So we’re sitting in the group room of a local bar after a neuroanatomy class and the topic of general disposition was introduced. In particular, what was the reason for the marked difference in demeanors between woolly monkeys and rhesus monkeys? I probably brought it up having just met a pet wooly monkey (“Monty” as I recall) who mingled well with a bunch of humans sitting around a living room. Monty’s passably civilized behavior was in stark contrast to what we all agreed would be the uncivilized to homicidal behavior of any rhesus monkey we had ever met.
The teacher, a Tallahassee neurologist, had joined us this evening and he forwarded the proposition that there was such a thing as “bad protoplasm”. Rhesus monkeys had it and wooly monkeys didn’t. His classification rang true as it was easy to think of animals whose mobility, agility and hostility far exceeded their station in life; those spiritually akin to the creature in the Alien series.
Based upon many encounters and several reasons my vote for baddest protoplasm goes to the common snapping turtle Chelydra serpentine. To begin with turtles as a group are not a first order menace. Oh a slider/cooter will take a swing at you every so often and a box turtle can probably pinch a finger in its closing shell but on the whole turtles are not exactly junk yard dogs. The common snapping turtle, however, is a junk yard dog. The species name says a lot about a striking speed that clearly impressed a visiting Swedish naturalist 250 years ago. And with a top wild weight of 75 pounds and an average of 10-35 pounds they are not to be tooted with.
My first tooting with came at about 10 when a pick-up safari was exploring a willow tree lined muddy creek behind our apartment. There was a piece of plywood, half in and out of the water, that one of the leader kids turned over. And under it was a 4 pound snapper also half in and out of the water. With slow menace he backed into the creek and was gone. I did not know such creatures existed and 50 yards from where I slept!
First capture was about a year later in the same creek. The fact that we had just returned from a Florida vacation must have accounted for the fact that I thought I was charging a big crab floating next to the far bank (pointy posterior shells as the similarity I guess). I picked up the one pound snapper and headed home where he likely stayed in an aquarium until he stunk us out –they have a distinctive unpleasant aroma.
The little ones, babies to about one pound, are fairly restrained; the attitude seems to set in at about three pounds but I don’t actually remember my first capture of the standard model. Fortunately snappers come with handles so if you get behind them you can pick them up by their long tails. This begs the question of “Why?” They bite, they’re big and they smell bad. This may explain the absent engram of first capture of a grown one as the typical conversation runs “I don’t want this thing; you want this thing?”
As driving teenagers we came across snappers in numbers from time to time. One day at Cove Lake, Dave and I were exploring a large area of foot deep water with a mud bottom. Snappers leave a characteristic trail in mud consisting of a two column path of foot prints with a continuous line up the middle where they drag their tail. We spotted the first trail and mud buried traveler quickly, then another and another. We ended up just counting them because if nobody wants one, fifty of the suckers are completely safe from even the sawed-off.
ML
3/17/07
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Friday, March 9, 2007
7. Pop's milk snake
Before I turned six I lived on the Pennsylvania/New York border; my family in Olean, my grandparents near Bradford. Pop’s house, which he said when last I saw him, had seen six generations with Shaving 2’s visit at the age of eight months. Everything seemed smaller than what I remembered except the field running up the hill from his back yard to the tree line. A sloping affair of knee high grass where the after dinner entertainment was watching the deer step out of the forest. (Once he said he had seen bear)
Pop worked his “leases”. Pennsylvania oil pumping stations where horse-shaped pumps delivered the greenish crude out of the ground into big open – wooden I seem to remember –Jacuzzi-like barrels. It smelled good but he said it would give me a headache.
Because of his work, Pop had a long shed; long enough to accommodate runs of pipe that go along with pumping oil. The shed was not far from the house and at the bottom of the field that ran the valley’s length. And along with the tools and shed of an oil man came scattered sheet metal roofing and a rock pile. And along with the sheet metal roofing and the rock pile came garter snakes galore!
Rock pile captures tended to be one snake per flipped rock. Not every rock, of course, but there were a lot of rocks. Sheet metal roofing turn-overs could often uncover more than one garter snake and I’d grab as many as I could. I don’t remember keeping them and didn’t know to use a pillow case at the time. There was one sweep were I carried a bucket and returned with five in about five minutes. I remember because somebody, Aunt Bid I think, said “Look at this, the gosh darn kid has already got five of them”. I also remember cutting one’s head off and cutting him open to discover what they ate. It was a worm but afterwards I felt the knowledge not worth the price. When I learned how to read I looked such matters up in books.
