I am not superstitious but I know a hex when I am under one.
Where fishing is concerned, I am the unluckiest person on the planet. I
inherited this curse from my father. He took pride in claiming that he
had fished “nearly every lake, stream, river and shoreline in America
without ever catching a single fish”. My fishing failure is not all bad
luck. Despite hundreds of half-hearted efforts, I have never been able
to focus long enough to learn much about selecting bait or lures,
picking likely spots, setting a hook and other subtleties too numerous
and arcane to list. One reason I enjoy paddling is that it involves
constant activity. Fishing seems idle to me. One sits in one place or
inches along bit-by-bit repeatedly casting and reeling, casting and
reeling. I suspect that the thrill and excitement people experience
when actually catching fish has nothing to do with the fish. Rather it
is a response to being delivered from protracted and agonizing
boredom.
I have
caught a good many things on a fishing line but very few fish. Once on
a camping trip with my son in the Apalachicola National Forest I was
fishing along the shore of a small lake. I repeatedly felt
the
tug and jiggle of fish on my line and each time, certain that I had
caught a nice bream, reeled it in only to find an empty hook.
Given my fishing history, I was not too surprised. Finally I
felt
the typical tug, set the hook and began to reel but this time it was no
little bream. Something much bigger was on that
line. I
worked slowly to reel it in and although it was sluggish and did not
seem to fight like a big bass should, it was clearly large and very
strong. Finally I saw it. I was reeling in a three
foot
gator, no doubt the one that had been stealing every one of the little
fish that should have been mine. I drug him into the shallows
and
contemplated what to do next. There was a coke bottle that
some
littering reprobate had cast out at the water’s edge. I
picked it
up and threw it full force at the gator, hitting him hard on the skull
right between the eyes. It appeared to have knocked him
unconscious so I pulled him up onto the shore. As I foolishly reached
down, thinking I would extract my hook, he fully regained his senses,
thrashing and snapping wildly. I am fortunate to have retained my right
hand which his jaws missed by millimeters.
My only claim to fishing fame came when I was out exercise paddling on
the pond in my back yard. I had just purchased a new rod and reel for
an upcoming kayak fishing trip and decided to troll a lure for
practice. I paddled about 50 yards until, as I rounded the little
island in the middle of the lake my reel started whirring as the line
fed out. I stopped paddling, grabbed the rod and tried to reel the line
back in but the pull was tremendous. I tightened the drag a little and
felt the kayak being towed along at substantial speed. Moments later
the fish vaulted out of the water flashing in the sunlight as it
twisted its body in a spectacular leap. It was a very big one indeed.
My kayak is very narrow and has minimal initial stability. I knew that
there was no way I could land this fish in anything like a conventional
manner. Without the balancing and stabilizing effect of the paddle I
would surely capsize. The only thing to do was play the fish until it
grew much too exhausted to struggle. I let it tow me over acres of
water for what must have been at least twenty minutes until I was
finally able bring it up alongside the boat. It was a monster bass, at
least ten pounds. I was finally excited! My heart was
actually
pounding.
I had been
schooled by my fishing friends in the catch-and-release philosophy but
this was the nearest I would ever come to a trophy catch. Given years
of expenditures for tackle, bait and fishing licenses, I figured that
this fish had a monetary value of at least $150 per pound in addition
to its emotional significance. Now I was supposed to play Mr. Nice Guy
and let it go? Where was the sense in that? That would be downright
un-American. I decided that I would try to keep it alive but
get
it to shore and call my wife out to see if I could at least get a photo
before liberating it and obliterating the evidence forever. I tried
towing it alongside but could make little progress toward the shore
with only one hand paddling. If I could paddle freely, it would only
take a minute or two to reach the shore. Gently I lifted the fish with
my thumb in his lip as I had seen real fishermen do and pulled him
aboard and into my lap. With ten pounds of wet slimy fish wiggling on
my privates, I managed to paddle very quickly to the shore, exited the
boat and stood in the shallows bent over holding the fish in the water
so it could breath.
The
house is about 100 feet from the lake’s edge and the windows and doors
were closed but I shouted hoping to rouse my wife. “Susan!” No
response. Again, “SUSAN!” No response. I shouted as loudly as I could.
It seemed certain that everyone in the neighborhood heard me except my
wife. Eventually she came rushing out in a panic, evidently thinking
that I must have cut off my arm or something. After she calmed down she
went for the camera.
I am
no fool. I had seen those pictures in the sportsman’s magazines where
the fish is held at full arms length toward the camera to distort and
improve upon its apparent size so we set up the shot that way for
maximum effect. After taking several photos I released the fish and it
swam off nonchalantly as if nothing had
happened. The photo hangs on my wall today. Unfortunately, in my
sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat, I cannot be recognized so this could
as well be a proverbial whopper. As always the curse of my
genes
prevails.
