, do you mind?" You don't even need to answer. Contrast that with, "hey hon, me and Jim are going to go gather some fish." "Sure honey," she'd coo. So the term 'fishing' was born! Not a thing to do with fishing. It's all misdirection!
So where to fish? It is a critical aspect of fishing. Most folks call a fish camp to ask them a few basic questions. Like, "how far away is the lake, do you have kitchenettes, a restaurant, and a bar?" That's all you really need to know but if you're wife's in the room, while you've got them on the phone, go ahead and ask if the fish are biting. Oh and don't forget to ask what bait they're using to gather 'em!
Once you get to your lake and the boat's in the water, you've got to try and figure out where the fish are located. Most folks just ask somebody that looks like a good fisherman. Just some general tips here. Don't ever ask a guy that has a hat with fishing lures hooked on it. They are not his personal lures. They were already on the hat when he bought it at the Crackerbarrel gift shop. Or a guy that has to take 5 passes at trying to back his boat in before his wife has to take over. I stay away from guys that are a bit too chatty out there too, usually they're like me, gathering information.
The guys I want info from always have a local tag on their car, and if it's not local, Georgia tags are acceptable in any state in the union. The guys I approach have a minimum of 12 rods and reels and a cooler the size of large man's coffin. Their boat cannot be well polished and if I can get close enough to it I peek in and look for fish scales on the floorboard and bite marks on a Rapala. Now all those positives can be cancelled out if I spot a tube of sunscreen or an umbrella.
But no matter who your source of information is, keep this in mind... fish do not stay in one place. They move vast distances in search of food. Like Americans every Saturday night.
But with fish, there's one commonly understood, fact. The fish are never located anywhere near where you are! They are always, without exception, at the farthest possible place accessible by water, from you! Now, don't go trying to outsmart the system by putting in at that far away spot because the fish will move before you can get there. I can't it explain it anymore than I can explain gravity, so just trust me and bring along an extra gas tank when you go fishing.
Here's a story that might help demonstrate the point.
My brother Doug has a home in the quaint Florida town of Satsuma on the beautiful cypress lined banks of Dunns Creek. Satsuma is about 3 miles from Crescent lake by water and Crescent Lake is about 10 miles from one end to the other, with Dead Lake being at it's farthest end.
"Where are the fish bitin?" I asked him. "The word is they're up around Dead Lake" he said. Now, if you took a map and looked for the farthest place from Doug's house, you'd find Dead Lake, it's about 13 miles from his back door.
Not that the distance was a problem because he's got one of those modern bass boats I was talking about so, though it's a pretty good drive from his backyard to the fish, it's a very comfortable ride and pretty too. Which is another reason people fish, sightseeing and nature gazing.
Doug figures it's about a 2 hour drive, when you figure slowing down for manatees, fallen skiers, logs, crab pots, sand bars, fallen trees and de-throttling for the ever present tiny boats that have 7 kids and 2 adults piled in.
Those boats are usually only about 12 feet long and it's difficult to detect where the water and the top sides of the boat begin and end. They are so close to swamping, that excessive laughter can tip them over.
Those boats are usually occupied by people that live where their only exposure to water is a horse trough and learning to swim is generally something they just never got around to.
On those boats, the life jackets are always left at the dock because "there just aint enough room for them", you know, with all the people on board.
That boat is generally borrowed from someone that is either dumb about water safety or they have a sizable life insurance policy on one of the occupants.
That boat is the one you read about, that for some unknown reason, tipped over and 9 people drowned.
Every pass time has it's people that don't know what the heck they're doing and hey, like fishermen, we all have to learn sometime. Up around Daytona you can drive on the beach. The beach equivalent of over packing a john boat, is parking too close to the ocean. The real blame for that parking decision should be laid at the feet of the public schools for not teaching people that tide is not just a laundry detergent.
I've seen many a couple walk off hand in hand only to come back and see their car turned into a salt water aquarium.
Getting stuck in Florida sand can spoil a fun day in the sun as well. There's not a Cracker been born that hasn't been stuck in that dry, white quicksand known as Florida top soil. Getting stuck aint really all that hard. But trying to get out without exacerbating the problem is where you separate the natives from the folks that just own timeshares. Visitors tend to floor it. You ought not to do that. It has the immediate effect of digging you in deeper, making it harder for the always willing Florida Crackers to help push, pull or drag you out.
