Hook, Line & Sinker

My first memories of fishing were (mostly) with my dad.  During the summer months, he would come home from work, we would load up the fishing poles and chicken liver (which was judiciously used for bait.  Um … ewwww).

We drove a few miles to the farm of some family friends.  A brother and sister, neither of which had married, and who lived together on the farm where they were raised.  They leased their land for hunting in the fall.  And in the summer, we fished!

Each of us had a bamboo fishing pole.  Totally old school, right?

Actually, they’re considered “Vintage” or “Antique” now.  I’m not sure what that says about me, but we’ll leave that right there.  

These “Vintage” bamboo fishing poles now run between $45-$50 on the open market.  I wonder if Mom & Dad still have them - we could cash in!

The line was attached to the end of the bamboo stalk and casting was done in much the same way you would with a rod and reel.  Except there was no reel to reel.  And no whinging sound when you cast. 

Just a warning to watch your swing (lest you land your hook in the person next to you) and the gentle plop of the bobber as it hit the water.

We were fishing for catfish.

I don’t remember catching any myself (though I’m sure I did.  everybody gets lucky once in a while.)

But I do remember sitting and waiting.  The sun reflecting off the water, glaring into my eyes.  

And waiting.  And being told to be quiet (hey!  I was always the child that had “talks too much” on her report card.  True story!)  

And waiting.

I believe that’s what’s called a lesson in patience.

The first time I recall casting a true-to-life rod & reel was on a family trip to the coast.  We went on a nighttime fishing excursion in the Texas Gulf Coast.

I came away with a 12-inch eel and a baby sting ray (he was a fighter).  And I have a vague recollection of catching a smallish perch.  I also avoided getting seasick.  So there’s that.

My parents bought a ranch many years ago.  Complete with stock tanks.  They stocked the tanks, two with catfish and one with bass. 

When the fish were big enough, we began dropping our lines.

The fish were plentiful, and they really DID like chicken livers (which were still, in my opinion, ewwww.)  One by one, we would pull catfish out.  

And stopped only when it was determined that we had more than enough (ie, Dad didn’t want to be up all night cleaning them).

During my second marriage (Leaps & Bounds), my then-husband and I took his two small daughters to fish for the first time.  (My son, basically having grown up going to the ranch, had many fishing outings under his belt.)

It was that trip when I hooked a fighter.  My goodness, this one fought.  You would’ve thought I had a Marlin on my line (though we know this wasn’t possible).

I nearly had him to shore.  I could see him.  He was HUGE! When …

SNAP!  He broke the line! 

One of Jerry’s few redeeming qualities was that he was determined not to let that fish get away.  He jumped into the tank (shin-deep), ruining a pair of boots in the process, and drug that sucker out of the water!

That huge sucker on the end - that's MINE!

At the end of the day, I had caught what I think must still be the record for the ranch:  a 17.5 pounder! 

(My parents may tell you differently – that someone else, maybe even my son - had bested my effort.  So maybe mine was a record for that day.  I’ll take it!)

Redfish!  It's what's for dinner!

A few years ago, my girlfriends and I took a trip to Destin to celebrate our 50^th birthdays.  Loretta & Christina went on a fishing excursion. 

Since I wasn’t feeling very ‘patient’, I chose not to go.  They caught plenty of red snapper, which were cooked to perfection by the restaurant we dined in that night.  Thanks, friends!

Fast forward to 2020 and the pandemic hit (Don't Stand So Close To Me).  Not to be deterred by travel restrictions, the hubs and I bought a travel trailer (We Be Trippin').

In setting up the trailer, Keith dug out his old fishing gear and loaded everything into Plan B.  We dutifully then went to Academy to purchase our fishing licenses. 

What is happening to me???

Our first trip out, we went to Port Aransas.  Keith remembered a place just off of the ferry, where fishing was a premium.  They call it Redfish Bay.

We dropped line after line.  And worm after worm was gobbled up as soon as they hit the water.

Fishing was at a premium that’s for sure – lots of fish, lots of stolen bait.  For thirty minutes, we basically fed the fish.  Tricky little bastards. 

At least the beer was cold.

Last year, Keith and I took Plan B to the coast again.  This time, to Port Isabel.

We parked Plan B in a community that sat on the waterway and our particular spot backed up to a canal.  Perfect for dropping a line whenever the mood hits ‘ya.

Worms were apparently in short supply (or no supply at all) as none of the bait shops we stopped at were carrying them.  Keith went with the next best thing:  shrimp. 

“You like shrimp,” he said, “so why wouldn’t they?” 

Whatever kind of “they” might call our canal home.

Dusk and dawn.  Apparently, those were the best times to drop your line.

The next morning, we made our way to “our” dock.  I believe the fish must’ve still been asleep because there were very few takers.

That night, however, was a different story!

Thanks to whoever placed a green light in the canal!  The fish were swarming the light and it seemed an appropriate target for our lines.  Easier to see the bobber dip below the water too!

We were hoping to bring up the bigger fish we could see circling the light (or perhaps they were circling the smaller fish!).  Instead, we saved many a perch from imminent doom and certain death by the bigger fish.

Or maybe we merely gave them a moment of reprieve as they were all too small to keep.  So … it’s a catch-and-release canal.  Okay.

The next morning, coffee in hand, we sat on the dock enjoying the quiet.  Only broken by the sound of the gulls as they woke up and took flight.

Watching the fish jump about, I grabbed my pole and baited it properly.

One by one, Keith and I pulled them in.  Sometimes both at the same time! 

And one by one, we threw them back (as only the smallest of perch were biting).

Until … I caught a spotted trout!  And we thought that would make for good eatin’.  If only we had four or five more.

Challenge accepted.

Many hours were spent on that dock.  Sometimes in my pj’s with coffee in hand.  The sky a blend of pastels as the sun came up.

Sometimes in the evening, after a scrumptious meal was had, and a nightcap was required.  The moonlight flitting across the water.

However, it would appear that word got out amongst the other spotted trout and they chose a different canal to call home.

We never did get to cook up our catch as what was worth keeping was barely more than an appetizer.

Keith has spent all week getting Plan B ready.  Our land yacht, she’s got a new coat of wax.  

The fishing poles are loaded in the pass-through. 

And our fishing licenses are renewed.

Just us, our Bentley-boy, some hot coffee, cold beer, and lots and lots of fish in the sea.

The water is calling and we must go.