Читать книгу Reeling In Time with Fish Tales - Brian E. Smith - Страница 9

“Champ, you ready to go fishing?” Dad was shaking me awake. It was still dark outside. Six o’clock came early. Mom and Dad put me to bed on time, but he didn’t know I flounced there until after two o’clock, thinking about going fishing. My head just wouldn’t turn off. In the morning, my head was still half-asleep, but I didn’t complain.

Mom had laid out some fishing clothes for me the night before. I slipped into my most worn out pair of shorts, pulled that ratty T-shirt over my head, stuck my feet in blue-ringed athletic socks, then worked my feet into the old funky Chuck Taylor’s that needed a retread about 3,000 miles ago. I took a moment to fold the socks down below my calves. I always felt goofy with socks riding up to my knees.

I stumbled to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, looked in the mirror, and just put a ball cap over my uncombed hair. The rest of the bathroom business I hustled through.

“I made you an egg sandwich, Champ. It’s in the car with a cup of OJ,” Dad told me as I came in the kitchen.

“What about the fishing gear?” It was missing from the living room where we put it by the front door. Last night I helped Dad rig the poles. Well, actually, I went through every gizmo in his tackle box, asking the what, how, and when, with each trinket.

“I loaded everything before I got you up,” Dad said.

In the front seat of the car, my head fit just underneath the half dozen, rod tips jutting over the backrest. I ate the egg sandwich and drank the OJ en route.

“What do you think we’ll catch today?”

“Well, I’d like to bring home a mess of catfish, but we might tangle with a bream or big carp along the way.” He went on talking, but my eyelids fell down shortly after I downed breakfast.

I woke when Dad opened the car door. Right in front of the windshield was a big lake. I quickly hopped out and looked all around. Day was breaking. Four of the brightest stars still dotted the sky, slowly washing away as the sun rose. Wisps of pink, cotton candy clouds strung along the skyline, with streams of bright sunshine vaulting upwards from the east, silhouetting the trees while bathing their tops in brilliance along the western shore. I was caught up in the wonder. It was like God coming. A light onshore wind brought the odor of the lake to me, smelling good and natural. I could smell the sweet hint of a plant in bloom. It was the beginning of a perfect, early summer day.

“Want to give me a hand with this?” Dad popped off and brought me back to reality. He had already laid out six fishing poles against the front of the car. He pulled his tackle box, worm bucket, knapsack with our lunches, and a five-gallon bucket half-filled with stuff out of the trunk, putting it all on the ground behind the car. He placed the worm bucket inside the five-gallon bucket, and slung the knapsack over one shoulder.

“Champ, will you grab the tackle box and a couple of those fishing poles?” He picked up the bucket full of stuff and met me at the front of the car where the rods were.

“Why do we have so many fishing rods, Dad?”

“I’m going to show you when we get to the fishing spot.”

“Which way is the spot?” He started down a dirt path through some scrubby bushes, me following behind.

“Put the fishing poles over your shoulder, son, so the tips won’t get hung up and break off in the bushes.” I’m glad he said that because I was coming close to catching the tips in the bushes, while looking at everything, not paying attention. I thought he must have eyes in the back of his head. We hiked a quarter mile. From what I could see, the path went down the middle of a spit of land that separated the main lake from a small bay to my right. The path dead-ended on a point. At the point, there was a thin cut of flowing water connecting the main lake to the small bay behind. On the far side of the bay, a canal came in. Looking up the canal from the point, it meandered and then turned out of sight. A sloping, sandy beach went all around the point.

Dad sat the bucket down, slid the knapsack off his shoulder, and spread the poles out so they leaned individually against some bushes. I sat the tackle box down and handed him the rods I carried. He leaned them against a bush as well.

“Champ, do you know what an isthmus is?”

“Sure, this mus be the place we’re going to fish.” Dad broke into laughter until his eyes watered. He stumbled over to blank-faced me, squatted down, put his arms around me, drew me close and rolled back in the grass still laughing.

“I love you, son.” We sat up on the grass together enjoying the moment. “Great answer, but let me tell you what an isthmus is.” He spelled it out for me, then took a stick and drew a map on the ground, starting with where we were.

