I saw the movie Auntie Mame long ago but seem to remember the ending. Mame’s brother died leaving her to raise his son through many ensuing adventures. In the final scene she is leading her nephew’s son up a spiral staircase saying “….all the things I will show you”.
Splinter 2.1, a.k.a. Amy Grace, weighing in at 7 pounds, 11 ounces (lucky numbers) arrived a few days behind schedule. I speculate she was waiting upon the return of her other grandfather from the Amazon. “Amy darlin’” will likely be shown a thing or two or at least have the grace to listen to the grandpas’ tales of adventure.
ML
11/30/08
Monday, December 1, 2008
Saturday, November 1, 2008
21. Boy Scouts cause warning
I wasn’t a particularly accomplished Boy Scout and the only reason I made 1st class was my mother said she would make me get rid of my snakes if I didn’t. So I made 1st class and quit (although it was back in the days when you had to learn Morse code and decipher a flag signaled message so it was not a non-accomplishment). Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great group with a great tradition that teaches a plethora of things worth knowing – more widely held in high esteem than any other organization I can think of – it simply doesn’t encourage extensive pursuit of the “sawed-off” path.
But about the time Shaving 3 was four I joined again…..as a leader. Now they were not going to let me start a “Sawed-off Sportsman” merit badge but they had a few on the books that were close enough, e.g. Reptile Study. The key requirement – the one that couldn’t be fulfilled by studying the merit badge book – was to keep a reptile or amphibian for thirty days and record noteworthy events. This was clear official sanction to lead a band of kids up a creek catching water snakes.
Water snakes had several distinct advantages. First, they are easy to find in large enough numbers. Second, they eat like pigs (fresh or defrosted fish). And third, they are a snake’s snake…as in “mean as”.
Scout Master Bill was all for this activity as he was a ‘go the extra mile’ (sometimes two) scout leader and a merit badge that required catching fierce snakes fell across the enough-extra-effort-line to meet his standards. It was also an activity, as it sometimes turned out, that really brought a scout’s whole family together if the little darling got loose. I attempted to discourage this turn of events by explaining that “the snake is somewhere in my house” did not meet the “keeping” requirement.
Some merit badges are well suited for summer camp. The only problem with reptile study was the 30 day keeping requirement because summer camp was only one week so almost nobody ever got Reptile Study Merit Badge at summer camp. Consequently, the standard plan was to go snake hunting about a month before camp so the kids could walk in the nature building with their 30 day record in hand. I once had the opportunity to see this plan play out. I was assigned no particular day time duties one Monday so I followed some of our scouts to a first merit badge class where the leader scout explained that nobody ever got reptile study at the final award ceremony because you have to keep one for 30 days. Pearson lays his folder on the bench and flipped it open like a poker player revealing a royal flush. The leader scout was duly impressed…but I digress.
These snake hunts were always on weekends so citizens were around – especially when we were more or less in their backyard. Boy Scouts in uniform are generally extended the presumption of “good deeds” so I told the kids that if anybody ask what they were doing just say “Troop XYZ taking care of your snake problem Ma’am/Sir”. One such ‘opportunity’ arose as we marched back from a successful trip along a popular walking path near Shades Creek. Anticipating queries from passersby I told the kids to deliver the ol’ “taking care of your snake problem…” and then open the bag and let the people see what we had. This was in early June.
Later that summer I was in the same general vicinity and noted a very nice wooden sign had appeared the substance of which was “Warning – there are snakes around here”. I figure word, or actual presentation, of the bag full of snakes to several fitness walkers made it to some Mountain Brook city planner who figured giving constituents a heads-up didn’t have a downside.
The snake warning sign has lately been replaced by “interpretative” signs – kingfisher currently. Nice bird but without the same cardiovascular stimulation, to augment the point of the walking, as “snake warning”. In the manifest interests of public health it’s probably time for another June snake hunt near the path.
ML
10/25/08
But about the time Shaving 3 was four I joined again…..as a leader. Now they were not going to let me start a “Sawed-off Sportsman” merit badge but they had a few on the books that were close enough, e.g. Reptile Study. The key requirement – the one that couldn’t be fulfilled by studying the merit badge book – was to keep a reptile or amphibian for thirty days and record noteworthy events. This was clear official sanction to lead a band of kids up a creek catching water snakes.
Water snakes had several distinct advantages. First, they are easy to find in large enough numbers. Second, they eat like pigs (fresh or defrosted fish). And third, they are a snake’s snake…as in “mean as”.
Scout Master Bill was all for this activity as he was a ‘go the extra mile’ (sometimes two) scout leader and a merit badge that required catching fierce snakes fell across the enough-extra-effort-line to meet his standards. It was also an activity, as it sometimes turned out, that really brought a scout’s whole family together if the little darling got loose. I attempted to discourage this turn of events by explaining that “the snake is somewhere in my house” did not meet the “keeping” requirement.
Some merit badges are well suited for summer camp. The only problem with reptile study was the 30 day keeping requirement because summer camp was only one week so almost nobody ever got Reptile Study Merit Badge at summer camp. Consequently, the standard plan was to go snake hunting about a month before camp so the kids could walk in the nature building with their 30 day record in hand. I once had the opportunity to see this plan play out. I was assigned no particular day time duties one Monday so I followed some of our scouts to a first merit badge class where the leader scout explained that nobody ever got reptile study at the final award ceremony because you have to keep one for 30 days. Pearson lays his folder on the bench and flipped it open like a poker player revealing a royal flush. The leader scout was duly impressed…but I digress.
These snake hunts were always on weekends so citizens were around – especially when we were more or less in their backyard. Boy Scouts in uniform are generally extended the presumption of “good deeds” so I told the kids that if anybody ask what they were doing just say “Troop XYZ taking care of your snake problem Ma’am/Sir”. One such ‘opportunity’ arose as we marched back from a successful trip along a popular walking path near Shades Creek. Anticipating queries from passersby I told the kids to deliver the ol’ “taking care of your snake problem…” and then open the bag and let the people see what we had. This was in early June.
Later that summer I was in the same general vicinity and noted a very nice wooden sign had appeared the substance of which was “Warning – there are snakes around here”. I figure word, or actual presentation, of the bag full of snakes to several fitness walkers made it to some Mountain Brook city planner who figured giving constituents a heads-up didn’t have a downside.
The snake warning sign has lately been replaced by “interpretative” signs – kingfisher currently. Nice bird but without the same cardiovascular stimulation, to augment the point of the walking, as “snake warning”. In the manifest interests of public health it’s probably time for another June snake hunt near the path.
ML
10/25/08
Monday, September 1, 2008
20c. This is he who fishes (get the frying pan ready)
I’ve watched enough biography TV shows that I long ago decided you can often see it coming. Evil Knievel comes to mind. Though known for his adult exploits of jumping over as much as possible on a motorcycle, he was doing the same stuff as a kid! Lining up available objects in his neighborhood and sailing over them on his bicycle.