Garter snakes are not big biters but they are big poopers. Not a particularly pleasant aroma but you get used to it, as the price of doing this business, and it becomes the smell of success. Not unlike how your hands smell after a successful fishing trip.
Because garter snakes do not bite what happened one evening made an impression. I flipped the tin and there was a not-garter snake that reared back and bit me as soon as I reached for him. I dropped the tin and headed back into the house for dinner.
A decision faced me as I knew three things: a) it was not a garter snake, b) it bit me and c) some not-garter snakes were trouble. I figured I ought to tell somebody but also figured that some things could change that might include my being forbidden to catch snakes. Dying was also on my mind; decisions, decisions. I decided to just eat dinner and see how events unfolded.
In hindsight I am so sure it was a milk snake that I can almost see it now. From a practical stand point the real danger was zero (ah books) as the only indigenous venomous snakes were timber rattlesnakes – which Pop assured me he knew where to find but would not show me.
The question is; what should I have done? Probably I should have mentioned the bite but then again I lived didn’t I! And when you’re headed down that sawed-off path “sometimes you just have to say, what the spawn”. I never told anybody until now. Hope I don’t get in trouble.
ML
3/2/07
Pop worked his “leases”. Pennsylvania oil pumping stations where horse-shaped pumps delivered the greenish crude out of the ground into big open – wooden I seem to remember –Jacuzzi-like barrels. It smelled good but he said it would give me a headache.
Because of his work, Pop had a long shed; long enough to accommodate runs of pipe that go along with pumping oil. The shed was not far from the house and at the bottom of the field that ran the valley’s length. And along with the tools and shed of an oil man came scattered sheet metal roofing and a rock pile. And along with the sheet metal roofing and the rock pile came garter snakes galore!
Rock pile captures tended to be one snake per flipped rock. Not every rock, of course, but there were a lot of rocks. Sheet metal roofing turn-overs could often uncover more than one garter snake and I’d grab as many as I could. I don’t remember keeping them and didn’t know to use a pillow case at the time. There was one sweep were I carried a bucket and returned with five in about five minutes. I remember because somebody, Aunt Bid I think, said “Look at this, the gosh darn kid has already got five of them”. I also remember cutting one’s head off and cutting him open to discover what they ate. It was a worm but afterwards I felt the knowledge not worth the price. When I learned how to read I looked such matters up in books.
Garter snakes are not big biters but they are big poopers. Not a particularly pleasant aroma but you get used to it, as the price of doing this business, and it becomes the smell of success. Not unlike how your hands smell after a successful fishing trip.
Because garter snakes do not bite what happened one evening made an impression. I flipped the tin and there was a not-garter snake that reared back and bit me as soon as I reached for him. I dropped the tin and headed back into the house for dinner.
A decision faced me as I knew three things: a) it was not a garter snake, b) it bit me and c) some not-garter snakes were trouble. I figured I ought to tell somebody but also figured that some things could change that might include my being forbidden to catch snakes. Dying was also on my mind; decisions, decisions. I decided to just eat dinner and see how events unfolded.
In hindsight I am so sure it was a milk snake that I can almost see it now. From a practical stand point the real danger was zero (ah books) as the only indigenous venomous snakes were timber rattlesnakes – which Pop assured me he knew where to find but would not show me.
The question is; what should I have done? Probably I should have mentioned the bite but then again I lived didn’t I! And when you’re headed down that sawed-off path “sometimes you just have to say, what the spawn”. I never told anybody until now. Hope I don’t get in trouble.
ML
3/2/07
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
6. Shaving 1 says: Never take your eyes off the swamp
Every sawed-off sportsman knows when they have encountered another sawed-off sportsman. The telltale sign is they are using an item outside of it’s manufacturer’s intended design. As Shaving #1, I knew immediately when I and my sawed-off sportsman father crossed paths with “Willy” who was fishing for crabs in Saint Marks swamp using fish heads on a rope. Overall it was an effective procedure, catching 3 - 4 crabs with each “cast” (dropping the fish head into the water); however, it had caught the attention of another inhabitant of the swamp. An 8 foot American Alligator was “hovering” about 20 feet away – and watching.