Now once they've got you out, don't insult them by offering money.. a six pack'll do just fine.
Florida is beautiful but she's wild. Our Rattlesnakes are long, our hurricanes mean and our riptides are heartless. Like a woman, her beauty can lull you into believing she is harmless. And there's not a better way to soak her beauty in than by standing in 4 feet of her pale blue brine, while her waves kiss your lips and caress your body.
Odds are, if you're doing that, you're probably more worried about sharks than you are riptides. But you shouldn't be.
A riptide is not a tide in a lunar sense. It is a brief and deadly phenomenon that occurs on ocean beaches after a wave, that has broken on the beach, decides it wants to get back out to sea. Immediately. It is a frightening experience the first time you are caught in it's grip. The natural and immediate instinct is to resist it, giving it everything you've got to try and make it back to shore. If you choose to fight it, you have chosen wrongly. It is the decision most people make, prior to drowning.
I know it doesn't make any sense but that powerful rush of water that seems to want to draw you out to sea, will dissipate the further out you go. Another feature of a riptide is it only operates in a somewhat narrow band. In other words, it may not be affecting people within 20 or 30 yards, up or down the beach from you. So the way you handle it is swim parallel with the shoreline and try not to be bothered if you are still being drawn out because it will release you long before you get to Africa.
Ok, no more PSA's. That fulfills my obligation to the Florida Department of Tourism. It wasn't all that much work for the cool million I got. Naaa! the humorist is kidding again. Fact is, I don't get nothin' from the government, I'm a white male you know. Now that's the satirist speaking. Pay no attention to either of them because right now I want to get back to fishing with my brother.
Now the reason we were gonna to drive all that way to Dead Lake was because that's where all the local folks in Satsuma said the fish were. So off we went. It was a beautiful day, made even more lovely by the addition of our mates, Doug's wife Donna and my girlfriend Nancy.
They probably wouldn't have come along normally but since we were driving so far and were sure to catch something, we thought it would be a good opportunity for Doug and I to bait a few hooks and demonstrate our fearlessness at impaling worms, crickets and minners. It's not that men enjoy doing that any more than women do. It's just that there's just so danged few ways for a man to show his manliness these days. Oh, I know cussing is still effective and men can still get a " how did you do that!?" reaction when you open a can of pickles the little lady's been working on for a while. But short of those, it's hard for a guy these days to distinguish themselves from the ladies.. besides baldness.
Yeah, before the turn of the century men had injun fighting and cattle ropin, sodbustin, tree toppin and barn raisin that all said "I am man." Now, being privy to this ladies, if you happen to be one of those women that doesn't mind impaling God's little creatures, before you do it, consider the life you are impacting. No! Not the worms. The mans!
So we get to Dead Lake and we find some lily pads and fish our butts off for 6 hours and don't catch nothin'. But we did laugh a lot and watch the game on his 21 inch Sony but caught nothing. "13 miles, and fishless, we could have done that at home!" I thought. I didn't say it because everyone was sounding a little mutinous for the same reasons and I didn't want to be the one that lit the match.
So we motored on up to Flagler fish camp, about a hundred yards up the way, to stretch our legs on solid ground.
That fish camp is at the farthest possible point from Satsuma where Doug lives. If you wanted to go further from Doug's house, you'd have to park the boat and walk. Which we did.
When we got up to the camp, Doug and I started talking to the guys that were hangin' around. It wasn't because we're such danged friendly people. No. On this day our friendliness was more scheming than cordial. We were on a mission. We wanted information and we wanted it fast. Where are the fish? Specifically! No pointin' to where they are. Don't say "over yonder or bout a hundred yards from that ol tree that looks like Abe Lincoln." Or "just up from where Johnny Mayhem caught that 12 pounder in '68." If you're getting those answers from somebody, you've got a guy that does not want to help! So you might as well terminate that conversation and try someone else. Preferably, a guy that's cleaning fish!
At least you know, he knows where they are, even though you might be hard pressed to get him to tell you the exact location. One thing to keep in mind. Extracting from fishermen that do not know you, where they caught their fish, is an art form. There should be a course taught on it in college. A major! A PHD!