And so it was with Shaving 4 and fishing. The earliest indication that the fish of the world were in mounting danger came in our den. I was organizing the tackle box so it was wide open on the floor; treble hooked lures a-calling. He was around four and came walking over. Now, generally speaking, this is a common scenario with kids and fishing stuff, which is followed by them grabbing sharp things with their tender little hands, i.e. bad. That’s not what he did. Shaving 4 squatted down Indian style, slowly passed both hands over the open tackle box and said…”I want to learn how to use all of this.” (I could feel his Great Grandfather smiling, nodding and spitting some Beechnut tobacco into a Maxwell House coffee can).
Because Tom, a long time grownup fishing buddy, had given up fishing for mountain biking I’d been mostly going it alone when Shaving 4 volunteered…. “big time”. Given the age difference we were a motley team further mottled by the fact that he was not thinking in terms of a “take a kid fishing” outing at the end of a pier in a stocked lake. He was thinking in terms of an ancient and fundamental human activity. Some consideration – although in hindsight probably not always enough – had to be given to the fact that if something went wrong he might need to save us both so I told him “if something goes wrong save yourself and send back help”. (Fortunately by the time he was old enough to figure out the likely inheritance scenario he had his own fishing equipment).
In the early days we fished a lot in Shades Creek right in front of the mall. There were plenty of fish that couldn’t leave a beetle-spin or one inch Rapala alone, and the water wasn’t ever too deep (knee on me, arm pits on him). Being young and filled with the lust-to-catch, Shaving Four went through a brief developmental period where if I was catching more fish than him he wanted my rod or my lure. Then one day, as we are wading up the creek, he says “I want the other side” – the side I was on. He was reading the stream (Great Grandfather & Aunt Bid whispering in his ear).
Skill and experience are good but tenacity is also useful. It was a Tiger Cub fall fishing trip to Oak Mountain State Park (the paddleboat lake, NOT the so called fishing lakes) for Shaving 3’s den and Shaving 4 was along – around ten Tiger Cubs & parents, plenty of cane poles, rods & reels and lots of worms. The standard site action was slow so Shaving Four, for reasons I never discovered, took an interest in the end of a nearby old boat launch in about six inches of water.
Armed with the smallest hook and pinched off worm pieces he proceeds to ‘land’ bream after bream that were lurking under the space between the ramp and the lake bottom. Probably nothing over two inches long and many smaller thereby fulfilling the number one imperative of sawed-off fishing – ANYTHING IS BETTER THAN NOTHING (and for the sake of completeness; big is better than small, edible is better than inedible). Unfortunately Shaving 4 has taken the last imperative too much to heart as he eats fresh water drum.
Of late his tackle box is bigger than mine, his knife longer than mine (he ‘accidently’ threw-out my longer one in the paper after cleaning some crappie), and he throws a bigger cast net – “teach your children well….”
About three years ago he asks “Are there any colleges near the ocean?” Now I know what he’s thinking; he wants to get a part time job on a party boat and end up fishing for a living. I explain to him that that is a probable path to semi-starvation no matter how many fish he catches (you can’t cook ‘em if you can’t pay the gas bill). He appeared to abandon that career choice and declared himself interested in engineering about two years ago (he’s pretty good with numbers) and has held fast to that plan. However through some cunning trickery he is now enrolled in a “3-2” engineering program at Eckerd College (read tip of St. Petersburg’s peninsula, mouth of Tampa Bay).
I guess I could have told him that a burning low employment prospects interest is a poor component of decision making upon which to base your higher education matriculation. But he edits most of these stories and could well have come back with “Oh?”
Ah, what the heck, “everything will work if you just let it”. It has so far.
ML
7/3/08
And so it was with Shaving 4 and fishing. The earliest indication that the fish of the world were in mounting danger came in our den. I was organizing the tackle box so it was wide open on the floor; treble hooked lures a-calling. He was around four and came walking over. Now, generally speaking, this is a common scenario with kids and fishing stuff, which is followed by them grabbing sharp things with their tender little hands, i.e. bad. That’s not what he did. Shaving 4 squatted down Indian style, slowly passed both hands over the open tackle box and said…”I want to learn how to use all of this.” (I could feel his Great Grandfather smiling, nodding and spitting some Beechnut tobacco into a Maxwell House coffee can).
Because Tom, a long time grownup fishing buddy, had given up fishing for mountain biking I’d been mostly going it alone when Shaving 4 volunteered…. “big time”. Given the age difference we were a motley team further mottled by the fact that he was not thinking in terms of a “take a kid fishing” outing at the end of a pier in a stocked lake. He was thinking in terms of an ancient and fundamental human activity. Some consideration – although in hindsight probably not always enough – had to be given to the fact that if something went wrong he might need to save us both so I told him “if something goes wrong save yourself and send back help”. (Fortunately by the time he was old enough to figure out the likely inheritance scenario he had his own fishing equipment).
In the early days we fished a lot in Shades Creek right in front of the mall. There were plenty of fish that couldn’t leave a beetle-spin or one inch Rapala alone, and the water wasn’t ever too deep (knee on me, arm pits on him). Being young and filled with the lust-to-catch, Shaving Four went through a brief developmental period where if I was catching more fish than him he wanted my rod or my lure. Then one day, as we are wading up the creek, he says “I want the other side” – the side I was on. He was reading the stream (Great Grandfather & Aunt Bid whispering in his ear).
Skill and experience are good but tenacity is also useful. It was a Tiger Cub fall fishing trip to Oak Mountain State Park (the paddleboat lake, NOT the so called fishing lakes) for Shaving 3’s den and Shaving 4 was along – around ten Tiger Cubs & parents, plenty of cane poles, rods & reels and lots of worms. The standard site action was slow so Shaving Four, for reasons I never discovered, took an interest in the end of a nearby old boat launch in about six inches of water.
Armed with the smallest hook and pinched off worm pieces he proceeds to ‘land’ bream after bream that were lurking under the space between the ramp and the lake bottom. Probably nothing over two inches long and many smaller thereby fulfilling the number one imperative of sawed-off fishing – ANYTHING IS BETTER THAN NOTHING (and for the sake of completeness; big is better than small, edible is better than inedible). Unfortunately Shaving 4 has taken the last imperative too much to heart as he eats fresh water drum.
Of late his tackle box is bigger than mine, his knife longer than mine (he ‘accidently’ threw-out my longer one in the paper after cleaning some crappie), and he throws a bigger cast net – “teach your children well….”
About three years ago he asks “Are there any colleges near the ocean?” Now I know what he’s thinking; he wants to get a part time job on a party boat and end up fishing for a living. I explain to him that that is a probable path to semi-starvation no matter how many fish he catches (you can’t cook ‘em if you can’t pay the gas bill). He appeared to abandon that career choice and declared himself interested in engineering about two years ago (he’s pretty good with numbers) and has held fast to that plan. However through some cunning trickery he is now enrolled in a “3-2” engineering program at Eckerd College (read tip of St. Petersburg’s peninsula, mouth of Tampa Bay).
I guess I could have told him that a burning low employment prospects interest is a poor component of decision making upon which to base your higher education matriculation. But he edits most of these stories and could well have come back with “Oh?”
Ah, what the heck, “everything will work if you just let it”. It has so far.