Of course when sawed-off sportsmen cross paths they immediately go into what they’re doing, what they’re using, and how they came up with the idea. As I am merely a shaving and not personally sawed-off or a sportsmen, I cared little for the conversation and directed my attention to the swamp and specifically the alligator. Then the gator submerged. I sounded the alarm (“Hey, hey he’s under”), the sawed-offs took a look around, and the gator emerged about 5 feet from where he’d been. Not close, but still watching.
The sawed-offs went back to their conversation. All the while Willy is “reeling in” his line, picking off the crabs, checking the fish heads, re-“casting”, and repeating. Again, the gator submerged, again I sounded the alarm, again the sawed-offs took a look around, this time they decided the gator had gotten bored and moved on. I’d been in the field too long to turn my back on the swamp, but I directed my attention to the sawed-offs. As I’m listening to them regale one another with their stories – comparing scars as it were – Willy continues to reel in his line.
This time more than crabs come out of the water. The gator is rising silently out of the water and headed for Willy’s feet. Not knowing what else to do I start to scream like my hair is on fire. Mostly out of annoyance, the sawed-offs look at me and then to where I’m pointing – right at their feet. Both sawed-offs yelp and fall back. Ironically, Willy’s chosen method of escape is the crab-crawl backwards to safety. Crabs, fish heads, and rope abandoned Willy escapes.
Never take your eyes off the swamp.
MS-L
2/11/2007
Of course when sawed-off sportsmen cross paths they immediately go into what they’re doing, what they’re using, and how they came up with the idea. As I am merely a shaving and not personally sawed-off or a sportsmen, I cared little for the conversation and directed my attention to the swamp and specifically the alligator. Then the gator submerged. I sounded the alarm (“Hey, hey he’s under”), the sawed-offs took a look around, and the gator emerged about 5 feet from where he’d been. Not close, but still watching.
The sawed-offs went back to their conversation. All the while Willy is “reeling in” his line, picking off the crabs, checking the fish heads, re-“casting”, and repeating. Again, the gator submerged, again I sounded the alarm, again the sawed-offs took a look around, this time they decided the gator had gotten bored and moved on. I’d been in the field too long to turn my back on the swamp, but I directed my attention to the sawed-offs. As I’m listening to them regale one another with their stories – comparing scars as it were – Willy continues to reel in his line.
This time more than crabs come out of the water. The gator is rising silently out of the water and headed for Willy’s feet. Not knowing what else to do I start to scream like my hair is on fire. Mostly out of annoyance, the sawed-offs look at me and then to where I’m pointing – right at their feet. Both sawed-offs yelp and fall back. Ironically, Willy’s chosen method of escape is the crab-crawl backwards to safety. Crabs, fish heads, and rope abandoned Willy escapes.
Never take your eyes off the swamp.
MS-L
2/11/2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
5. Interview with a Sawed-off Sportsman
ML: Thank you for doing this interview.
Sawed-off Sportsman: No problem. I did this once before and it worked out pretty
well.
ML: You mean interview yourself?
SS: Yes.
ML: When was that?
SS: I don’t have to answer that question.
ML: Then why did you ask it?
SS: Got to use a line out of a movie.
ML: Which movie? No wait, I know, you don’t have to answer that either, right?
SS: Correct-a-mundo.
ML: How long have you been ‘sawed-off’?
SS: I once heard someone say that people don’t change, they just become more and more like themselves. That’s been my aspiration.
ML: Earliest ‘sawed-offness’?
SS: Well I remember the garter snakes clearly from about 4 years old at my grandfather’s place. My mother said that when I was little she harnessed me to the close line in the backyard, you know so I could move around, and I took an unusual interest in worms.
ML: Were your parents ‘sawed-off’. I mean is this…..approach, genetic?
SS: My mother had her own shotgun and always accused my father of knocking the biggest pike off her line on their honeymoon. My father was experimental sawed-off. Two adventures of his ‘yut’ come to mind. Once he wondered if a deer could be killed with a .22 – he reported “no problem”. Another time he was experimenting with black powder and a rabbit ear shotgun that likely took cartridges. As he later said, the only mistakes he didn’t make involved tying the gun to a tree and pulling the trigger with a string. Had he not, neither one of us would have lived.
ML: And your children?
SS: Ah yes, the shavings; they vary. Shaving 1 doesn’t come across as sawed-off – she makes you take your shoes off before coming into her townhouse – but then there’s the 20 year old turtle and 600 guppies in the plastic garden pond in her dining room. Shaving 2 is not naturally sawed-off but she knows what she’s doing because I taught her some stuff before she knew what I was doing. Shaving 3 likes to get sawed-off if he can bring along a bunch of his friends. Shaving 4 is an extremely serious menace to both salt and fresh water teleosts; comes back from 8 hours on the high seas and goes down to the pier to relax by catching pinfish.