“This is the point of land we’re sitting on,” pointing to the map with the stick. “A narrow neck of land that connects two larger pieces of land is called an isthmus. This really isn’t an isthmus now, but it once was before the water eroded this channel on the end. I still call it an isthmus because I remember when.”

Dad jumped up, saying, “Let’s get ready to fish.” He took his pocketknife out and cut a pencil-sized limb from a weeping willow tree. He whittled it until all that remained was an eighteen-inch stick with two trimmed branches forming a Y on the thin ends. He whittled six of those sticks. At the waterline, he shoved three of the sticks in the sand, fat end down, facing the main lake. One stick faced the left side of the channel toward the main lake at the end of the point. He stuck one at the end of the point directly at the cut. He angled one stick toward the bayside of the point on the right. The sticks were evenly spaced about fifteen to twenty feet apart.

Dad called to me, “Help get the fishing poles.” There were five medium, light spinning rod outfits and my push-button Zebco® Dad gave me a year or so ago. I grabbed two poles, Dad got the rest, and we walked back to the shore. Working left to right, Dad put the butt of the fishing rod in the sand and leaned the pole against the stick, so that the pole rested in the crotch of the little branches.

“Champ, notice that you lean the poles so the reel doesn’t touch the ground,” Dad said. He continued along, setting a pole in each of the sticks. He placed my push-button on the left side toward the main lake on the point.

We went back and brought the big bucket of stuff, knapsack, and tackle box, down to the shore. Dad had us set up midway between the two end poles; we could see each fishing pole from that vantage point. He pulled the worm bucket out of the big bucket and flipped it upside down. Then he took out a can of corn and a can opener and cut the lid off, putting the lid in the big bucket. We walked down to the left fishing pole, the one farthest away.

“Hold out your hands, Champ.” As I did, he dumped some corn in my cupped hands; the juice ran through my fingers. He shook some corn into his right hand and tossed it as far as he could into the lake.

“Toss a little here and there, son, as we walk the bank.” Dad, with his right hand, and me with my left, tossed corn in the lake all the way to the last fishing pole.

“Fish-call, Dad?”

“You bet, Champ; it costs pennies, takes but a moment to do, won’t ever hurt and may just lure in the catch of a lifetime!” Dad said excitedly.

We returned to base camp. Dad tossed the empty corn can into the five-gallon bucket. Going back to the lake, we squatted at the water’s edge and washed our hands.

Dad pulled out a plastic bag full of hotdogs, pre-cut into thirds. He picked out one section, closed the bag, and walked down to the last fishing pole on the left as I followed behind him.

Dad stopped, saying, “Hold this hotdog for me, and I’ll take a moment to explain the fishing rig.”

Even though it would seem I was just interested in catching fish, I really liked it when Dad took time to explain things to me. I learned a lot when I listened, right from the first time he started teaching.

“Notice where I secured the hook, Champ.”

“You hooked it on the pole hoop; I mean on the rod eye,” I blurted. He drew my attention closer, pointing out that he had hooked it secure to the eye-brace, not the eye itself.

“Never secure a hook to the eye because the hook can chip or burr the inside of the eye, and that tiny bit of damage can shave the line, eventually causing it to break.”

He released line tension, by quickly opening and closing the bail, loosening the line, freeing the hook from the eye brace.

“This is a simple slip rig,” he continued. He passed the ten-pound, test main line through the ring of a 3/8 oz. bell sinker, then tied it to a barrel swivel with an improved clinch knot. The swivel keeps the sinker from sliding all the way to the hook. He tied a two-foot section of thirty-pound, test leader to the other side of the swivel. At the end of the leader, a 1/0 long shank, offset hook was tied.

“A catfish, or any fish for that matter, is apt to drop the bait if it feels the resistance of the sinker. The sinker isn’t fixed to the line with this rig. The fishing line passes through the sinker so the fish doesn’t feel the weight at all.” He demonstrated that on the shore by putting the rig on the sand and telling me to pull on the hook. “Did you feel the sinker?”

“No, sir,” I replied.

Dad asked me for the piece of hotdog. I watched as he inserted the point of the hook down the center of the link until it met the bend of the hook out the side of the wiener, pulling enough of the hook out, embedding the point in the other center end of the hotdog. Next, he held the hotdog in one hand and gently pulled the leader away, tightening up the bait on the hook.

