After taking in the bait man’s stories, my father decided on some frozen clam bellies and a dozen sand worms for
I started to crank my spinning reel as the pole bent in an arch from the weight of the catch. The drag was loose
and my father told me to tighten the dial on top of the reel so that I could retrieve more line faster, preventing the
fish from swimming away with my line. After fumbling with the small dial, I finally managed to secure the drag a
little tighter.
Although the fish seemed heavy, it did not seem to have much life to it. I cranked and cranked and my brother
and father eagerly watched to see what I was hauling out of the sound. A couple of beach walkers stopped at a
distance to see what all the commotion was about.
The catch grew closer and closer to the beach until I could see its outline in the shallower water just a few yards
from where I was standing. It was an ancient brick with at least a foot of seaweed clinging to it like a long tail. I
had caught a brick. I was embarrassed in front of my audience. My father laughed and my brother shook his
head in disbelief.
I disconnected the brick from the hook and hurled it back into the sound after a brief examination. I wondered
how the brick had gotten so far out, who had put it there, if it was part of someone's house at one time.
My father suggested that we switch to worms because none of us were getting any nibbles on the clam bellies,
so I did and re-cast my line as far as I could into the surf.
Soon after the bait switch, I felt a nibble, then a tug, followed by a heavy pull on my line. I became excited and
called out, "I got one! I got one!"
Believing that I had hooked the bottom again, my father and brother did not react to my calls; rather they chose
to continue fishing while I dredged up whatever I had collected from the bottom this time.
My pole arched as I alone strained to reel in the heavy, struggling catch. The beach walkers returned once more
to observe me. I wished that they would go away, fearing an encore of my last performance.
I started to crank my spinning reel as the pole bent in an arch from the weight of the catch. The drag was loose
and my father told me to tighten the dial on top of the reel so that I could retrieve more line faster, preventing the
fish from swimming away with my line. After fumbling with the small dial, I finally managed to secure the drag a
little tighter.
Although the fish seemed heavy, it did not seem to have much life to it. I cranked and cranked and my brother
and father eagerly watched to see what I was hauling out of the sound. A couple of beach walkers stopped at a
distance to see what all the commotion was about.
The catch grew closer and closer to the beach until I could see its outline in the shallower water just a few yards
from where I was standing. It was an ancient brick with at least a foot of seaweed clinging to it like a long tail. I
had caught a brick. I was embarrassed in front of my audience. My father laughed and my brother shook his
head in disbelief.
I disconnected the brick from the hook and hurled it back into the sound after a brief examination. I wondered
how the brick had gotten so far out, who had put it there, if it was part of someone's house at one time.
My father suggested that we switch to worms because none of us were getting any nibbles on the clam bellies,
so I did and re-cast my line as far as I could into the surf.
Soon after the bait switch, I felt a nibble, then a tug, followed by a heavy pull on my line. I became excited and
called out, "I got one! I got one!"
Believing that I had hooked the bottom again, my father and brother did not react to my calls; rather they chose
to continue fishing while I dredged up whatever I had collected from the bottom this time.
My pole arched as I alone strained to reel in the heavy, struggling catch. The beach walkers returned once more
to observe me. I wished that they would go away, fearing an encore of my last performance.
| A Fishing Story |
(continued)
Copyright © 2007, 2008 by Michael Domino
| Finally all three of us had our baits wet and stood along the high tide, keeping our lines taut in anticipation of the inevitable nibble of the first fish. My father explained that if a fish is hungry enough it will open up its mouth and gobble up the bait, swallowing the hook. Other more finicky fish will play with the bait, nibbling on it and tugging at it. When a fisherman experiences these subtle sensations he must react, but not overreact or he will spook the fish. One must develop a sixth sense, imagining the fish eating the bait, and just at the moment the fish’s mouth is wide open and directly over the point of the hook, jerking the rod tip with a backward whip and therefore setting the hook in its mouth and making the catch. My very active 11-year-old imagination was always envisioning fish eating away at my bait, so I was constantly jerking my pole in every direction to set the hook into mouths that did not exist anywhere near my hooks. My brother was more patient in waiting for the hungry fish to venture near his bait and swallow the clam belly whole. My father seemed content to take in the views of Connecticut while his well-worn fishing hat shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun. After many imaginary nibbles and bites I actually felt some weight on my line. I got an excited feeling and called out, "I got one! What a tug! It's heavy." |