ML: And Mrs. Sawed-off?
SS: She wants me to abandon my aspiration and stop teaching the children stuff. I tell her “Honey, I gotta be me” and she says “Please stop.”
ML: So how many episodes of “Adventures of aSS” can we look for?
SS: I saw that.
ML: I meant to be amusing, have I failed?
SS: Nice shot.
ML: And the answer to the question?
SS: I don’t know how long we have. Who does?
ML
2/9/07
Sawed-off Sportsman: No problem. I did this once before and it worked out pretty
well.
ML: You mean interview yourself?
SS: Yes.
ML: When was that?
SS: I don’t have to answer that question.
ML: Then why did you ask it?
SS: Got to use a line out of a movie.
ML: Which movie? No wait, I know, you don’t have to answer that either, right?
SS: Correct-a-mundo.
ML: How long have you been ‘sawed-off’?
SS: I once heard someone say that people don’t change, they just become more and more like themselves. That’s been my aspiration.
ML: Earliest ‘sawed-offness’?
SS: Well I remember the garter snakes clearly from about 4 years old at my grandfather’s place. My mother said that when I was little she harnessed me to the close line in the backyard, you know so I could move around, and I took an unusual interest in worms.
ML: Were your parents ‘sawed-off’. I mean is this…..approach, genetic?
SS: My mother had her own shotgun and always accused my father of knocking the biggest pike off her line on their honeymoon. My father was experimental sawed-off. Two adventures of his ‘yut’ come to mind. Once he wondered if a deer could be killed with a .22 – he reported “no problem”. Another time he was experimenting with black powder and a rabbit ear shotgun that likely took cartridges. As he later said, the only mistakes he didn’t make involved tying the gun to a tree and pulling the trigger with a string. Had he not, neither one of us would have lived.
ML: And your children?
SS: Ah yes, the shavings; they vary. Shaving 1 doesn’t come across as sawed-off – she makes you take your shoes off before coming into her townhouse – but then there’s the 20 year old turtle and 600 guppies in the plastic garden pond in her dining room. Shaving 2 is not naturally sawed-off but she knows what she’s doing because I taught her some stuff before she knew what I was doing. Shaving 3 likes to get sawed-off if he can bring along a bunch of his friends. Shaving 4 is an extremely serious menace to both salt and fresh water teleosts; comes back from 8 hours on the high seas and goes down to the pier to relax by catching pinfish.
ML: And Mrs. Sawed-off?
SS: She wants me to abandon my aspiration and stop teaching the children stuff. I tell her “Honey, I gotta be me” and she says “Please stop.”
ML: So how many episodes of “Adventures of aSS” can we look for?
SS: I saw that.
ML: I meant to be amusing, have I failed?
SS: Nice shot.
ML: And the answer to the question?
SS: I don’t know how long we have. Who does?
ML
2/9/07
Saturday, February 10, 2007
4c. Four-man fishing
Four-man fishing is a semi-logical outgrowth of two-man fishing.
Two-man fishing was invented to deal with a ‘good news/bad news’ situation. The good news was that about 150ft off the Gulf side of Captiva Key there was a zigzag pattern of concrete structures on the bottom (presumably beach erosion control) which attracted many fish. Of the many species present the snook were to kill for; really big snook. The bad news was it was too far to cast.
First instinct was to get a swimming pool raft and snorkel back out to the spot with mask, flippers, bait bucket and rod & reel. Reflection suggested that the rod & reel would likely end up on the bottom; poor treatment of the reel which was marginal anyway. That being the main anticipated problem, Plan B was Plan A minus the rod& reel in the water.
Terry was a militant non-fisherman which usually means someone with an extra supply of beginner’s luck if you can just trick such people into actually fishing. I assured him that I, not he, would be “fishing”. He would be standing on the shore merely appearing to be fishing as he would be holding the rod & reel. That, plus the possibility I would get the hook in myself and he could reel me in screaming, secured his participation.
It was a good plan but not a good enough plan. The snook were there but the sheepshead nailed the shrimp first and quickly and they are hard to hook.