“Remember how I showed you, and toss this toward the middle of the lake.” I’d been practicing in the yard with the spinning rod, so I flipped the bail over after pinching the line against the rod with my forefinger. Slowly I lowered the rod behind my shoulder and with quick motion, I snapped the rod forward, releasing the line about the one o’clock position. The sinker went ten yards and hit the water. The hotdog landed an additional fifty feet further out.

“Nice try, but we have to keep the bait and hook together so the fish get the point, if you get my point,” Dad said. I reeled in, Dad got another hotdog section. “This time, toss it out a little more softly, Champ.” The second time was the charm.

With patience, Dad said, “Now, set the rod in the forked stick like I showed you.” I did, making sure the reel didn’t touch the ground. He came behind me, flipped the bail open, and let out just enough line so that a loose swag of line bowed down from the rod tip. Then, at the reel, he pulled some line to the ground and covered it with a small scoop of sand, leaving the bail open.

“What’s that all about, Dad?” He told me that when a fish picks up the bait it would take the line, making the line straight from the tip to where it enters the water. When the slack line is gone, more line can run out by pulling the line free from the sand. The fish will feel very little resistance as it enjoys its last meal. If the bail was closed, a big fish could drag the rod and reel into the lake before you could get to it. He’s pretty smart, I thought.

“But what would happen if all the line was pulled from the reel and we didn’t notice?” I asked.

“If you don’t pay good enough attention, you lose the rod or go for a swim,” Dad smiled.

With the next pole, Dad just formed a two-inch cube of Velveeta cheese around the hook and I let it fly. We began to set up the rest of the poles.

On the third pole, he threaded kernels of corn on the hook until the corn ran up and covered the hook eye. I reared back and sent that one to the moon!

Pole number four, my push-button, was baited with three fat earthworms and cast to the lakeside of the channel. I picked the earthworm bait for my push-button rod.

At the fifth pole, I thought Dad had cut his finger. Blood was running between his fingers dripping from his hand.

“Dad, are you OK?” He opened his hand to show me a bloody chicken liver.

“It looks ugly, but the catfish will follow that blood trail to the bait.” He hooked the liver on three times and I flipped it to the middle of the channel. He rinsed his hands off in the water.

For the last pole, Dad brought a Tupperware bowl of homemade fish bait we made the night before. It was a mixture of flour, cinnamon, sugar, and water to make dough. It came out stiff, yet sticky, and it smelled like something from the breakfast table.

If I were a fish, I’d eat that, I thought. Dad formed a golf ball sized dough ball around the hook. I pitched it in the bay as soon as he was done.

All the rods were fishing, and it was a waiting game from there on out. Dad sat on the five-gallon bucket, placing the worm bucket in its shadow, so the worms would stay cool and comfortable. I sat on the tackle box. Our heads turned left and right, watching the poles for a bite. From a distance, we looked like we were watching a slow motion tennis match. We talked about a lot of things.

My curiosity got the best of me and I asked, “On this whole big lake, why did you pick here to fish, Dad?”

“Habitat diversity, Champ.” He pointed out that water moved out of the small bay, past the point and into the lake. “The neck of land forces the water to move through a narrow channel and the moving water carries baitfish with it. That means a lot of fish food in a small area, so fish stage-up around and in areas like this to get an easy meal. Furthermore, even slow moving water cuts into the bottom over time, making deep holes. Sometimes fish move into deeper water because it’s a little warmer or cooler making them more comfortable. In a nutshell, places like this offer many opportunities to find the fish without having to move around.”

“Look at the line on my push-button, Dad!

“You’re right; a fish is taking the bait. See the line starting to straighten out.” He said that as we ran for the pole.

“What should I do, Dad?”

“Keep the rod tip low to the water as you pick up the pole, turn the handle to click it in gear, and wait for him to pull the line tight, then set the hook.”

“That’s a lot of stuff to do—” I had the rod in my hand when the line began to tumble out the front of my push-button.

“Champ, click it in gear!” I turned the handle a quarter-turn, engaging the reel. Excitement had strengthened my grip; otherwise, the push-button would have been snatched from my hands. I held the rod up and commenced reeling. The rod tip was yanked down, pointed to the lake.

“What’s that noise…? What’s that noise the reel is making?” The reel was making a ratcheting sound. I looked at the reel, noticing that the line was going in the opposite direction. Somehow, I was reeling out instead of in! I was screwing up the biggest fish of my life! The faster the line reeled out, the higher the pitch of the reel.

