Something Fishy

I write to you today, dear reader, not simply as James, the guy who writes occasionally amusing blog post, but as James, great outdoorsman and master of wildlife. Today, I have faced the wilds and persevered. Today, I have stood toe to toe with the awesome powers of nature and laughed. Today, I have withstood the most devastating, Darwinian blows and replied, "Is that all you've got?" Today, I have asserted my manhood in true Hemingway fashion. Today, I went fishing with my dad.

Ok, maybe it wasn't that impressive. I wasn't exactly wrestling a marlin for three days, but I did catch a bunch of fierce fish known as bluegill. Some of these little fighters weighed as much as half a pound. They are also a notoriously cruel fish. They are known to hang out in gangs and almost all of them carry switch blades. They'll cut you as soon as look at you. So you can see what I was up against.

Fishing - for those of you who do not have ESPN2 - is a cruel, brutish sport wherein men - with the aid of advanced technologies such as fiber carbon rods, high test line, flashy lures, and beer - snag unsuspecting fish with a sharp, barbed hook and pull them onto land. For those of you wondering, sharp, barbed wit is useless against fish. It is a sport because you buy the equipment in a sporting goods store, and because it is best enjoyed while drinking. Needless to say, it can be quite a lot of fun - even though my dad does not drink and hence there was no beer today.

My dad is an avid fisherman. He goes out at least a couple times a week. On the other hand, the last time I caught a fish it was red, Swedish, and thrown across a room and into my mouth at a party. Today, my father suggested - for some unfathomable reason - that I go with him. Since his birthday is coming up, and its been quite a while since I've had some good, quality male bonding time, I agreed. My father then took me into the heart of the wilderness to a secluded, practically untouched fishing hole. I had to use a machete to cut through the foliage...Sorry, that's something I saw on TV. We actually went to a stocked pond, two minutes from my house, which is owned by a member of our church.

Stocked means that someone has brought in tame farm bred fish into a small area so that everyone is guaranteed to catch something. The fish are so thick in this pond that you can practically walk across the water on an island of bluegill and perch. Any moron could catch a fish here. All you have to do is clap your hands and call them and they are practically bounding out of the water at you Ernie and Bert style. Or so I thought.

The first problem was the bait. My father couldn't get the superior night crawlers, so we had to settle for red worms - the fat chick best friend of the worm world. Not to say that they're fat - they are actually quite thin - but they are no fisherman's first choice. The worms are actually too thin. All a fish had to do was give the slightest of tugs, and the hook was left bare. After a while I realized that tearing the worms into much smaller morsels - alive, with my bare hands - was much preferable. This is where a lesser writer would make a 'master baiter' joke. I, however, am far above such tom foolery.

Once I had the baiting down all I needed was patience. I spent what seemed like hours watching a small, fluorescent 'bobber', waiting for some foolish fish to drag it down. This seemed to take forever. The bobber would move - jiggle up and down just a little - and I would get excited. I was poised to hook the little bastard as soon as he really took the bait, but they never did. The fish - who are obviously much smarter than I'd given them credit for - were just carefully nibbling the worm off the hook. None of them would just take the bait. I got so frustrated I was yelling things at the fish such as, "COME ON!!! It's fish or cut bait time" or "COME ON!!! It's time to poop or get off the pot". Of course, fish don't understand quaint, vulgar cliches. They did not do as told.

The fish wouldn't take the bait. I knew the fish were there. They were eating the worms. I could see them for crying out loud. Around the shore you could see them, just milling about stupidly. I tried putting a baited hook right in front of these fish. They wouldn't even look at it. They did, however, become quite fascinated with the fishing line. They liked that stupid string more than the worm.

Eventually, after I had almost completely lost interest - 15 minutes - my bobber shot down into the briny deep. This was it. This was what it's all about, man versus nature, technology versus instinct, me versus small, harmless fish. I won. I pulled that fish out of that pound, held up the pole to show my dad, and felt like the king of the world. My dad was beaming with pride. His boy had done good. Of course, this was short lived.

"What do I do know?" I said.

"Take him off the hook and put him back," he said.

"How do I go about doing that?"

"Just grab him and take the hook out."

"You mean I have to touch it?"

"Yes"

"Ewww," I said, "Can you do it for me?"

Disappointed, my father unhooked the poor fish, who I imagine went back to his fish friends and said something like: "Sure the worm looks like its free..." Meanwhile, emboldened by my success, I went back to my fishing. I managed to catch a couple of other fish. I was even able to regain the boldness I had at twelve and grab the fish and unhook them myself. My father was happy. I was happy. The fish were most likely pissed.

All told, it was a pretty good time, even with out the beer.

Shalom