Four-man fishing was invented to deal with the line abrasion problem with sharks hooked from the beach. Another rule of sawed-off sportsmanship is nothing succeeds like excess. Oh, they might be able to saw through 20 pound mono but they were not going to saw through ski rope. Big hook, 3ft steel leader, big swivel (off a defunct cast net), 200 feet of rope and…ah the part of the plan that needed some planning.
You don’t really get a good feel for how hard a big fish is pulling, in a tug-of-war sense, because the reel drag gives up line. You just know he’s leaving. Consequently, tying the rope around my waist seemed problematic a priori. Hand holding the rope sounded dicey so I tied a sturdy 5in diameter steel ring to the beach end of the rope. With about $11.57 already invested, and still not knowing who would win the pulling contest, I decided to accommodate up to four people on “Team Human’. As these people would likely be some of my children and their friends, handles were fashioned from two foot pieces of stout bamboo that were each attached to the steel ring with carabineers and about three feet of rope, i.e. little chance of getting tangled up (speaking of being pulled through the water screaming). The plan was that on some morning when it was SS: 0 / Sharks: 3, I’d walk/swim the baited hook out to the second sand bar, come back and give the standard Ahabian pep talk to those assembled – “What say ye lads? I think ye do look brave. Will ye join hands with me on this?” – and we’d drag the next one out of the Gulf.
As events have unfolded since the invention of four-man fishing the necessary deployment conditions have not come together. But the apparatus is generally with us, stored securely in the bottom of the Fisherman’s Quiver in a black plastic bag. So when all is said and done, two-man fishing didn’t work and four-man fishing has not been tried. And though the weather outside is frightful, the August beach beckons.
ML
2-2-07
Two-man fishing was invented to deal with a ‘good news/bad news’ situation. The good news was that about 150ft off the Gulf side of Captiva Key there was a zigzag pattern of concrete structures on the bottom (presumably beach erosion control) which attracted many fish. Of the many species present the snook were to kill for; really big snook. The bad news was it was too far to cast.
First instinct was to get a swimming pool raft and snorkel back out to the spot with mask, flippers, bait bucket and rod & reel. Reflection suggested that the rod & reel would likely end up on the bottom; poor treatment of the reel which was marginal anyway. That being the main anticipated problem, Plan B was Plan A minus the rod& reel in the water.
Terry was a militant non-fisherman which usually means someone with an extra supply of beginner’s luck if you can just trick such people into actually fishing. I assured him that I, not he, would be “fishing”. He would be standing on the shore merely appearing to be fishing as he would be holding the rod & reel. That, plus the possibility I would get the hook in myself and he could reel me in screaming, secured his participation.
It was a good plan but not a good enough plan. The snook were there but the sheepshead nailed the shrimp first and quickly and they are hard to hook.
Four-man fishing was invented to deal with the line abrasion problem with sharks hooked from the beach. Another rule of sawed-off sportsmanship is nothing succeeds like excess. Oh, they might be able to saw through 20 pound mono but they were not going to saw through ski rope. Big hook, 3ft steel leader, big swivel (off a defunct cast net), 200 feet of rope and…ah the part of the plan that needed some planning.
You don’t really get a good feel for how hard a big fish is pulling, in a tug-of-war sense, because the reel drag gives up line. You just know he’s leaving. Consequently, tying the rope around my waist seemed problematic a priori. Hand holding the rope sounded dicey so I tied a sturdy 5in diameter steel ring to the beach end of the rope. With about $11.57 already invested, and still not knowing who would win the pulling contest, I decided to accommodate up to four people on “Team Human’. As these people would likely be some of my children and their friends, handles were fashioned from two foot pieces of stout bamboo that were each attached to the steel ring with carabineers and about three feet of rope, i.e. little chance of getting tangled up (speaking of being pulled through the water screaming). The plan was that on some morning when it was SS: 0 / Sharks: 3, I’d walk/swim the baited hook out to the second sand bar, come back and give the standard Ahabian pep talk to those assembled – “What say ye lads? I think ye do look brave. Will ye join hands with me on this?” – and we’d drag the next one out of the Gulf.
As events have unfolded since the invention of four-man fishing the necessary deployment conditions have not come together. But the apparatus is generally with us, stored securely in the bottom of the Fisherman’s Quiver in a black plastic bag. So when all is said and done, two-man fishing didn’t work and four-man fishing has not been tried. And though the weather outside is frightful, the August beach beckons.