ML
7/3/08
Saturday, August 2, 2008
20b. Shaving 3 liked gar fishing
Shaving 3, named after a righteous TV western marshal and a movie gun fighter having second thoughts, developed into one of those many who like to catch more than they like to fish. However it did not escape his attention that fishing generally preceded catching so he was often up for going but began lobby to go home if the action was not up to his standards. So predictable was his “when are we going home” refrain that all three of us agreed his first utterance generally marked the midpoint of the adventure.
He may have become thus by imprinting on a quality, and quick, success at the Chimneys’ picnic area in the Smokey Mountains. He was duly trained in the art of casting so when I handed him (~ 5) a light weight spinning outfit with a small sinking Rapala attached to the line and said “You know what to do”; he did – rainbow trout #1.
Baseball, Boy Scouts and our steadfast habit of fishing twice as long as he wanted to, dampened Shaving 3’s fishing tendencies but every so often – he knew what to do. On one family vacation to Red River, New Mexico fishing was a major activity. While the three of us generally prowled the streams together, one morning in the condo Shaving 3 declares he is going fishing by himself (all the better to quit when he wanted). So off he goes: rod, reel, Power baits and photographer’s-jacket-turned-trout fishing-jacket. Not long there after comes a knock on the door; which was not locked. I knew immediately who, and with what, would be standing there when the intended audience opened the door (he’s always had something of a flair for the theatrical). And so it was; there stood Shaving 3 with a big rainbow trout for breakfast.
His most dramatic reinvigoration on a fishing trip occurred below Guntersville dam one mid-April. The intended main attraction of this venue was skipjack herring (with whom I had been dealing for many years) because they were abundant, hit like a ton of bricks and then flew through the air after hooked. Being basically inedible, they were what one goes after if “pulling fish” is the mission objective.
What turned out to be the real main attraction of the day at first appeared only as a glimpse out of the corner of the eye; something you are not really sure you saw. Then I spotted the guy with the bow & arrow about 50 feet up stream and what was a glimpse turned into many long nosed gar chugging up stream only about 10 feet from the rock shore – capital taunting!
Wellllll, the sawed-off are nothing if not prepared to deal with every possible situation twice per outing (which results in really big tackle boxes and goofy things like the Fisherman’s Quiver, etc). Having neglected to bring bow & arrow, fish spear or spear gun (yes they can be fired from the air into the water) we had to improvise. Standard improvisation amounts to large treble hooks and a 1 oz barrel sinker. The sinker is tied to the line’s end with one or two treble hooks spaced about 6 in apart and above the sinker. A useful art is to wrap the line around one of the treble’s hooks so that their points remain
aligned with the line when pulled through the water.
As Shaving 4 and I were preparing to deal with the gar, Shaving 3 decides he needs a break and climbs the steep rock bank to the bathroom / vending machine area. In his absence, Shaving 4 snags a 3 ft 8 lb gar and drags it to the shoreline. By this time Shaving 3 (whose calls to go home were about to end) was sitting on a small wall, sipping a drink, and looking down toward the unfolding action which he could not see the details of as his view was blocked by us getting control of the gar.
I was pretty sure there would be some reaction when we turned and hoisted the impressive fish so Shaving 3 could see what had transpired in his absence. His reaction was even better than I expected. The first thing he did was jump right straight up in the air while maintaining a sitting position (a feat Hugh Durham, one time FSU basketball star and coach, often preformed on the sidelines during a game). When his feet finally hit the ground he then engaged in a gyrating ‘dance’ worthy of the proto-humans in Space Odyssey 2001 around the monolith. Scurring down the bank he proceed to add another gar to the collection. We took the two gar home and rendered the heads mantle-worthy where they rest to this day (A hack-saw was needed to get the heads off the bodies).
Shaving 3 has given up on gar fishing (been-there-done-that) and of late confines himself to occasional shark fishing because it usually draws a crowd and he likes to socialize. But the gar day was a definite moment all around.
ML
7/2/08
He may have become thus by imprinting on a quality, and quick, success at the Chimneys’ picnic area in the Smokey Mountains. He was duly trained in the art of casting so when I handed him (~ 5) a light weight spinning outfit with a small sinking Rapala attached to the line and said “You know what to do”; he did – rainbow trout #1.
Baseball, Boy Scouts and our steadfast habit of fishing twice as long as he wanted to, dampened Shaving 3’s fishing tendencies but every so often – he knew what to do. On one family vacation to Red River, New Mexico fishing was a major activity. While the three of us generally prowled the streams together, one morning in the condo Shaving 3 declares he is going fishing by himself (all the better to quit when he wanted). So off he goes: rod, reel, Power baits and photographer’s-jacket-turned-trout fishing-jacket. Not long there after comes a knock on the door; which was not locked. I knew immediately who, and with what, would be standing there when the intended audience opened the door (he’s always had something of a flair for the theatrical). And so it was; there stood Shaving 3 with a big rainbow trout for breakfast.
His most dramatic reinvigoration on a fishing trip occurred below Guntersville dam one mid-April. The intended main attraction of this venue was skipjack herring (with whom I had been dealing for many years) because they were abundant, hit like a ton of bricks and then flew through the air after hooked. Being basically inedible, they were what one goes after if “pulling fish” is the mission objective.
What turned out to be the real main attraction of the day at first appeared only as a glimpse out of the corner of the eye; something you are not really sure you saw. Then I spotted the guy with the bow & arrow about 50 feet up stream and what was a glimpse turned into many long nosed gar chugging up stream only about 10 feet from the rock shore – capital taunting!
Wellllll, the sawed-off are nothing if not prepared to deal with every possible situation twice per outing (which results in really big tackle boxes and goofy things like the Fisherman’s Quiver, etc). Having neglected to bring bow & arrow, fish spear or spear gun (yes they can be fired from the air into the water) we had to improvise. Standard improvisation amounts to large treble hooks and a 1 oz barrel sinker. The sinker is tied to the line’s end with one or two treble hooks spaced about 6 in apart and above the sinker. A useful art is to wrap the line around one of the treble’s hooks so that their points remain
aligned with the line when pulled through the water.
As Shaving 4 and I were preparing to deal with the gar, Shaving 3 decides he needs a break and climbs the steep rock bank to the bathroom / vending machine area. In his absence, Shaving 4 snags a 3 ft 8 lb gar and drags it to the shoreline. By this time Shaving 3 (whose calls to go home were about to end) was sitting on a small wall, sipping a drink, and looking down toward the unfolding action which he could not see the details of as his view was blocked by us getting control of the gar.
I was pretty sure there would be some reaction when we turned and hoisted the impressive fish so Shaving 3 could see what had transpired in his absence. His reaction was even better than I expected. The first thing he did was jump right straight up in the air while maintaining a sitting position (a feat Hugh Durham, one time FSU basketball star and coach, often preformed on the sidelines during a game). When his feet finally hit the ground he then engaged in a gyrating ‘dance’ worthy of the proto-humans in Space Odyssey 2001 around the monolith. Scurring down the bank he proceed to add another gar to the collection. We took the two gar home and rendered the heads mantle-worthy where they rest to this day (A hack-saw was needed to get the heads off the bodies).
