Fishy Tales

For some reason, my younger brother Scott, as a tyke mind you, latched on to the idea that fishing was an activity that he was going to love all his life.  Don't ask me ME why. Yuck.

When we moved to Illinois, he was a mere lad of ten. We had temporarily moved to a two room cottage on the shores of beautiful Lake Wauconda.  Lake = fish. The lack of fishing equipment was merely a minor inconvenience.  Our family motto was "Don't have one?  Make it!"  Sticks lay about on the ground under the trees, we could find string in the cottage, and maybe a hook somewhere.  We did wind up finding a cane pole behind the door of the porch, but lacked a hook.  The fact that I say "we" does not mean I was interested in fishing.  Noooo!  But we were pals, through thick and thin.  He played the stuff I thought was fun, I helped him fish.

Scott found a safety pin, and tied it on the end of the line.  We went down to the edge of the lake. 

"Think it will work?"  I asked.
"Of course it will."
"What are you going to do with it?  Eat it?"
"Naw.  Throw it back."

Why someone would take all the time to catch something only to release it was a bit perplexing, but I did like the challenge.  Scott had snitched some bacon from the old rounded-edged refrigerator, stuck it on the pin and dropped his line in the water.  In a few moments he had a fish.  Unfortunately, the non-barbed safety pin didn't stick in fish lips and the fish slipped off the hook.  Hmmm.  He frowned.  This wasn't working.  He could catch them, but failed to land them. 

"I've an idea," he said.  "Watch this."

When the next one tugged on the string, he whipped the pole back and a little sunfish went flying over his head and onto the grass. 

"You did it!"  We looked at the surprised little fish.  "Quick, throw it back in before it drowns, or whatever is the opposite of drowning that fish do."

Throughout the steamy August afternoon of 1967, I sat on the lake's bank drawing a picture of my brother fishing.  Later my mom said it even kinda looked like him.  I showed him snapping the line back and the sunfish flying onto the grass.  He caught quite a few.  Or maybe it was the same fish (even though they call them sunfish, they aren't too bright). I can only imagine what it went off to tell the other fish that night. "You won't believe it, I flew through the air.  One minute I was grabbing the tastiest morsel I've ever had, and the next I was yanked out of the water and went soaring over some kid's head."  "No way!" all his admiring friends would say. 

In middle school, Scott taught himself how to tie flies and bought the equipment to do so.  He showed me too, and I enjoyed creating some, learning the knots and admiring the beautiful feathers.  When we moved back to California, we stopped in Colorado so that Scott, now entering eighth grade, could fish in some creeks there.  I stood on the shore and watched the water ouzels.

Scott remains an ardent fisherman and goes out with the men from his office on big time fishing trips to Montana and the Sierras.  A few years ago, Scott took my husband and me fishing at their cabin on Lake Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.  It was a pretty morning, and we took their boat down the shore away and sat 20 feet offshore.

He wore one of those fisherman's vests so loaded with tools that it was a wonder he didn't clank when he walked.  Pretty flies adorned his hat, and I knew if I was a fish, I would have bitten one of them.

"Are we using flies, or lures, or what?" I asked innocently.
"Worms."
"I simply can't skewer a live worm on a hook, Scott."
"I'll do it for you.  I want you to try fishing."

He baited my hook first, then started to put a worm on his hook, but I already had a bite.  I pulled in a decent sized fish.  Seven or eight inches, if I remember correctly, which I probably don't.  Can't tell you what it was.  Scott was obligingly complimentary about the size of it.  He got the hook out of it, let it go and put another worm on my hook before setting about putting a worm on his own hook.

This was repeated about five or six times.  My husband laughed at how quickly I was catching them, and suggested I take a break so poor Scott could at least put a hook in the water.  Scott said we were unlikely to catch anything big, as so many smaller fish indicated that they felt safe there and there were probably no big ones around. "And now that my sister has done so well, I probably won't get a thing."

Oh, but he did.  Wow!  In less than five minutes, he had a little tug on his line, then BAM, the rod bent double and nearly took him out of the boat.  A lunker!  Holy moley!  That thing must have been huge, Scott was fighting with him, playing him in and out, or whatever fishermen do to bring home the big one.  Scott was getting red and excited and we knew we were in for a show.

"This must be the biggest fish in the lake," I shouted.
"What do you suppose it is?" asked my husband. "A pike?"
"Where's the net, Dad?" asked Scott's son.

We tried to peer under the water to catch the first glimpe of the mighty fish.  Suddenly Scott's line went disappointingly limp. 

"Oh, no," I said.  "Did it get away?"
"No, there's something still there, but it just suddenly gave up."
"Well, reel it in and let's see it!"

He reeled it in and we burst into laughter.  On the end of his rod was a little 4-incher.

"What?" We died laughed. "How could such a little fish pull the rod nearly in two like that and fight so hard?


Around the dinner table, we dreamed up an explanation.  Scott had first hooked the little 4 inch fish.  Then, a largemouth bass, moments later, swallowed the little fish Scott had hooked.  It fought hard, but then opened its mouth and Scott pulled the little fish right out of his stomach.

Either that, or it was one VERY strong little fish.

At any rate, I wonder what the little guy told the other fish that night.  "You won't believe it!  I not only got caught, I got eaten.  And lived to tell."

Who says fishermen are the only ones with tall tales?  Those fish must tell some whoppers too.