ML
2-2-07
Monday, February 5, 2007
4b. Sharks (n = 2/13)
There seem to be two main obstacles to landing a shark hooked from the beach.
First, because the angle of the line with the shark’s body is nearly parallel, they have a most excellent opportunity to saw on the line with the very rough skin on their tail. Their business end is defeated with a strong hook—three feet of 120-pound steel leader attached to the hook at one end, and a big swivel at the other. The big swivel is attached to a pointed snap and swivel. Then the experimentation begins.
Having lost a good many sharks in the surf, I discussed the situation at a salt water tackle store and the guy said, “Kid, you need a bigger reel.” A bigger reel would hold more heavy- test monofilament line, which the shark would have more trouble sawing through. Now I’m not cheap, but I do not like to own equipment that’s better than I am and I felt unworthy of owning a big salt water bait reel. Plus, casting is not such a reel’s strong suit. I skipped the self-psychoanalysis and told the guy I was using a big spinning reel. He said, “Kid, you need as much 100-pound mono as you can deal with and this tool to tie a nail knot.” Under ten bucks and we’re back in business! At present we’re using about 15 feet of 80-pound mono- leader, tied at one end to the pointed snap and swivel, and at the other end with a nail knot to the main line of twenty pound mono. With a reliable drag, line strength and capacity are virtually interchangeable. It’s a very good reel (my wife bought it for me), so this ought to work and two times out of about 13 it has.
This brings us to the second problem:
They cheat! The devils jump. I’m talking straight up and clean out of the water, and spin while they’re in the air. I am also suspicious they are spinning underwater. This spinning business, of course, can easily take up some hard-to-predict amount of the 80-pound leader, getting their skin on the 20-pound main line.
However, this jumping is not without its own recreational aspects. One morning I was standing on the beach about 8:00 as the “women & children” time zone begins. This little girl, about nine, comes walking over.
Little girl: “What are you fishing for?”
SS: “Sharks.”
Little girl: “No you’re not.”
SS: “You see that place out in the water where it goes from sort of white to darker? You watch that place.”
Unbeknownst to my small skeptic, Mr. Shark had been messing with half a lady fish since before she came over and took off right about the time she said “No you’re not.” So, I set the hook and the shark went right straight up in the air.
Little girl: “[silent pause] Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…..”( decreasing font size indicates decibel level as she runs away)
A sawed-off sportsman always enjoys these educational interactions with the public but there remained the basic problem of line abrasion.
ML
1/31/07
First, because the angle of the line with the shark’s body is nearly parallel, they have a most excellent opportunity to saw on the line with the very rough skin on their tail. Their business end is defeated with a strong hook—three feet of 120-pound steel leader attached to the hook at one end, and a big swivel at the other. The big swivel is attached to a pointed snap and swivel. Then the experimentation begins.
Having lost a good many sharks in the surf, I discussed the situation at a salt water tackle store and the guy said, “Kid, you need a bigger reel.” A bigger reel would hold more heavy- test monofilament line, which the shark would have more trouble sawing through. Now I’m not cheap, but I do not like to own equipment that’s better than I am and I felt unworthy of owning a big salt water bait reel. Plus, casting is not such a reel’s strong suit. I skipped the self-psychoanalysis and told the guy I was using a big spinning reel. He said, “Kid, you need as much 100-pound mono as you can deal with and this tool to tie a nail knot.” Under ten bucks and we’re back in business! At present we’re using about 15 feet of 80-pound mono- leader, tied at one end to the pointed snap and swivel, and at the other end with a nail knot to the main line of twenty pound mono. With a reliable drag, line strength and capacity are virtually interchangeable. It’s a very good reel (my wife bought it for me), so this ought to work and two times out of about 13 it has.
This brings us to the second problem:
They cheat! The devils jump. I’m talking straight up and clean out of the water, and spin while they’re in the air. I am also suspicious they are spinning underwater. This spinning business, of course, can easily take up some hard-to-predict amount of the 80-pound leader, getting their skin on the 20-pound main line.
However, this jumping is not without its own recreational aspects. One morning I was standing on the beach about 8:00 as the “women & children” time zone begins. This little girl, about nine, comes walking over.
Little girl: “What are you fishing for?”
SS: “Sharks.”
Little girl: “No you’re not.”
SS: “You see that place out in the water where it goes from sort of white to darker? You watch that place.”