Shaving 3 has given up on gar fishing (been-there-done-that) and of late confines himself to occasional shark fishing because it usually draws a crowd and he likes to socialize. But the gar day was a definite moment all around.
ML
7/2/08
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
20a. Fishing for candy
I taught all the shavings to cast at an early age because they seemed to like it; plus out of state, they could ‘test the waters’ for free as most states let kids younger than 16 fish without a license.
Spinning reels are the easiest for small hands because the steps preceding a cast are physically separated and don’t require careful timing, just the correct sequence (which is easy to coach because you can see what they are doing). First, you press the line coming out of the reel against the rod with your pointer finger. Then you flip the bail open. Then you point the rod back over your shoulder. Then you sling the rod forward and take your pointer finger off the line. Three years old seems to be about the right starting age. Initially it’s a game in the front yard but smoothly moves to “the real deal” standing on some shoreline with the little fishy lure on the end of the line (or bobber, hook and worm).
Developmentally, continued interest varied a lot amongst the shavings. Shaving 1 had several good days as she grew older; King mackerel off the back of a party boat and one evening in the John Ding Darling Wildlife Refuge catching snook and lady fish. As darkness and an alligator approached (thrashing fish being his likely interest) I suggested leaving and she says “one more cast” – definitely “in the pipe, five by five”. She can still talk-the-talk and spits into unknown waters to see who’s near-by.
Shaving 3 had some early trout successes but ended up requiring more socializing than fishing usually entailed, at least when Shaving 4 and yours truly were setting the order of battle. In the event, Shaving 2 probably had the longest tour of semi-voluntary fish survey duty which is why bribery occasionally came into play.
So with Shaving 2 as the only combat-ready kid (Shaving 1 being elsewhere, Shaving 3 scooting around in diapers and Shaving 4 yet-to-be) we set out to see the Northwest. Tacoma, Washington to be precise, spending two weeks in a most excellent opportunity on the bank of American Lake as guests of Shaving 2’s Godparents, Ken & Issy.
From a what-to-fish-for standpoint, and how to do it, this was the proverbial unchartered waters and therefore fishing most closely tied to its fundamental attraction – the suspense that comes from not knowing if, when or what. However the answers can be bad: not, never and nothing. So before investing in legality it’s always best to turn a kid loose casting at the water. (I’ve always figured that if I do not touch the rod, then I am not fishing. Never had to test this legal theory but if it comes up it will be tested. If there are going to be court costs there is going to be a trial ….and the sawed-off go pro se.).
In the initial contact, a beetle spin works as well in the Northwest as it works in the Southeast. No “bream” in Washington but a functional substitute called a perch. So functional, in fact, that Shaving 2 was into the significant double digits before darkness, or she, fell (I can’t remember which). Although NOT FISHING, I’ve always felt that if my plan defeated the fish then didn’t I defeat the fish?
This initial burst of success had a downside. Shaving 2 had apparently gotten burned out and did not want to fish anymore. This was partly the result of the strenuousness of the first attack’s success and partly due to a general funk she’d descended into due to a thwarted march to see a glacier. For a collection of reasons she had become obsessed with the idea of seeing a real glacier. Unfortunately on our first march to fulfill her dream the trail was blocked by a rock slide and she had to be carried crying inconsolably from the scene.
So when the time came for us to go fish for trout at the local bait Shoppe + pier, she did not want to go! Now I can fish alone, have and will again, but there is the “Three Little Paddles” effect plus the reluctant have about the same luck as the beginner – good! Fortunately she had her price which was a guarantee of a big cup of hot chocolate the moment she got vertical that morning and anything from the snack selection.
So off we went around 6 AM. I got the proprietor’s recommended bait and Shaving 2 got a Snickers bar the length of her forearm. The end of the pier was populated with the Northwest’s functional equivalent of the Southeast’s – old guys. (Actually one of them looked familiar). We studied the locals’ approach which was small hook, about 18 inches of 4 pound test leader (spooky weak), swivel, one ounce barrel sinker, regular line. It was really deep as the slope of the lines into the water was steep (I was surprised there was any oxygen down there).
Well there must have been oxygen because Shaving 2 nailed what was regarded by the old guys as likely “the fish of the day”; landed with the kind loan of a net. It was big enough for about 7 people to get more than a taste at dinner that night.
The point here is that a successful fish trip can call for the right bait all around; worms for the trout, chocolate for your buddy.
ML
6/17/08
Spinning reels are the easiest for small hands because the steps preceding a cast are physically separated and don’t require careful timing, just the correct sequence (which is easy to coach because you can see what they are doing). First, you press the line coming out of the reel against the rod with your pointer finger. Then you flip the bail open. Then you point the rod back over your shoulder. Then you sling the rod forward and take your pointer finger off the line. Three years old seems to be about the right starting age. Initially it’s a game in the front yard but smoothly moves to “the real deal” standing on some shoreline with the little fishy lure on the end of the line (or bobber, hook and worm).
Developmentally, continued interest varied a lot amongst the shavings. Shaving 1 had several good days as she grew older; King mackerel off the back of a party boat and one evening in the John Ding Darling Wildlife Refuge catching snook and lady fish. As darkness and an alligator approached (thrashing fish being his likely interest) I suggested leaving and she says “one more cast” – definitely “in the pipe, five by five”. She can still talk-the-talk and spits into unknown waters to see who’s near-by.
Shaving 3 had some early trout successes but ended up requiring more socializing than fishing usually entailed, at least when Shaving 4 and yours truly were setting the order of battle. In the event, Shaving 2 probably had the longest tour of semi-voluntary fish survey duty which is why bribery occasionally came into play.
So with Shaving 2 as the only combat-ready kid (Shaving 1 being elsewhere, Shaving 3 scooting around in diapers and Shaving 4 yet-to-be) we set out to see the Northwest. Tacoma, Washington to be precise, spending two weeks in a most excellent opportunity on the bank of American Lake as guests of Shaving 2’s Godparents, Ken & Issy.
From a what-to-fish-for standpoint, and how to do it, this was the proverbial unchartered waters and therefore fishing most closely tied to its fundamental attraction – the suspense that comes from not knowing if, when or what. However the answers can be bad: not, never and nothing. So before investing in legality it’s always best to turn a kid loose casting at the water. (I’ve always figured that if I do not touch the rod, then I am not fishing. Never had to test this legal theory but if it comes up it will be tested. If there are going to be court costs there is going to be a trial ….and the sawed-off go pro se.).
In the initial contact, a beetle spin works as well in the Northwest as it works in the Southeast. No “bream” in Washington but a functional substitute called a perch. So functional, in fact, that Shaving 2 was into the significant double digits before darkness, or she, fell (I can’t remember which). Although NOT FISHING, I’ve always felt that if my plan defeated the fish then didn’t I defeat the fish?