Here's a quick primer. Rule one. Never, ever, look startled when he opens his cooler and you see hundreds of fish in there. Resist the urge to yell "oh my stars, did you catch all those? Honey muffin, come over here and look. Where did you catch all those fish?" I know it seems like it would be flattering and direct but believe me, you'll scare him off. I've done it! Honey muffin and all!....You got to play him a little bit and reel him in nice and easy. It's ok to be startled by the quantity of fish. That's human nature. But contain your enthusiasm. Remember, he's watching you and he's already suspicious of you because you've been there 2 minutes and you aint cussed or spit.
And if you're wearing bermuda shorts with socks and leather sandals, well, don't. Ditch those things and put on some sneakers And if you're in Florida, barefoot's preferable but old, not new sneakers is acceptable cleaning station attire. Then walk up, spit and say something like what we said, "how da heck'd you guys do today?" They won't answer. Don't worry, that's normal, just keep talking, "We didn't catch crap. Brought our girls and.. well, wanted to show 'em a good time and all...well..you guys have all been there." If you're delivery's good and your story is perceived as sincere, pretty soon a kind soul, which all fisherman are at heart, will ask you. "Where'd you fish?" On that day, as if choreographed, Doug and I both pointed to the lily pads that were visible from the cleaning dock and said, "over there." There was a pause. The friendlier fish cleaner put his knife down and looked up from the sink full of fish guts and filets to make eye contact with us. "Where'd you fish?" he asked. Again we both pointed to the lily pads. This time, when we said it, the whole dock started vibratin' from the laughter. Doug and I looked at each other wondering what was so danged funny and when the laughin' died down, the main guy says, "You aint gonna catch no fish on this side of the lake, the fish are all up around SATSUMA. Ya'll know where Satsuma is?"
Screaming would have been inappropriate but it would have really felt good. And crying fishermen are only socially embraced when a big one gets away or you get a life altering back lash in your zebco right when the fish are turnin' on. So my brother and I, in relatively tight unison, mumbled variations of,"Satsuma? Uh, well, yeah, uh... we've been there before". Never, have truer words been spoken! For as you know Satsuma is where our journey began. 13 miles we chased those danged fish and all along they were in our back yard! That couldn't be!
Fortunately our mates heard none of that, so Doug and I tried to sort things out. We knew his fishing friends in Satsuma weren't lying to us and without question these guys were all telling the truth because they all laughed at the same time. So the only way it could be explained is, we figure we were caught in a sort of Twilight Zone moment. We were experiencing that moment when the fish moved from the farthest point of the lake, to the other farthest point. We figured they probably passed right under our boat while we were driving to the farthest point. It's the only way to explain it! Defining gravity would be easier.
Yep, it's true, the fish were all where we were!! We could have been sittin' on lawnchairs in Doug's back yard on solid ground and loaded the cooler up. But as we know that's not what fishin's about. It's complex but like so many things, when you take a good look at them, to see what makes 'em tick, it's all about the basics. Fishing's got more to do with experiencing some of the best and most basic things God's world has to offer. Like the joy on that day of being with people you love. Like standing in the midst of inspiring sunrises and majestic sunsets. It's being on, near, or in, God's life sustaining water and capturing glimpses of our shy neighbors, the Florida wildlife. And there's the personal things experienced while fishing. Things like solidifying old friendships and making new ones. It's about memories, for some of the best fish stories have nothing to do with fish at all. Fishing is also about the character building stuff like, facing the elements and adversity, sometimes even to the extremes of survival. Fishing can even teach us to accept losing and how to win graciously and to develop patience and perseverance and learn to be at peace with nature and ourselves.
No doubt fishing is mostly about things that have nothing to do with it's name but that doesn't mean we can leave the poles at home guys. Cause remember, you aren't ever gonna make it to the boat launching, sun worshipping, beer buddy stage if you're honey ever finds out that it's not all about gathering fish...
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My earliest memories of fishing go back to before I was born. Oh yeah, I can recall hearing dad declaring to mom, when I wasn't no more than T-minus 7 months and counting, "honey I'm gonna go fishing this weekend with G.W." Then she'd declare back, "oh no you're not".
At least that's what I thought they were saying because things were a little garbled sounding from where I was. But even if I got the details of that earliest memory wrong, the whole scene was repeated enough through the years to confirm that, sometimes dad won and sometimes mom won.
