Fishing. What better way to spend a day than devoting oneself to the pursuit of a reason to tell heroic stories of man’s battle with “the one that got away”?
The first thing, of course, is the preparation for the fabled “opening day” ceremonies when everyone who has never fished before goes out, buys a pole, tackle box and tackle, and proceeds to line up shoulder to shoulder to try to catch “the big one.”
Ironically, the “big one” usually winds up being caught by some six-year-old with a $2.95 Job Lot special outfit “with rubber worm included,” while all the veteran anglers with hip boots, L.L. Bean fishing vests, fish finders, fancy reels and rods look on with envy.
My own preparation usually starts with searching for the tackle box which I conveniently stored on the corner garage shelf for just this occasion. Or was it upstairs in the closet? Out in the barn? Under the bench in the garage? Anyway, after locating the said tackle box, the next step is to reorganize in preparation for the big day.
One sure way to recognize a true fisherman is by the size and condition of his tackle box. If it is neat and well kept, with a variety of little compartments in which various lures and other paraphernalia are carefully organized and uniformly stashed, forget it. That’s not the tackle box of a true fisherman.
A true fisherman may have some of those compartments in his tackle box, but most everything is safely kept in a large tangled mess at the bottom of the box, referred to in fisherman parlance as the “snarl.”
Usually, this takes six to eight weeks to sort out, making for a good excuse to start pulling out fishing gear in the middle of February, preferably on the living room floor in front of the TV, where you can watch people who have somehow convinced television executives that people will actually watch someone on the tube fishing. And they get paid for it!
Anyway, you can never start too early to get ready. I have even known of fishermen who have started practicing their casts in hallways of their homes to get the wrist in shape for the “big day.”
The best time to practice is when wives or girl friends are not at home, however, since they may not understand the importance of such practice, particularly where decorations and/or knickknacks are involved.
“What are you doing? Opening day isn’t until April!” my wife will say, kiddingly, as I begin to empty the tackle box on the kitchen table.
“Oh, just getting a few things organized.”
“What’s that smell?”
It’s always a good idea to try to remember to remove all fish and bait from the pockets of fishing clothing by the way, as well as removing previously living worms from tackle boxes and especially cans of worms from same.
Individual worms by themselves may not pose much of a problem, since they tend to shrivel up and dry, resembling burnt bits of vermicelli at times.
However, often clumps of previously juicy, wriggling night crawlers tend to produce a rather pungent smell when left over a period of time, say four to six months.
Once exposed to the warm confines of a house’s atmosphere, they may cause its inhabitants to act in rather peculiar ways, like throwing open windows and doors in sub zero weather.
In my experience I have observed that fish have a similar effect, depending on the size and type.
Some small trout, for example, may result in windows only being cracked open a bit, but a good-sized bass or hornpout can have an enormous effect.
Once the contents of the tackle box are sorted out, it’s a good idea to head to the local hardware store or fishing stop to acquire the very latest in fishing gear and to re-stock any gear lost in last year’s fishing expeditions.
One of my first experiences of opening day was when my Uncle Hiram took me fishing in his boat. Since I had never been fishing in a boat before, he decided to take me with him on opening day. This would be the best chance to catch the “big one,” he added.
“Be careful casting,” he advised, as we anchored in an inlet.
Being 10 or so at the time, I had plenty of experience. Actually, I never realized how cramped a boat could be, however.
Flipping the pole back, I got ready to deliver my bait near an open pool surrounded by lily pads. Knowing it would be quite a toss, and realizing how little room to maneuver there was, I put everything into it. Hiram would be impressed, I mused, as I got ready to fire away.
“Hey, watch out!” yelled Hiram from the back of the boat.
“Oh, don’t worry,” I replied, leaning into it and whipping the pole forward. “I won’t hit the lily pads.”
As I brought the pole forward, I couldn’t help but notice that the pole seemed to have a little hitch in its snap, like it had been caught on something, but it fired forward like a slingshot, delivering the worm exactly where I had planned.
“Aarrrgghhh!” yelled Hiram behind me, leading me to believe he may have caught the “big one” already, even though I had hardly gotten my bait into the water.
Figuring he would need my help in netting the monster, I dropped my pole and stood up, whirling around in the process and making a grab for the landing net at the same time.
Now, why anyone would want to go out fishing in something as tipsy as a boat is beyond me, but as I reached for the net, I couldn’t help noticing that the entire boat was beginning to lean precariously to one side.
Putting my foot on the edge to avoid falling into the water was no help either, as the boat suddenly whipped over in one smooth motion sending its entire contents into the chilly water, including Hiram, who for some unknown reason was clutching at his right ear.
We finally managed to find most of what was left of our gear, minus my uncle’s tackle box and a miscellaneous assortment of other items, and pulled the boat ashore.
Returning home, my aunt noticed a trickle of blood coming from the tip of Hiram’s ear.
“You must have cut yourself when the boat capsized,” she offered.
My uncle mumbled something incoherent under his breath and tramped off to the bathroom.
“You should have seen the one that got away!” I added. “Just ask Hiram.”
The above is an excerpt from the book Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Sanity… by Dick Martin, a Glocester resident, former Burrillville High School teacher and contributor for NRI NOW.
Martin can be contacted at [email protected].