This initial burst of success had a downside. Shaving 2 had apparently gotten burned out and did not want to fish anymore. This was partly the result of the strenuousness of the first attack’s success and partly due to a general funk she’d descended into due to a thwarted march to see a glacier. For a collection of reasons she had become obsessed with the idea of seeing a real glacier. Unfortunately on our first march to fulfill her dream the trail was blocked by a rock slide and she had to be carried crying inconsolably from the scene.
So when the time came for us to go fish for trout at the local bait Shoppe + pier, she did not want to go! Now I can fish alone, have and will again, but there is the “Three Little Paddles” effect plus the reluctant have about the same luck as the beginner – good! Fortunately she had her price which was a guarantee of a big cup of hot chocolate the moment she got vertical that morning and anything from the snack selection.
So off we went around 6 AM. I got the proprietor’s recommended bait and Shaving 2 got a Snickers bar the length of her forearm. The end of the pier was populated with the Northwest’s functional equivalent of the Southeast’s – old guys. (Actually one of them looked familiar). We studied the locals’ approach which was small hook, about 18 inches of 4 pound test leader (spooky weak), swivel, one ounce barrel sinker, regular line. It was really deep as the slope of the lines into the water was steep (I was surprised there was any oxygen down there).
Well there must have been oxygen because Shaving 2 nailed what was regarded by the old guys as likely “the fish of the day”; landed with the kind loan of a net. It was big enough for about 7 people to get more than a taste at dinner that night.
The point here is that a successful fish trip can call for the right bait all around; worms for the trout, chocolate for your buddy.
ML
6/17/08
Sunday, June 1, 2008
19. Learning Lessons
As the shaving of a sawed-off sportsman there are certain skills you are required to learn. Casting, trolling, paddling, snake/turtle/fish spotting, and pillow-case-holding to name a few. One skill that I originally recall being excited about was “driving” the canoe. Now, I had mastered the backward driving which is back of the canoe, facing backward, driving forward. The SOS let this go on for awhile (he was glad to have both hands free), but decided it was time that I learn to drive the canoe properly which is back of the canoe, facing forward and steering behind you. I was apprehensive as this meant paddling or motoring in the opposite direction that you really wanted to go. On our first lesson I learned three things 1) you end up going in the direction you are looking; 2) not all skills can be learned; and 3) things are not always as they appear.
We were cruising along and I was doing an OK job, aside from going the wrong way every single time Daddy SOS gave a bearing. He then gave the order to get “closer to the shore”. Uh huh. After a couple of “Daddy I don’t think I can do this” and some “encouraging” words - I turned towards shore. Now going “towards” something and “barreling down” on it are very different things. Unfortunately I turned the canoe directly at the shore line and went full speed. (Granted, full speed in a canoe with a motor powered by a car battery isn’t much, but in this case it was enough.) Too late Dad realizes my ‘towards’ vs. ‘barreling’ error and starts barking out directions which we have already established I get wrong every time. I panic. I eye what looks like a friendly, leafy, tree that is leaning over the water. I decide that if we are going to crash that would at least not knock a hole in the boat.
Unfortunately the leaves were not leaves. Locusts. Lots of them. Everywhere. Hysteria.
Lesson 1: you end up in the direction you are looking.
Lesson 2: not all skills can be learned.
Lesson 3: things are not always as they appear.
I have no memory of ever driving the canoe again.
MS-L
2/9/08
We were cruising along and I was doing an OK job, aside from going the wrong way every single time Daddy SOS gave a bearing. He then gave the order to get “closer to the shore”. Uh huh. After a couple of “Daddy I don’t think I can do this” and some “encouraging” words - I turned towards shore. Now going “towards” something and “barreling down” on it are very different things. Unfortunately I turned the canoe directly at the shore line and went full speed. (Granted, full speed in a canoe with a motor powered by a car battery isn’t much, but in this case it was enough.) Too late Dad realizes my ‘towards’ vs. ‘barreling’ error and starts barking out directions which we have already established I get wrong every time. I panic. I eye what looks like a friendly, leafy, tree that is leaning over the water. I decide that if we are going to crash that would at least not knock a hole in the boat.
Unfortunately the leaves were not leaves. Locusts. Lots of them. Everywhere. Hysteria.
Lesson 1: you end up in the direction you are looking.
Lesson 2: not all skills can be learned.
Lesson 3: things are not always as they appear.
I have no memory of ever driving the canoe again.
MS-L
2/9/08
Friday, May 2, 2008
18c. The biggest one
Geb was the best snake hunter I’ve ever known. Like most people who are really good at something, his skill was a combination of natural talent and hard work. His home range was South Florida, but on a trip to Tennessee he spotted a 2 ft copperhead, going up a clay bank, from 50 ft away, from a moving car. The fact that the snake was dead (traveled that far, and no further, after being run over) probably made it harder to see as it wasn’t moving. The guy was great!
We met at FSU where, because I had a few extra years in that theater, I showed him the same-ole-places – and we discovered a few new ones: Tram Road, County 67 and some places we never found again because (this being before GPS) we didn’t know exactly where we were.
His mother was of the “at least he’s not out stealing hubcaps” school of child rearing and his Dad was a sportsman (sawed off). To wit, once his Dad was not being careful enough and shot a hole in the parental bed with a Colt .44. Reportedly, his great fear was what Fran would say. In the event, Fran thought she had burned a hole in the spread with a cigarette and worried what Larry would say. My kind of folks.
The family, nature appreciators all, had a cabin just north of Alligator Alley about two-thirds of the way to Naples; basically Snake City. Being from Ft. Lauderdale, and an ace snake hunter, Geb had around 30 indigo snakes to his credit when we went for a weekend into this paradise.
Most people have never heard of an indigo snake though, to those in the know, it is the King, the Prince, the Emperor, Numero Uno of North American snakes: big, in fact the longest US snake at 8ft, 6.25in (then and now), heavy bodied, though not a constrictor, shiny deep blue, stem to stern (save for the red throat) and an eater of most other vertebrates. Old snake books held that the Seminoles tried to scare their children from wandering off for fear that “cekto”* (Creek) or “cinto”* (Miccosukee) was out there. A possibly useful, but essentially empty, warning as the indigo snake is fortunately mild mannered.
We arrived Friday afternoon with enough time to look around and on an expansive pile of old lumber (likely a prior cabin), found a long shed skin. The next morning, in no particular hurry, we ate and went to see if the customer who left the skin was available. And available he was, sitting right in the middle of the lumber shining in the morning sun as only a newly shed indigo snake can shine. I started my best “Niagara Falls” approach but Bailey yelled “RUN!!”. So I ran and picked up my first (and only) wild indigo snake.
We took the prize back to show Geb’s mother. The odd thing was nobody did a double take on its size until we were holding it up in the living room and it went from ceiling to floor. Bailey says “How the #@&% big is this thing?” As Roger Conant noted, repeated measures tend to produce slightly different results. I recall, at the time, 8ft 3in as the number. The snake never measured less than 7ft 11in. There is a fair chance that the snake was in the top ten ever caught in the U.S., size wise (maybe top five).