Now that was all when they were nearly newlyweds because after being married about 10 years, the fights ceased. In fact, I can recall many times mom suggesting, "Earl, why don't you take the boys fishing for the weekend, in fact why don't you take the whole week and go fishing." That's a sure sign that the new car smell is wearing off a marriage. But it happens to all of them and in this case, the little distance that was growing between them just happened to benefit us boys, cause we got to go on a lot of fishing trips.
Sometimes mom would go along with us if one of her favorite people in her soap opera had got killed off. And I always liked it when she did because it usually meant everything was going to get upgraded. Instead of sleeping on the ground under the stars, we'd stay in a motel. Instead of fishing from the bank, we'd rent a boat. And having mom along meant eating out, or rather in. What I mean is, on 'dad only' trips, we'd eat outside. And dinner usually was a can of beans we'd pass around. And maybe a piece of bread that was all our own. When that menu was being planned back at home, we didn't pack any meat because we always planned to eat the fish we were gonna catch. The best laid plans of mice and fishermen..
It's not that we weren't good fishermen, it's just that you have to know a lake before you can extract fish from it. Unless, of course you use a net or electricity or some not so subtle dynamite. We were sure some of those guys with the loaded down coolers at the fish cleaning stand had incorporated at least one of those fish gettin' tactics. There was no other way to explain it. We all left the docks at dawn with empty coolers. We all fished all day. When we all returned, magically, their coolers were too full to shut and ours were full of air, half a can of beans, 2 plastic beer ties and a fish or two so small they could have easily been mistaken for bait.
These guys would swing up to the dock in their 20 foot bass boats, with a wake and a motor bigger than our pontiac. They worked in unison, like they'd done it all a thousand times. They were obviously pros. They had patches on their matching outfits that showed they belonged to professional fishing societies. They had more stickers on the sides of their boats than an entry in a NASCAR event. And they spoke very little, if at all. Their arrival seemed more like a military landing than a family outing.
As a young guy it always struck me that those guys didn't seem very happy. It was weird. It was like they had taken something they originally loved and had turned it into an enemy. Not something to savor but to be beaten. Fishing to us was symbolically, a mountain that we loved climbing. These guys seemed more like they'd rather take a helicopter to the top. We didn't have but 2 lousy specks laid out on that fish station but I'd venture to say that, in some ways, we had a better day than they did.
Now don't get me wrong, they had fish and to the person, they were cordial. Business like but cordial.
They'd come up with one of those white, casket size coolers with 4 pol bearers hauling it. They'd pop the top on it and reveal to the audience the fruits of their days work. There was generally a collective gasp because the casket was always full to the bream with bream. Some bystander would invariably try justify their failure by whispering, "I'd sure hate to have to clean all those fish."
I envied their skill and knowledge but I wouldn't have traded places with them. Those guys had so many poles hanging off the sides of their boat, that from the air it must have looked like a giant millipede walking on water. I was happy just holding one pole. I liked the simplicity.
I would have liked to have caught more fish but truthfully not as many as they had. But a few. It was a dream of mine to discover what beans tasted like with fish.
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If a fish can be an enigma, the largemouth bass is one. They're hard to figure out. Those things are mean as a gator yet can be tender and friendly as a 60's flower child. Even a small bass can swoop in outta nowhere, grab a shiner and by the time he returns home with it to show Mrs. Bass, he'll have that sucker scaled and ready to serve. Yep, even male fish take pride in their fish catchin.
Largemouth bass have been known to attack birds sitting too close to the water and eat snakes so big that I wouldn't get close enough to, to shoot. Bass are fearless.
But yes they can be friendly too. Saw a guy on tv that had a few trained out in the river behind his house. He even got to where he could hand feed them. The males and females both have strong sense of family, not unlike some humans.
Sadly fishermen use that instinct to their advantage. At spawning time the female will make a nest in shallow water. Both her and the male will patrol the area to keep predators away from the eggs. The fishermen cast lures up around the beds knowing the bass will perceive any thing that moves in the area as a threat and will pick it up to move it. The male being the most expendable in all species, tries to move the lure, and is boated. The larger female will do the same thing on the second cast. Usually catching the male generates a little excitement in a boat that's fishing the beds because they can count on getting the bigger female with the next cast.
