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
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
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
Saturday, December 1, 2007
16. Surf and turf in Urbana-Champaign
Central Illinois is not prima facie sawed-off sportsman territory. Oh, I think those guys sitting on six inches of ice spearing pike through a hole are onto something but I never got a chance to try it. In the whole two and a half years I was there I don’t think I saw a single snake outside. The waterways were not obviously life filled and their names did not encourage close inspection: Salt Fork of the Vermillion River, Saline Ditch and my non-favorite – The Bone Yard. The latter flowed around Urbana-Champaign and some civic group started a campaign to “Save Our Bone Yard”. I’m thinking, OK, Step One…change the name! I suspected there was an Indian connection which made it all the worse because it sounded like a stream flowing into, or out of, (or both) a Stephen King novel.
There was a small park in town that I gave a fishing try; adventure opportunity is often closer than most people realize. Rod, reel, bobber, worms (Illinois had plenty of worms) and one and a half ham sandwiches later – zip. I Frisbee-ed a slice of white bread onto the water and before I could pack up a four pound carp surfaces and starts chewing on it. I says to the carp….”Oh; you.”
In the 20 years ensuing since my cane pole had been dragged into the lake my relationship with the carp had the tenor of Jeremiah Johnson’s relationship with the Crow in the last third of the movie. I had shot them (spear gun, bow & arrow), knifed them (hunting, paring) but mostly half-ounce barrel sinker + 2/0 hook + bread dough-balled them. Initially, this city park looked like a standard tactics theater.
Setting aside the fact that the best bait turned out to be French fries, events unfolded predictably. Carp were running around 4-6 pounds and I’d try different spots from trip to trip. I finally ended up sitting in a small grove of trees, with something to lean against, while I read a book and waited for a carp. It was a pretty pastoral image until the rats came marching in.
Generally speaking, when the rats come marching in, most people find something else to do or some place else to do it. To the sawed-off, however, this represented a pinnacle of sporting opportunity – Surf & Turf; a fishing pole in one hand and a gun in the other!
I already had a nice pump-up, .22 caliber, pellet pistol so all I had to do was bring it. Although sometimes brazen, real rats are fairly skittish especially when surprised (and I was planning on surprising them). Consequently there was not going to be time, and too much movement, to load, cock and pump the pistol if rats showed up again. Hence, on the next trip I sat leaning against a tree, carp rod baited and cast, reading a book with the completely ready pellet piston in my lap. This sort of thing usually doesn’t work out but darned if a rat doesn’t come trundling along the water line.
It was the shot of a life time; not from the hip, from the lap! The pellet hit the rat dead center and knocked him two feet into the water without skipping. He quickly did two complete medial/lateral barrel roles, paused briefly right-side up, and then did a surface-dive worthy of a water ballet. I knew they were ready swimmers. I did not know they would deliberately dive and swim under water.
I figure the rat ended up with a nice bruise from the encounter. I didn’t try again as it was going to take a real fire arm which would likely not have gone over well with the picnic people. I do wonder if the rat swam by a carp who mused “Well, at least he’s not just after us.”
ML
7/18/07
There was a small park in town that I gave a fishing try; adventure opportunity is often closer than most people realize. Rod, reel, bobber, worms (Illinois had plenty of worms) and one and a half ham sandwiches later – zip. I Frisbee-ed a slice of white bread onto the water and before I could pack up a four pound carp surfaces and starts chewing on it. I says to the carp….”Oh; you.”
In the 20 years ensuing since my cane pole had been dragged into the lake my relationship with the carp had the tenor of Jeremiah Johnson’s relationship with the Crow in the last third of the movie. I had shot them (spear gun, bow & arrow), knifed them (hunting, paring) but mostly half-ounce barrel sinker + 2/0 hook + bread dough-balled them. Initially, this city park looked like a standard tactics theater.
Setting aside the fact that the best bait turned out to be French fries, events unfolded predictably. Carp were running around 4-6 pounds and I’d try different spots from trip to trip. I finally ended up sitting in a small grove of trees, with something to lean against, while I read a book and waited for a carp. It was a pretty pastoral image until the rats came marching in.
Generally speaking, when the rats come marching in, most people find something else to do or some place else to do it. To the sawed-off, however, this represented a pinnacle of sporting opportunity – Surf & Turf; a fishing pole in one hand and a gun in the other!
I already had a nice pump-up, .22 caliber, pellet pistol so all I had to do was bring it. Although sometimes brazen, real rats are fairly skittish especially when surprised (and I was planning on surprising them). Consequently there was not going to be time, and too much movement, to load, cock and pump the pistol if rats showed up again. Hence, on the next trip I sat leaning against a tree, carp rod baited and cast, reading a book with the completely ready pellet piston in my lap. This sort of thing usually doesn’t work out but darned if a rat doesn’t come trundling along the water line.
It was the shot of a life time; not from the hip, from the lap! The pellet hit the rat dead center and knocked him two feet into the water without skipping. He quickly did two complete medial/lateral barrel roles, paused briefly right-side up, and then did a surface-dive worthy of a water ballet. I knew they were ready swimmers. I did not know they would deliberately dive and swim under water.
I figure the rat ended up with a nice bruise from the encounter. I didn’t try again as it was going to take a real fire arm which would likely not have gone over well with the picnic people. I do wonder if the rat swam by a carp who mused “Well, at least he’s not just after us.”
ML
7/18/07
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