He went to live with me for a while but, although he would eat almost anything (rats, mice, catfish), he kept changing his mind and started heading into the ‘failure to thrive’ zone. So I sent him back to his wood pile. Over the years, I’ve become convinced that there are snakes that simply need the sun itself to do well. Black snakes, indigo snakes, coach whips – the ones you never see out at night (but do see running around in the heat of the day). So he went back to the heat of the day and maybe he tacked on a few more inches to really become the biggest one.
*A tip-of-the-hat to Culture Department at the Billy Osceola Memorial Library and JLE (aka SEMINOLE74) for coming up with the Seminole word. While there were slightly different thoughts on the correct spelling everyone agreed that there was not a particular Seminole word for the indigo snake, only one word that covered all snakes. This leads me to predict that if one were to stand before a native Seminole speaker, shade one’s eyes from the sun, look around from side to side as if scanning the ground and say “chetto” the translation of the reply would be “you can have my share”.
ML
5/1/08
We met at FSU where, because I had a few extra years in that theater, I showed him the same-ole-places – and we discovered a few new ones: Tram Road, County 67 and some places we never found again because (this being before GPS) we didn’t know exactly where we were.
His mother was of the “at least he’s not out stealing hubcaps” school of child rearing and his Dad was a sportsman (sawed off). To wit, once his Dad was not being careful enough and shot a hole in the parental bed with a Colt .44. Reportedly, his great fear was what Fran would say. In the event, Fran thought she had burned a hole in the spread with a cigarette and worried what Larry would say. My kind of folks.
The family, nature appreciators all, had a cabin just north of Alligator Alley about two-thirds of the way to Naples; basically Snake City. Being from Ft. Lauderdale, and an ace snake hunter, Geb had around 30 indigo snakes to his credit when we went for a weekend into this paradise.
Most people have never heard of an indigo snake though, to those in the know, it is the King, the Prince, the Emperor, Numero Uno of North American snakes: big, in fact the longest US snake at 8ft, 6.25in (then and now), heavy bodied, though not a constrictor, shiny deep blue, stem to stern (save for the red throat) and an eater of most other vertebrates. Old snake books held that the Seminoles tried to scare their children from wandering off for fear that “cekto”* (Creek) or “cinto”* (Miccosukee) was out there. A possibly useful, but essentially empty, warning as the indigo snake is fortunately mild mannered.
We arrived Friday afternoon with enough time to look around and on an expansive pile of old lumber (likely a prior cabin), found a long shed skin. The next morning, in no particular hurry, we ate and went to see if the customer who left the skin was available. And available he was, sitting right in the middle of the lumber shining in the morning sun as only a newly shed indigo snake can shine. I started my best “Niagara Falls” approach but Bailey yelled “RUN!!”. So I ran and picked up my first (and only) wild indigo snake.
We took the prize back to show Geb’s mother. The odd thing was nobody did a double take on its size until we were holding it up in the living room and it went from ceiling to floor. Bailey says “How the #@&% big is this thing?” As Roger Conant noted, repeated measures tend to produce slightly different results. I recall, at the time, 8ft 3in as the number. The snake never measured less than 7ft 11in. There is a fair chance that the snake was in the top ten ever caught in the U.S., size wise (maybe top five).
He went to live with me for a while but, although he would eat almost anything (rats, mice, catfish), he kept changing his mind and started heading into the ‘failure to thrive’ zone. So I sent him back to his wood pile. Over the years, I’ve become convinced that there are snakes that simply need the sun itself to do well. Black snakes, indigo snakes, coach whips – the ones you never see out at night (but do see running around in the heat of the day). So he went back to the heat of the day and maybe he tacked on a few more inches to really become the biggest one.
*A tip-of-the-hat to Culture Department at the Billy Osceola Memorial Library and JLE (aka SEMINOLE74) for coming up with the Seminole word. While there were slightly different thoughts on the correct spelling everyone agreed that there was not a particular Seminole word for the indigo snake, only one word that covered all snakes. This leads me to predict that if one were to stand before a native Seminole speaker, shade one’s eyes from the sun, look around from side to side as if scanning the ground and say “chetto” the translation of the reply would be “you can have my share”.
ML
5/1/08
Saturday, March 1, 2008
18b. The foolish one
Another lake, another shore line, thirty years later and 250 miles south – “plop”.
I had been invited to the 4-H center as an educational speaker on visual illusions (no they’re not only interested in cows and chickens) and went early as the camp was located on the shore of Lay Lake. I figured I could do a “walkabout”, without getting arrested for trespassing, by claiming a) hey, I’m a guest speaker and b) I’m looking for snakes. The “I’m looking for snakes” declaration is, in and of itself, an almost guaranteed spontaneous invitation that elicits a smiling welcome of – and the wording is almost always the same –“you can have my share”.
The large banded water snake that had dropped into the lake had a number of things going for him that the Cove Lake monster did not. First, he had spotted me and was already on the move. Second, as the tree limb he’d been sunning on was far out over the water, he was about thirty feet from shore with some fairly stiff water plants filling the first fifteen. And third, we were talking cottonmouth territory so there were potential surprises for a walker in the water’s vegetation. The ‘Niagara Falls!! approach’ was not going to do it.
However, the Lay Lake water snake had some problems that the Cove Lake character did not –and they did not include me. In Cove Lake, the dangers-from-below for a big water snake amounted to snapping turtles (of which there were plenty). In Lay Lake, on the other hand, there were probably at least six types of fish to worry about, alligator snapping turtles to go along with the common snappers, and I would not have been entirely surprised if there were a few regular alligators around. From above, bass boats came flying by. Consequently I was probably the least of the snakes concerns.
In keeping with his strategic situation the snake swam a short distance parallel to the shore and went under. I knew what he was thinking…” If I make it to the bank I’ll just crawl up under the root fortified overhang and that bozo will never be the wiser”.
I had lost many a water snakes to shore line roots but usually in hot pursuit. In this case I was in a position to get where he was going, first! Figuring he would spend little time paralleling the shore, I moved along the bank in the direction he’d been headed and got down on both knees to facilitate a grab, right or left, over a length of around four feet.
“What a maroon”! Up he comes at the water line about a foot and a half to my left and into the pillow case he goes. He was about three and a half feet long and I took him home in order to taunt him some more.
I let him go in Shades Creek just above the 280 bridge where I’d seen another water snake doing a fair imitation of a young anaconda around a big brush jam; habitat wise he probably traded up – and I said to him as he swam away “age and treachery, age and treachery”.
ML
2/11/08
I had been invited to the 4-H center as an educational speaker on visual illusions (no they’re not only interested in cows and chickens) and went early as the camp was located on the shore of Lay Lake. I figured I could do a “walkabout”, without getting arrested for trespassing, by claiming a) hey, I’m a guest speaker and b) I’m looking for snakes. The “I’m looking for snakes” declaration is, in and of itself, an almost guaranteed spontaneous invitation that elicits a smiling welcome of – and the wording is almost always the same –“you can have my share”.
The large banded water snake that had dropped into the lake had a number of things going for him that the Cove Lake monster did not. First, he had spotted me and was already on the move. Second, as the tree limb he’d been sunning on was far out over the water, he was about thirty feet from shore with some fairly stiff water plants filling the first fifteen. And third, we were talking cottonmouth territory so there were potential surprises for a walker in the water’s vegetation. The ‘Niagara Falls!! approach’ was not going to do it.