We don't like to fish when they're on the beds. At that time of year the females are often full of roe and the fish aren't necessarily biting out of hunger, they're removing a threat.
But fishing the normal way, I believe is a good thing for people and the fish population. I truly believe it is the way of things. Jesus even picked fishermen to be his right hand men. But I have a feeling He wouldn't fish for em when they're on the beds.
For the most part, I've done very little damage to the supply of fish in the world but it wasn't for lack of trying! So don't go patting me on the head. I was as determined as the next guy to load the boat. One thing is certain, it's not catching fish that keeps a body coming back, cause if it was, I'd have fallen out of love with it years ago. I guess the name of the sport kinda tells what to expect, I mean it's called 'fishing' not 'catching'.
Good fishermen usually will catch fish. So if you consistently don't catch fish you might do well to check your techniques. Maybe you don't tie the lure on right. You laugh, but it's true. How you tie that sucker on can be as important as what you're tying on. One time me and Uncle Deke, and dad were fishing out in Dead Lake. Uncle Deke was the only one catching anything but we figured it was because he was in the bow. The person in the bow generally gets first shot at any passing fish. Plus, we were fishing for specs and his store bought fiberglass rod was called a 'spec rod.' Mine and dads were called cane poles. After a while dad asked Uncle Deke why he's skinnin us. He said "how you tyin your lure on?" Dad, a little put off said 'with a knot." Uncle Deke took a look at dads lure and it was identical to his but the knot was wrong. Because the knot was wrong, the lure wouldn't hang proper when you're jiggin. Well, me and dad both retied ours and lo and behold it was like when Jesus told Peter where to throw his nets. All of a sudden we were good fishermen too.
Uncle Deke was short for Uncle Deacon Roy Horne. He was momma's little brother. In his time he was quite the jock as well. He told me that he was the one that introduced the one hand push shot to the southern basketball world. No one ever has corroborated it but no one ever disproved it either. Considering Uncle Deke's profession I suspect he was telling the truth.
Uncle Deke was a policeman, with the accent on the first syllable. He was in broad terms a policeman, but specifically, he was a Chief of Police. Chiefs of anything give a lot of orders. It is their job to command people. It's the rare person that can do something all day and then turn it off when they leave the office. Uncle Deke did a pretty good job of being a civilian. Pretty good.
Fishing is generally regarded as the time and place, to turn whatever it is you are in the real world, off. Bombastic politicians as well as hard charging men of industry undergo a metamorphosis like personality change when they're holding a cane pole. It is one of the mysteries of life and a very attractive thing about the sport. For a day, we are all equals. We all bait our own hooks and clean our own fish. The millionaires rub noses with the hand-to-mouth folks and unless you're prone to braggin, no one would ever know which one you were.
Like I said, Uncle Deke did a good job of leaving his police badge at the precinct but sometimes the Chief in him would just bust out. "Mike!" He'd growl. "Grab those rods and carry 'em up to the house". Or "Dougie, grab that 500 pound motor and carry it 2 miles up the road." Lest you think Doug's command was more severe than mine, given our differences in build those rods were as heavy to me as that motor was to Doug!
Uncle Deke put on all the fish fries at the camp and back in Jax. He taught us all how to fish for specs and where to catch em. And he even let us use his cabin on Dead Lake.
That camp was a work in progress. Don't get me wrong, we were thrilled to have it. But in it's early iterations it really was just a small step up from a tent. It did have an indoor bathroom. That was at the same time, a good feature and the most repulsive thing about the cabin. All bathrooms, all of them have 3 walls and a door. It says so in the name, bath "room". But that fish camp had a shower curtain around the whole thing. And it shared the room with the bunk beds. Women that stayed over would just hold whatever needed holding til they got back to civilization but us guys didn't have a big problem with it. I always suspected he kept the bathroom so bad to discourage females from showing up. It was effective.
What was amazing about that 2 room cabin was the walls. That primitive cabin with the indoor outhouse, had pictures all over the walls. After close inspection, you'd find that you recognized those guys. Senators, congressmen, famous football coaches and actors were all up there adorning his wall. And those pictures were all taken at 'the camp'. They stayed at that camp! I was sure I was too good for that place until I saw those people then...well, no I still felt I was, I mean it had curtains around the toilet people!!
But I'll tell you what, when the fish were biting, we'd put our names on the list to borrow that place because chasing fish is far more important than bathrooms.