Unbeknownst to my small skeptic, Mr. Shark had been messing with half a lady fish since before she came over and took off right about the time she said “No you’re not.” So, I set the hook and the shark went right straight up in the air.
Little girl: “[silent pause] Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…..”( decreasing font size indicates decibel level as she runs away)
A sawed-off sportsman always enjoys these educational interactions with the public but there remained the basic problem of line abrasion.
ML
1/31/07
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
4a. First shark
We vacationed as often as possible at Grayton Beach and fished as much as possible from the beach; always with Mr. Shark in mind. Everybody knew they were around; dusk and dawn were best and according to their movie manifestations cruised the surface with dorsal fin beckoning. Consequently I fished for them with the biggest bobber I could buy and a pinfish about six inches underneath the bobber.
Then I bumped into somebody who knew what he was doing. Fishermen have a reputation for “secrets”: places, baits, techniques. In fact I’ve never met one who wouldn’t enthusiastically tell you everything he knew. And this was no exception. Shavings 3 & 4 were whacking pinfish on #10 gigs and shrimp in the surf so I wandered East to see what this guy was up to. He was fishing for sharks with cut squid on the bottom. I mentioned the dorsal fin business but he assured me the bottom was the place to be. I ask him if squid was good but he said live bait was always best. I told him we had plenty of live pinfish so he rigged one up, walked out to chest deep water and cast it as far as possible.
The rest of the tutorial included leaving the bail open, finger loosely on the line, until the shark started frankly swimming away as they were inclined to fiddle with it before they got serious. This, plus making sure no swimmers were near-by as sharks tended to run parallel to the shore not straight out to sea. It did not take long. Shavings 3 & 4 got their picture taken with the big rod and a four foot black-tipped shark strapped to the hood of his old International jeep (guy was a class act).
The next morning, sans big bobber, bail open, finger on the line, standing on the second sandbar…. it starts. Just a few line wraps at a time and after about a minute off he goes. I’d been standing there thinking “I’m gonna catch a shark. I’m gonna catch a shark. I can’t believe it, I’m gonna catch a shark”.
With the second attack in Jaws you get only a brief glimpse of the shark. It was a lot like that. Out of the water comes the back third of the fish and then thunders down. I kid you not, thunders. I had a new thought; “not that shark” as I turned and headed for the beach as fast as possible.
All useful fishing knowledge seems to come from acquaintances or personal experience. Experience here taught a) forget about those swivels with gently curved snaps; use the ones that come to a point, and b) cast from, but linger not on, the second sand bar. There is symmetry to shark fishing’s possible outcomes; we’re not talking about carp or skipjack.
ML
1/26/07
Then I bumped into somebody who knew what he was doing. Fishermen have a reputation for “secrets”: places, baits, techniques. In fact I’ve never met one who wouldn’t enthusiastically tell you everything he knew. And this was no exception. Shavings 3 & 4 were whacking pinfish on #10 gigs and shrimp in the surf so I wandered East to see what this guy was up to. He was fishing for sharks with cut squid on the bottom. I mentioned the dorsal fin business but he assured me the bottom was the place to be. I ask him if squid was good but he said live bait was always best. I told him we had plenty of live pinfish so he rigged one up, walked out to chest deep water and cast it as far as possible.
The rest of the tutorial included leaving the bail open, finger loosely on the line, until the shark started frankly swimming away as they were inclined to fiddle with it before they got serious. This, plus making sure no swimmers were near-by as sharks tended to run parallel to the shore not straight out to sea. It did not take long. Shavings 3 & 4 got their picture taken with the big rod and a four foot black-tipped shark strapped to the hood of his old International jeep (guy was a class act).
The next morning, sans big bobber, bail open, finger on the line, standing on the second sandbar…. it starts. Just a few line wraps at a time and after about a minute off he goes. I’d been standing there thinking “I’m gonna catch a shark. I’m gonna catch a shark. I can’t believe it, I’m gonna catch a shark”.
With the second attack in Jaws you get only a brief glimpse of the shark. It was a lot like that. Out of the water comes the back third of the fish and then thunders down. I kid you not, thunders. I had a new thought; “not that shark” as I turned and headed for the beach as fast as possible.
All useful fishing knowledge seems to come from acquaintances or personal experience. Experience here taught a) forget about those swivels with gently curved snaps; use the ones that come to a point, and b) cast from, but linger not on, the second sand bar. There is symmetry to shark fishing’s possible outcomes; we’re not talking about carp or skipjack.
ML
1/26/07
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