However, the Lay Lake water snake had some problems that the Cove Lake character did not –and they did not include me. In Cove Lake, the dangers-from-below for a big water snake amounted to snapping turtles (of which there were plenty). In Lay Lake, on the other hand, there were probably at least six types of fish to worry about, alligator snapping turtles to go along with the common snappers, and I would not have been entirely surprised if there were a few regular alligators around. From above, bass boats came flying by. Consequently I was probably the least of the snakes concerns.
In keeping with his strategic situation the snake swam a short distance parallel to the shore and went under. I knew what he was thinking…” If I make it to the bank I’ll just crawl up under the root fortified overhang and that bozo will never be the wiser”.
I had lost many a water snakes to shore line roots but usually in hot pursuit. In this case I was in a position to get where he was going, first! Figuring he would spend little time paralleling the shore, I moved along the bank in the direction he’d been headed and got down on both knees to facilitate a grab, right or left, over a length of around four feet.
“What a maroon”! Up he comes at the water line about a foot and a half to my left and into the pillow case he goes. He was about three and a half feet long and I took him home in order to taunt him some more.
I let him go in Shades Creek just above the 280 bridge where I’d seen another water snake doing a fair imitation of a young anaconda around a big brush jam; habitat wise he probably traded up – and I said to him as he swam away “age and treachery, age and treachery”.
ML
2/11/08
Friday, February 1, 2008
18a. The big one
Cove Lake State Park was a caldron of life where many moments unfolded. I was first taken there with Scott’s family in about the 5th grade to fish for bream. Cove Lake figured again and again in such outings, then school trips and finally as a place we could drive ourselves.
The indigenous northern banded water snakes were, for some unknown collection of reasons, numerous and especially big. I once saw one lollygagging next to the bank in the picnic area with a fair sized bullhead in its mouth (making the snake better than fair sized for a banded water snake). There was a rumor that dynamite had once been used to take care of the “snake problem”. If true, it didn’t work.
Water snakes are most easily caught in streams by finding them under rocks. Except for their foolish tendencies at night (to be out in the open chasing fish with almost total disregard for approaching flashlights), if the snake sees you first (typically falling off a bush limb into the water) it is adios muchacho. In the open water of a lake they are invulnerable – almost.
It is easy to always be prepared to transport a snake obtained under a non-herpetological auspice (say church picnic, high school class trip): simply bring a pillow case. Should said pillow case make the return trip too full to fit in a pocket no one ever asks why. In fact, fellow travelers usually tell new group members “Don’t ask”.
And so it was as I walked alone along the tree-lined edge of the lake just past the bridge. Floating in the water, with mostly only his head out, was a monster of a banded water snake…..about 15ft from shore. This was one of those moments that no one would believe without the snake; but I had no experience upon which to base an approach that stood any chance of success. So I developed the ‘Niagara Falls !! approach’ – “slowly I turned, step by step, inch by inch”.
There are at least two barehanded lethal tricks you can play on flies resting on a surface.
The first one involves clapping your hands together allowing for a) the fly is faster than you are but, b) must go up – lead them. The second is more scientific. If you start shaking your hand about two feet above a resting fly he may not fly. Because motion detectors adapt to constant stimulation, you can slowly move your shaking hand closer and closer to the fly and he may not fly. If patient, you can end up in the unusual position of having your shaking hand six inches above the still resting fly. Then WHAM; they ain’t that fast.
I feel the water snake was likely deceived by my ever so slow approach since I ended up within lunging distance – and did so.
This banded water snake was huge, measuring around a half-inch over the record (51in.) as recorded by Roger Conant author of A Field Guide to Reptiles and Amphibians (1958). I alerted Roger Conant to the breakthrough and he responded, as he never failed to do, with a typed letter on Philadelphia Zoological Garden stationary and his swooping, yet clear, signature. One of these correspondences hangs framed upon my wall still today.
In the event, the snake died. I mailed it to Roger Conant who found it slightly shorter than advertised but noted that he had once measured the same snake several times and had come up with several slightly different lengths. He did, however, note the interesting belly pattern markings which he had not observed in water snakes from its vicinity and would be pleased to add it to the institution’s collection. That’s “PLEASED” to add the snake I caught to the “COLLECTION”!! I myself was ecstatic to have Roger Conant as a pen pal. There were more snakes; there was only one Roger Conant.
ML
1/4/07
The indigenous northern banded water snakes were, for some unknown collection of reasons, numerous and especially big. I once saw one lollygagging next to the bank in the picnic area with a fair sized bullhead in its mouth (making the snake better than fair sized for a banded water snake). There was a rumor that dynamite had once been used to take care of the “snake problem”. If true, it didn’t work.
Water snakes are most easily caught in streams by finding them under rocks. Except for their foolish tendencies at night (to be out in the open chasing fish with almost total disregard for approaching flashlights), if the snake sees you first (typically falling off a bush limb into the water) it is adios muchacho. In the open water of a lake they are invulnerable – almost.
It is easy to always be prepared to transport a snake obtained under a non-herpetological auspice (say church picnic, high school class trip): simply bring a pillow case. Should said pillow case make the return trip too full to fit in a pocket no one ever asks why. In fact, fellow travelers usually tell new group members “Don’t ask”.
And so it was as I walked alone along the tree-lined edge of the lake just past the bridge. Floating in the water, with mostly only his head out, was a monster of a banded water snake…..about 15ft from shore. This was one of those moments that no one would believe without the snake; but I had no experience upon which to base an approach that stood any chance of success. So I developed the ‘Niagara Falls !! approach’ – “slowly I turned, step by step, inch by inch”.
There are at least two barehanded lethal tricks you can play on flies resting on a surface.
The first one involves clapping your hands together allowing for a) the fly is faster than you are but, b) must go up – lead them. The second is more scientific. If you start shaking your hand about two feet above a resting fly he may not fly. Because motion detectors adapt to constant stimulation, you can slowly move your shaking hand closer and closer to the fly and he may not fly. If patient, you can end up in the unusual position of having your shaking hand six inches above the still resting fly. Then WHAM; they ain’t that fast.
I feel the water snake was likely deceived by my ever so slow approach since I ended up within lunging distance – and did so.
This banded water snake was huge, measuring around a half-inch over the record (51in.) as recorded by Roger Conant author of A Field Guide to Reptiles and Amphibians (1958). I alerted Roger Conant to the breakthrough and he responded, as he never failed to do, with a typed letter on Philadelphia Zoological Garden stationary and his swooping, yet clear, signature. One of these correspondences hangs framed upon my wall still today.
In the event, the snake died. I mailed it to Roger Conant who found it slightly shorter than advertised but noted that he had once measured the same snake several times and had come up with several slightly different lengths. He did, however, note the interesting belly pattern markings which he had not observed in water snakes from its vicinity and would be pleased to add it to the institution’s collection. That’s “PLEASED” to add the snake I caught to the “COLLECTION”!! I myself was ecstatic to have Roger Conant as a pen pal. There were more snakes; there was only one Roger Conant.