I made one rule when I started this book. Don't say anything about anyone that you wouldn't say to their face. Particularly a Chief of Police! I loved Uncle Deke.
He was a man once met, you would never forget. There's only one way to explain why those Senators and men of industry stayed at his place. It was because DeRoy was there. Oh, ok and maybe he fixed a ticket or two!! But mainly it was because he was an original.
Uncle Deke had that Chief of Police gruff side but he had a sweet sentimental side too. It was never more evident than when he was talking about his dogs. He'd fall out of his chair talking about his bird dog Brownie. Southern joke telling I'd wager is about 75 percent delivery and 25 percent substance. I'd say Uncle Deke's was more a 90/10 split. The joy of his storytelling was rarely in the punchline. It was in the ride. In watching him it was evident he loved what he was talking about. He was moved to laughter about things that dog did. I don't recall any of his stories, not one. But that's my point. He was the story.
I can't tell you how much I wish that I could have just one more chance to row him up Haw Creek. I suspect Earl and Dougie miss him too... even though he gave us this flawed bald gene!
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The biggest bass I ever saw was up in a little creek Dad and I found on the way to getting lost. We weren't technically lost but there was a little confusion bout our specific location. We knew where the boat was, underneath our feet, we just weren't real sure where the trailer was. You often encounter that on the water, for as you know, there aint no signs in the swamp. If we'd have only had a GPS all would have been well but back then about the only way of determining where you were was, well, there really was no way of knowing. And if you got lost deep enough, things could turn ugly, fast. In Florida, without a can of 'OFF', if they didn't find you in a few days you'd be sucked dry. That is, if you didn't get snake bit, taken by a Florida panther, eaten by a gator or just plain die of fright. But dad and I weren't panicky lost yet, so we just decided to stop, anchor, eat and think for a spell.
While we were doing the thinking part I happened to look under a big overhanging bush and there, basking in the shade, was a bass so big it looked like a log. In fact if it weren't for the pulsating gills on it, I'd have never made the distinction. I was frozen. This was the biggest largemouth bass I'd ever seen, either on a wall or in my dreams. We were in a tiny creek not more than 20 feet wide. It was so far off the beaten path even water would get lost seeking it's level. The view upward wasn't blue but rather brown with a thick canopy of vines and spider webs that scarcely let a ray of sunlight pierce through. It was Florida hot, not a breath of air and quiet as a strip show at a Baptist convention. A perfect hideout for a 'mossback' a 'hawg' or in terms non-fishermen will recognize ' a huge fish'!!
Without saying anything to dad, I quietly picked up my cane pole that was already loaded with a worm. Ok. Sidebar. All you bass fishermen are already laughin aint ya? The first thing that got you going was I chose a cane pole. You figure that initial decision sealed my fate because no cane pole on earth has got more than 8 pound test line and less than 10 feet of line to play that fish with. And the drag on a cane pole is rather preset. Yeah, well I'd have to agree with you but the reality was that big fish wasn't more than six feet away from me. Plus we didn't have our rods and reels rigged with a rubber worm, much less a live one. So I figured the best bet I had to have any chance at all, was that cane pole.
Now there were some other problems with that choice. Cane poles usually only have a hook smaller than the smallest paper clip and honestly a paper clip would be considerably stronger. But my mini hook did have a live, ready, willing and able worm on it. I was counting on that worm to do his part and dad and I would take care of the rest.
But I still hadn't said a thing to dad as I lowered the worm into the water about an inch in front of that behemoth. Surprisingly he wasn't startled by the presentation, so I was encouraged. I slowly dragged the worm toward his steadily breathing mouth. Next thing I knew my worm was gone. I don't know if that fish ate him or just breathed him in along with some black creek water but he was now in full possession of that bait.
Now it's important to note. There was no big commotion at that moment because apparently I was the only one that knew that fish had a hook in his mouth. Neither dad, nor the fish, had a clue what had just transpired. That hook was so small in comparison to that creek monster, he felt nothing. Plus I hadn't set the hook. Now you fishermen know that's a critical moment in fishing. When to set the hook. Some say wait, give the fish time to eat the bait. Some say set that sucker with all you got soon as you feel anything remotely feels like a fish on the end. I subscribe to that technique. Not so much because it's better but it's just what I always do. I mean I'd like to wait a bit for the fish to swallow or do whatever he needs to do, but I don't or rather can't. I think my problem is I catch so few fish that when I do feel like the opportunity has presented itself, I just yank. It's all a reflex and all out of desperation and surely out of my control.