“It’s the drag, Champ, it’s the reel drag. When you hear the noise, stop reeling, when you don’t hear the noise, reel smoothly. Trust me; I’ll explain later.” The reel surprising me, too much information, a big fish, all at the same time, had my mind spinning. My body determined that my mind was no longer capable of handling the situation! My body took over, becoming a reel monkey to the background music of Flight of the Bumblebee.

God must have wanted me to have that fish because it was nothing short of a miracle when it wallowed up close enough for Dad to step in shin-deep with one foot to get the line and pull the fish up on shore. He dragged it up high on the beach and hugged me.

I grabbed his neck and blared in his ear “That’s the biggest fish of my life; let’s go show Mom!”

The fish was a four and a half-pound channel catfish that made the mistake of craving worms for breakfast that morning. Dad put the fish on a stringer, tossed it in the lake, and tied the stringer to a peg of good driftwood he had driven into the sand.

During the excitement, Dad continued to scan the other fishing rods for a bite, but nothing had happened.

“Time to re-group,” he said, as he reeled in the left rod, the one most distant from the point. The hotdog bait was still in good shape. He pulled up the forked stick and pushed it back in the sand right next to the stick that held my push-button. Effortlessly, he tossed the bait in the lake close to where the water from the channel flowed.

“Hey, you’re cheating,” I quipped.

“No, Champ, I’m sighting-in our fishing rifle. The wide pattern of fishing poles we started out with were set that way so the fish could tell us where they were hiding. Were they cruising the open flats in the lake, near the channel, in the channel, or in the bay? Though one fish doesn’t indicate much, at least, it is something to go on,” Dad was explaining as he pointed here and there in the lake, doing some show and tell fishing.

“We need to look at your push-button and go over the function of a reel drag,” he said while sitting on the five-gallon bucket, holding my little push-button in his hands. “Look at the fishing line.” Horribly curled up, it was almost in knots. “Let’s take care of this situation first, OK?”

He cut the line above the swivel at the knot with his pocketknife. The sinker, he put in his pocket. The hook, leader, and swivel remained as one piece, which he laid straight at the base of the bucket he sat on. Handing me my rod, he said, “Push the button for me,” as he began hand-stripping the kinky line from the reel until the line came out smooth. A nip with the knife and the bad line was gone, wadded up, and put in the five-gallon bucket.

“Dad, the hotdog pole!” I yelled.

Dad hot walked to the pole. I watched as he, in one single motion, picked up the pole by raising the reel from the ground while keeping the rod tip in the same position, down. He flipped the bail closed, sweeping the rod straight overhead when the line came taut. The rod tip arched downward and the reel drag chirped a bit while Dad was playing the fish in. Halfway in, the fish got mad, making the line squeal off the reel. Not reeling, he kept his rod at the one o’clock position, occasionally dipping his rod hand when the fish surged. When the reel stopped squealing, he started pumping the fish back in by quickly reeling as he lowered the pole to where it was horizontal to the ground, then he would gently raise, not jerk, the pole back to the one o’clock position and start over. At no time did he allow slack in the line. He was just like the TV guys, but this was real! It was exciting to watch it live. In a few minutes, Dad had a two to three pound catfish flopping around at his feet.

“Let me show you something, Champ.”

I put the push-button down butt first into the five-gallon bucket before running over to him.

“These catfish have three sharp spines on them; one fin on the top and one fin on each side.” He pointed out the dorsal and two pectoral fins. “Some people use a rag or glove to handle them, but if you take your time and do it right, you can use your bare hand.” Dad held the fish up so it dangled from the fishing line; then he carefully wrapped his other hand around the tail below the spines. At first, the fish squirmed and rolled around, but in seconds, the fish was used to his touch and calmed down.

“You have to come from the belly-side so as to avoid the top spine,” Dad said. With that, he slipped his hand gently up the fish to where one pectoral fin was between his forefinger and middle finger, and the other fin was behind his thumb. He clutched the fish firmly but far from a bear grip. A downward twist and the hook came free with a popping sound.