ML
1/4/07
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
17. Clarence just won't listen
I had the occasional good fortune to go deep sea fishing with a band of four who needed six. The format was a 12 hour bottom-fishing trip, out of Destin, with a captain who took his fishing seriously. Because Captain Harold had to drive the boat, holding it in position over the structure, he could not fish himself and therefore took the fishing of his party’s members seriously. He was alleged something of a grump who, rumor had it, once returned at noon and threw the party and their money off the boat because they kept missing the multiple opportunities he had given them to catch grouper and snapper.
As I did not know what I was doing, I was more than happy to receive instruction from the Captain who was a willing, though concise, coach who did not like to see the same mistake made twice.
The trick to catching a grouper of significant size is to beat him quickly or he will swim back into the structure from whence he came and cut the line. There’s just enough skill involved to leave one feeling that they had something to do with catching the fish the Captain had found. When the first grouper came-a-calling I reacted as if it were a bass and up came the line – no fish, no bait . The Captain leaned down from his perch and said “Let him have it longer”. So I let the next one have it longer and up came the line – no hook, sinker or leader. The Captain leaned down and said “not that long”. Over time I got the hang of it and managed a 40-pounder out of a Volkswagen about 90 feet down.
The problem child was Clarence. A more affable person I’ve never known which was good because when he wasn’t at his day job as the school’s fiscal officer he was down at the gym shooting hoops or lifting weights. Clarence was big and strong.
Clarence, a regular on these fishing trips, was in a love/hate relationship with Captain Harold; Clarence loved the Captain and the Captain hated Clarence (or so Clarence claimed). Clarence would attempt to cheer the Captain by doing things like wearing one of those tourist baseball caps with “Captain” day-glow painted on it. Unfortunately the Captain was a “…and it’s my vessel” kind of guy. Clarence’s evidence that the Captain hated him was that once upon a time Clarence hooked a big fish and the Captain gunned the boat forward which Clarence claimed was an attempt to flip him into the Gulf. I do not doubt the Captain gunned the boat but I am certain it was to catch the fish despite what he knew Clarence was about to do.
What Clarence was about to do was described to me many times before I actually saw it happen. The only thing clear from the description (because the tellers always started laughing so hard they couldn’t talk) was that upon hooking a big fish Clarence would back up and bend over, e.g. not proper technique. When a fish shows up proper technique (as I understand it) is to lower the rod tip from about 10 o’clock and reel up the slack until you feel the fish again. Then lift the rod up as high as possible and then quickly lower it reeling in the slack line as fast as possible and repeat until the contest is settled one way or the other. The point is to be able to use the rod leverage and show the fish no slack line so he can’t swim back into the structure and cut the line off. It takes some practice.
Then I saw what Clarence did. Fish hits. Clarence backs up (into the middle of the fishing area), bends over, and starts wrenching the fish up by turning the reel handle. Well it worked. After the mate gaffed the fish he yells up to the Captain “Captain you gotta see this”. The Captain had had his back to the spectacle (probably gnawing the wheel). The mate holds up the fish for all to see the deep gashes along its head where Clarence had pulled him out of the coral!
The Captain summoned Clarence to the upper level and proceeded to communicate. The conversation was so long, and we could not hear what was being said (but we knew it was not ‘good’) that when Clarence descended the ladder we all circled him and ask “What’d he say”. Clarence said: “Oh, he said I did great”.
Years later Clarence admitted the true content which was approximately “Most of these wussies aren’t strong enough to catch a great fish; you are. BUT NOT DOING IT THAT WAY!!”
Shaving 4 always out fishes me for bass because he uses those silly plastic worms. I tell him I like to feel the fish HIT. He, on the other hand, says he likes to HIT the fish. Which just goes to show it isn’t whether you catch or release but how you play with the game.
ML
12/10/07
As I did not know what I was doing, I was more than happy to receive instruction from the Captain who was a willing, though concise, coach who did not like to see the same mistake made twice.
The trick to catching a grouper of significant size is to beat him quickly or he will swim back into the structure from whence he came and cut the line. There’s just enough skill involved to leave one feeling that they had something to do with catching the fish the Captain had found. When the first grouper came-a-calling I reacted as if it were a bass and up came the line – no fish, no bait . The Captain leaned down from his perch and said “Let him have it longer”. So I let the next one have it longer and up came the line – no hook, sinker or leader. The Captain leaned down and said “not that long”. Over time I got the hang of it and managed a 40-pounder out of a Volkswagen about 90 feet down.
The problem child was Clarence. A more affable person I’ve never known which was good because when he wasn’t at his day job as the school’s fiscal officer he was down at the gym shooting hoops or lifting weights. Clarence was big and strong.
Clarence, a regular on these fishing trips, was in a love/hate relationship with Captain Harold; Clarence loved the Captain and the Captain hated Clarence (or so Clarence claimed). Clarence would attempt to cheer the Captain by doing things like wearing one of those tourist baseball caps with “Captain” day-glow painted on it. Unfortunately the Captain was a “…and it’s my vessel” kind of guy. Clarence’s evidence that the Captain hated him was that once upon a time Clarence hooked a big fish and the Captain gunned the boat forward which Clarence claimed was an attempt to flip him into the Gulf. I do not doubt the Captain gunned the boat but I am certain it was to catch the fish despite what he knew Clarence was about to do.
What Clarence was about to do was described to me many times before I actually saw it happen. The only thing clear from the description (because the tellers always started laughing so hard they couldn’t talk) was that upon hooking a big fish Clarence would back up and bend over, e.g. not proper technique. When a fish shows up proper technique (as I understand it) is to lower the rod tip from about 10 o’clock and reel up the slack until you feel the fish again. Then lift the rod up as high as possible and then quickly lower it reeling in the slack line as fast as possible and repeat until the contest is settled one way or the other. The point is to be able to use the rod leverage and show the fish no slack line so he can’t swim back into the structure and cut the line off. It takes some practice.
Then I saw what Clarence did. Fish hits. Clarence backs up (into the middle of the fishing area), bends over, and starts wrenching the fish up by turning the reel handle. Well it worked. After the mate gaffed the fish he yells up to the Captain “Captain you gotta see this”. The Captain had had his back to the spectacle (probably gnawing the wheel). The mate holds up the fish for all to see the deep gashes along its head where Clarence had pulled him out of the coral!
The Captain summoned Clarence to the upper level and proceeded to communicate. The conversation was so long, and we could not hear what was being said (but we knew it was not ‘good’) that when Clarence descended the ladder we all circled him and ask “What’d he say”. Clarence said: “Oh, he said I did great”.
Years later Clarence admitted the true content which was approximately “Most of these wussies aren’t strong enough to catch a great fish; you are. BUT NOT DOING IT THAT WAY!!”
Shaving 4 always out fishes me for bass because he uses those silly plastic worms. I tell him I like to feel the fish HIT. He, on the other hand, says he likes to HIT the fish. Which just goes to show it isn’t whether you catch or release but how you play with the game.
ML
12/10/07
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)