Fishermen that catch a lot of fish are much more calm about the event. Kind of like you'd imagine how Sean Connery might react. I was more like Don Knotts. A seasoned fisherman can take a drag on a cigarette after they feel a fish down there. I've seen em on tv where they can even talk and say something calm like " you know, I think I've got one on, after I finish this sandwich I think I'll give it a yank." Those guys must be on Valium cause nobody I ever fished with could do that. Me and my dad are yankers.
But not on this day. No sir, this fish catching experience, from the moment I saw him, had been an exercise in control and patience. So I continued. I began to slowly drag the line in the opposite direction to see if that 'paperclip' might grab. It did!! Ok I will admit my heart started getting a little out of control but I knew this was more like surgery than fishing. Or like defusing a bomb and the wrong move at the wrong time and this whole thing could blow up in my face. As soon as I'd made contact with the bass I knew it was time to bring in reinforcements. So I said in a quiet, careful voice you might use if you were looking at a ghost and said "dad, would ..you ...please.... hand... me... the.. net"? Real calm like. I did not want to generate any undue excitement that might set that bomb off.
You see my plan was to get that big boy in the pen without a fight. If there was a fight we were going to lose. Boating a 15 pound bass with 10 feet of line on a cane pole with a bream hook is impossible using traditional tactics. It could only be done by deception or even better one of those darts they shoot bears with. What I would have given to have a dart gun about then. Heck, even if I had that fish on the rod and reel, like the bass fishermen were telling me to get, I would probably lose him. That creek was only 20 feet wide and a veritable mine field of underwater former trees. Honestly, with all there was against me, I figured I was in about the best position I could expect to be in.
And things continued to look up because I was dragging him toward the boat...and he could could not have appeared to care less! It was all kind of surreal. I didn't know if he was asleep or just playing opossum or what. I knew he wasn't dead cause like I said, his gills were working. But he was coming to papa. Me that is. The other papa had just seen what I wanted the net for. Dad's eyes got real big but he was quiet. Perhaps frozen is more descriptive. It was the moment that worried me most and why I had kept that fish a secret because I could be responsible for my emotions but I couldn't be sure how newcomers would respond. Another thing that worried me was dad used to wear these big heavy leather hunting boots while fishing. I know, that's what I would ask him too. Besides being real loud on the bottom of the boat, there was the safety concern. If he ever fell overboard wearing those 20 pound boots he would be drawn toward the bottom like a magnet to iron. He wouldn't be all that hard to find down there because he'd be standing up but still, 'get some sneakers dad', I'd say. But dad's never do what son's say, I suppose it's considered a sign of weakness. The first time you do what your son says pretty soon a son might start to think he's not a complete idiot and blow years of parental training. And then the power structure breaks down. The only reason it works so well is because the father is perceived as all knowing, infallible so he was keeping his boots for hell or highwater. Literally.
Like those bass guys thought earlier, dad said to me"why the hell you got him on that cane pole, son?" As we've established, it is a fair question but I was busy at that moment and really didn't think talking was a good idea. So I ignored the question and re- requested the net. "But please dad...be..as..quiet.. as you can".
It wasn't rude of me to say that because for dad to be quiet was going to take some kind of higher intervention because we had an aluminum boat. Not like a fancy carpeted aluminum bass boat has, this was your basic riveted john boat. They are known for their ability to send sound waves for hundreds of miles through the air and even further through the water. So dad really had his work cut out for him and I thought it important to stress silence because I had come to believe this fish was actually sleeping. I mean he had to be. Everybody's got to sleep sometime and it was about noon. He'd probably just eaten a 10 pound catfish and was taking a little siesta in his never before visited by man, back water creek.
He was probably born and raised back there and quite possibly, had never seen anything that didn't breath water. That is, if he even saw us at all, cause like I said, the way he was letting me drag him around he had to be asleep.