“Champ, bait my pole with a hotdog and toss it out where it was, please. I’ll put this fish on the stringer.” We met back at the five-gallon bucket where Dad quickly took the sinker from his pocket, threaded it on the line, tied the swivel back on, and said, “Now, let’s finish our talk about the reel drag.”

He explained to me that the reel drag is a clutch that allows line to slip from the reel when there is a certain amount of pressure on the fishing line. The purpose is to give line from the reel before the line breaks from the force of the fish. It is an adjustable system regulated by turning a small wheel on the reel. Backwards makes it more slippery, forward makes the drag firm. Dad did a show and tell for me. He explained that you can catch big fish on light line because of the reel drag.

After the lesson, he baited the hook with three good worms saying, “Here you go; you know where to cast it.”

As I walked down to make the cast, the line on the hotdog pole twitched.

“Dad, come quick, the hotdog is working again.” The bait had been out there just five minutes. I cast out my push-button as Dad walked over to the hotdog pole.

“You get it, son.”

“Really?” I did just as Dad did, but it took a couple minutes before the line shot straight. I set the hook with an up-sweep of the rod. The battle didn’t take long, because the fish didn’t take any drag. Dad was taking off a two pound catfish when he noticed the cinnamon dough pole was having line walking off to the bay.

“Champ, go get the pole across the point!” I raced up the beach, took a short cut across the point, hopped down the beach on the other side, and picked up the rod. Two seconds after flipping the bail over, I swept the rod up and set off a rocket. Line sang off the reel, startling me how fast line was coming off the spool.

“DAD!” I could see some of the bare spool when the line stopped going out. I began pumping and reeling the fish like I saw Dad do. The reel job was slow; the fish felt so heavy! Dad came up as I was making progress.

“Keep up the good work, looks to be a big one.”

“Yeah, Dad, this is the biggest one so far.”

Halfway in, the fish took a spirited run back into the bay. I held the rod up and let the line peel off the spool.

“Great job, Champ!” That comment made me feel real good. Several long minutes later the fish was zig-zagging up and down the shore.

“It’s a big carp; hang in there,” Dad yelled. I was getting tuckered out. Finally, Dad was able to take the line, lead the fish up on the beach, and grab it. There, standing before Dad was the greatest fisherman in the world!

Dad picked up the fish from underneath the gill plate and big belly, stating, “This fish must go ten or twelve pounds.”

I thought it was well over twenty pounds, but I was new to the game asking, “Is that a world record?”

“No, but it’s still a good fish.” Dad told me to run over to the tackle box and bring the camera back. He hardly blinked before I returned. After briefly explaining the how-to-hold-the-fish instructions, there was an ear-to-ear smile in front of the camera.

“We’re going to let this one go, Champ.”

“What are you saying, Dad, this fish is huge.”

“We have got to show Mom!” He pointed out the set of sucker lips on the fish and told me that carp are bottom feeders. The bay was shallow, and at the time, didn’t have much water exchange, he didn’t want to eat a carp out of that water. I put the carp in the water like putting a baby to bed. At that moment I had mixed emotions, but one strong swish of the tail, splashed water all over my face and the moment was over.

“Dad, the corn pole!” The rod was whipping up and down. Dad took off like a criminal with a police K-9 behind him. Just before he got there, the rod hopped up in the air and arrowed into the lake. Dad ran out of land, but that didn’t stop him, into the lake, he went. In a semi-dive, he came up with the butt of the rod in one hand in a great spray of water. Dad followed the fish out in water up to his thighs.

“Champ, get the push-button!” That command snapped me out of his action movie. I got to the push-button and fought a two-pound catfish in but never took my eyes off Dad. He had gained control of the situation. Fighting the fish, while sloshing back to shore, he was in a real fish war. I had dragged my fish back to base camp and met him at the water’s edge. He handed me his wallet and I stuck it in my underwear.

“Watch out, son,” he said, signaling to back away. He used his pole to sweep the fish on shore. His catfish could eat my catfish.

“Hold the pole, Champ.” He grabbed the fish with both hands, carried it up the beach, and dropped it in the sand near the five-gallon bucket. Plopping down on the bucket, he gasped, “Please, get me a soda out of the knapsack, son.” Back in a flash, I opened it for him. “I almost lost that one.”

“Yeah, Dad, the fishing pole was in the lake!”

“I was talking about the fish, son.”

“Yeah, me too,” I faked the right response.