Well of course our net was under every danged rod and paddle, jacket and rope on the boat. So dad was trying to take each item off quietly like the bomb squad begins snipping the outer wires first. On a normal boat, with good fishermen, that net wouldn't have been so deep down and inaccessible but I suppose if we used it more it would've been near the top. Fact is, half the time, when we're packing the boat up, one of us would hold the net up and ask "think we oughta take this?" "Yeah, we better, you never know, we might drop a sandwich or beer overboard." So we'd pack it. But I'm gonna tell you that little whale was gettin closer and dad was havin' a whale of a time getting to that aluminum net.
Yeah that's right it was aluminum too. You got the picture? Aluminum on aluminum. When dad did get his hand on the net there was such a horrible clanking going on that I knew that bomb was going to go off. It was then I tried to get the Lord involved. I know, but people use God for all sorts of things. People score a touchdown, they say God did it. People make money on a business deal, they say God did it. People successfully hold up a bank, God did it. You get my point. Catching this bass surely rose to the level of those requests. Heck, we were looking at gettin' our pictures on the front of Bassmasters Magazine. I envisioned my own video series on "the secrets of sneakin up on bass". I could even be a spokesman for the cane pole and paper clip industry. That's all very good stuff. And I thought that if God had a spare moment, he might just find this fun and help us land that mossback. Hey if you don't ask...
Amazingly, all that aluminum on aluminum didn't wake him. But I'll be honest with you, I could have sworn I saw an eye move. Kinda like he looked up at me and just looked away when I saw him. You know it occurred to me when I thought I saw him look at me, that this ol fish just might be messin' with us. But then that would require some kind of higher thought process, heck even a sense of humor or a sadistic streak. You know some kind of human quality. That's impossible, I thought. This was just a fish. A record fish certainly. But still, just a fish.
Now we really were just one maneuver away from landing that bass in the boat and me in the record books. Dad must swoop in, ever....so...quietly...and ..pick ...him...up...Because my line prevented a frontal approach, dad was forced to come in from the rear. And in an abduction like this, a stealth attack would have been our MO anyways. Dad and I looked each other in the eyes and he said "lets do it" I nodded in the affirmative, we synchronized watches. Ok scratch that, I got carried away, but it was go time.
Dad lowered the net in the water masterfully, barely making a ripple. He began to slide it around the slumbering fish. When he got the net near, about half way up his body, and it was almost lifting time, somehow or another that big bass got wind of the kidnapping underway and with one slap of his giant tail he sent a wall of water at me and dad that rocked our boat and pushed it back 3 feet. The sound of the splash was so loud it echoed in the jungle causing birds to flee the trees. We both instinctively tried to turn away to avoid the mini tidal wave rapidly approaching but alas we were too slow. We were drenched from head to toe. The scene was pure pitiful.
There we were seconds away from the greatest catch of our lives and now pop was sitting holding his bent aluminum net with water dripping off his big Irish nose. While I was in a state of shock clinging tightly to half a cane pole, staring at the whithering whirlpool left by that monster.
I don't recall who spoke first. Actually I don't think either of us said a word for quite a while. It was partly because there are moments that if you can just stay quiet you won't cry. But there is also the concern that once you open the floodgates of emotion you might cuss too much and just plain act immature. Besides dad and I had lost fish before. Never anything that big but fish. At least that's what I kept rolling over in my head as I calmly placed the half pole on top of his net.
As we weighed the anchor, cranked the motor and putted slowly back to whence we came, I thought to myself, this was no ordinary fish we lost. We just lost the Superbowl. Our reaction was more like what you always see on the losing side line. They're speechless. Grown men reduced to tears. But silent. What was there to say? Who could we blame? I did my part, dad did his part. The only baffling thing is that fish. I mean dad and I were acting just like all human fishermen. We saw a fish and we tried to catch him. But nothing that fish did from the very beginning was even remotely related to how a fish ought to act. At least a normal fish.
As we headed out of that creek that time forgot, I just couldn't get over how I thought I saw his eye open and look away when dad was going for that net. So I wondered then, even as I do today, did we awaken a sleeping giant? Or did we encounter, in that quiet creek, a lonely and bored fish with a flair for theatrics and a great sense of humor. I'll tell you this... I don't believe for a minute that fish was sleepin'.
We had some good days fishin', dad and I. We caught the same amount of fish that day as we usually caught. None. But we never had a story or a moment we enjoyed recollecting more than that encounter with that bass.
There's just more to fishin' than catchin' em.