“How big is that fish, Dad?” He looked at it hard for a spell, taking a slug from his soda pop. “A good fifteen-pounds, if it’s an ounce.” For the next ten minutes, he drip-dried while I gave him the replay as the fish film rolled in my mind.

Dad looked at his watch, realizing the battery got wet. “Champ, I don’t know what time it is, but what say we give the fish our bait, except for the worms, gather up our belongings, and eat lunch in the car on the way back home?”

With the knapsack across his shoulder, Dad had four fishing poles, the five-gallon bucket with the worm bucket in one hand, and the stringer of fish in the other hand. I had the tackle box and a couple of poles. I walked behind him up the dirt path. I thought how it had been an exciting morning, watching that big catfish tail kick up dust as we went along. It was a morning I’ll never forget.

In the car, I told him, “I can’t wait to tell Mom about you going in the lake and catching that big catfish. I can tell her, right?”

“Sure, but you have to tell her about your giant carp, too.”

“Oh, I’m going to tell her everything, do you want another peanut butter sandwich?” A short time later, the car hardly came to rest in the drive before I hopped out and ran in the front door of the house.

“Mom, Mom, come see what we got!” I ran out the garage door. The shovel hung on a wall nail; I grabbed it off in flight. I passed Dad on the side of the house as he was taking the fish out to the picnic table to clean them. On the top of the bucket, Dad had laid the worm bucket. I picked it off the top and carried, it like a football, to the garden. Worms are one thing you can bury and not feel bad about. While in the garden, I dug an extra hole for the fish carcasses.

In the shade of the maple tree, Dad had the scrap of plywood, garden hose, big plastic bowl, knife and pliers ready on the picnic table. Pliers? I’d find out about that after getting Mom. I ran square into her when I cornered the house. She stopped me with a hug.

“I wanted you to see the fish before Dad got hold of them!”

“Sugar, that’s what I was coming to see. I heard you when you raced through the house. Why are your father’s clothes damp?”

“He ran into the lake like an elephant, Mom. You should have been there. Come on!”

“Honey, why are your clothes wet?” Mom asked.

He started, “Well—”

I interrupted, “Here’s your wallet.” I reached down the front of my shorts and pulled it out of my underwear. That set the stage for a funny recap.

Dad began cleaning fish, starting with the smallest, as we spun stories for Mom. We were dragon-slayers returning to the queen’s court with tales of battle for her amusement.

“Watch closely, Champ.” Dad, using his sharpest knife, slit the skin all the way around the catfish head. The fish was still alive. It flipped occasionally. I had some difficulty watching, but I understood that the fish had to die for us to eat. It made me feel good that Dad had thrown good fish back to live on once we had enough to eat.

He grabbed the head and worked his way around the cut, using the pliers to roll a short flap of skin away from the meat. He then got a good grip on the head with his hand and the roll of skin beside the dorsal fin with the pliers and forcibly pulled the skin down to the tail. It was like taking off a wet T-shirt. In one smooth motion the catfish was naked. Dad took a huge knife to lop the head off. Using a small knife, he cut the belly open by inserting it first in the poop hole, then running it forward. With his fingers, he pulled the guts out. Skin, head, and guts went in the five-gallon bucket. Dad placed it in the big plastic bowl after rinsing the body with hose water.

After all five fish were dressed, Mom took the fish in the house, and Dad cleaned up the picnic table area. I buried the guts and stuff in the garden and rinsed the bucket out.

Years later, I was a teenager in love. One Friday evening, I drove a young lady down to the lake to watch the sun set. It had been such a long time since I had been there. I thought the shoreline might have houses on it by then. Our area was in the midst of a development boom. I was happy to see the lake as I remembered. We got out and walked down the dirt path to the point, hand in hand. At the end of the path we stopped. She was prattling on while I was looking out on the lake, re-winding the mental film of my dad running down a catfish with a fishing pole attached to it.

“What are you looking at? The sunset is over here.”

I turned and noticed something I had overlooked, though I had fished there many times since Dad and I first came. There were six big willow bushes growing at the water’s edge. Two bushes faced the main lake, twenty feet apart. One bush was growing to the right of the point toward the bay. One bush overhung the water at the end of the point. In addition, two bushes grew, side by side, on the left of the point toward the channel where the catfish are.