This curse is not limited
to
myself alone but extends to all who risk fishing with me. It also
includes a special clause ensuring that in the unlikely case that a
fish is caught, something else will go wrong. My long time paddling
companion George will affirm this categorically. Only once in the many
years that we have paddled together has he ever caught a fish while I
was with him. On that occasion we were exploring a part of the Gulf
coast rarely paddled. He was trolling with a spoon but I didn’t want to
be bothered with fishing gear. I was paddling and studying the remote
coast and beaches when I noticed that George was no longer with me. I
looked back and saw him about 100 yards further offshore with the
fishing rod in his hands being towed rapidly toward Cuba. He shouted,
“Fish on!” I turned and paddled to him. When I arrived he had a
thirty-inch long King Mackerel up close to his boat. We were at least a
half-mile offshore. This fish was much to big to land from a narrow and
unstable kayak and of course the question also arose what to do with it
once landed. I sidled up to George presenting my rear deck and he
hauled the fish up onto it.
On a day trip of this kind I rarely carry anything in my rear hatch so
I foolishly consented to having the fish stowed therein. This was a
one-way shuttle trip eighteen miles in length and we were less than
halfway. It was a typically hot summer day and the sun beat mercilessly
down on that rear deck for the two or three hours it took to reach the
beach where we had left George’s truck. When I got home and started to
clean up my gear the unmistakable fragrance of dead fish permeated my
rear hatch. This hatch is where I stow my sleeping bag, clothing, tent
and other critical gear on multi-day trips. On such trips my personal
bouquet is often raunchy enough. Adding to it the stench of
dead
fish was not a pleasant prospect. I washed the hatch out with soap and
water but a few hours later the odor was only a little less potent. I
washed it out three or four times with Pine-Sol, lemon scented soap and
several other concoctions yet a week later I could still smell it. It
wasn’t until I filled the hatch with a strong solution of chlorine
bleach and let it soak overnight that I conquered the odor. Of course I
had to live with the scent of chlorine on my stuff on several outings
thereafter.
Perhaps the
ultimate expression of my curse came on a weeklong trip to Minnesota’s
Boundary Waters Canoe Area. There are few places in North America more
famous for great fishing. Ask any angler. If you can’t catch fish in
the BWCA, you can’t catch them anywhere. There were six of us. George
and Pat, my local paddling companions traveled with me from Florida
towing a trailer full of kayaks. My two sons had come from opposite
ends of the country to join us for a week in the wilderness. We met at
the home of my old friend John in Wisconsin. John is a serious fishing
aficionado and, as a resident of the area was very knowledgeable about
fishing these waters and about the resident species, appropriate bait,
lures and other tackle that we would need. He had emailed a list and we
all spent more than we could afford stocking up on the right trappings.
We were to set up a base camp on Brule Lake, the largest of the
hundreds of lakes that make up the BWCA. After getting our permits from
the ranger station, John insisted on stopping at a tackle shop to pick
up a supply of leeches which he declared to be the ideal live bait.
At first, I was disappointed in the landscape. I had expected a virgin
forest yet everything was clearly second or third growth. A few years
earlier there had been a hurricane force windstorm that had blown down
many acres of trees giving an impression not unlike the ugly clear cuts
commonly scaring so much of my own North Florida stomping grounds. The
weather was not cooperating well either. It was cloudy and windy with
occasional drizzle requiring extra caution to ensure that we would
start the week with dry gear and clothing. At the launch site we had to
devote an hour or more to packing the kayaks, stuffing the hatches and
piling the decks high with what seemed enough gear and food for a
regiment. All six boats sat low in the water and were none too easy to
paddle in three to four foot waves under the burden.
Evidently leeches are entirely aquatic and unable to survive long out
of water. John was very concerned about their preservation. I tried
suggesting that he store them in his rear hatch, but he wouldn’t buy
that. He put them in a live bait bucket and tied it to the
stern
of his boat, trailing it along behind.
We had marked several potential campsites on the map. All were miles
from the launch site. Our intention was to explore several of them to
find sites that would be attractive and comfortable for an extended
stay. The going was tough. We had to paddle into a twelve mile per hour
wind and on this big lake that meant choppy water and difficult
paddling. By the time we reached the first campsite, John, the least
experienced and least strong paddler among us was nearing exhaustion
and having difficulty keeping up. The site was barren of trees and in a
low swampy area full of hungry, vulture-size mosquitoes so we decided
to continue looking but after another mile or two John was unable to go
on. We stopped on a rocky island to rest and to move some of John’s
gear to the other boats to lighten his load. My younger son Jason
suggested that the leech bucket might be slowing John down.
John
was adamant. He had to have those damned leeches no matter what the
cost. Jason volunteered to tow the bucket.
We set out again. The brief rest seemed to have done wonders for John
who appeared revitalized. It was another three or more miles to the
next site and soon I noticed that Jason was lagging behind and seemed
to be struggling. This was odd, since he was by far the youngest and
strongest in our party but he is not one to complain. When we reached
the next campsite, we all felt better. It was beautiful. It was nestled
under huge White Pines and sat high up on an island where the breeze
kept the bugs to a minimum. The drizzle had stopped, the sun was
shining and the lake was clear and sparkling. We had found paradise. It
was not until after we had made camp that Jason, still looking very
tired, informed us of what should have been obvious from the start. The
leech bucket had been a drogue! He and John had been trying to paddle
while dragging an anchor!
We lounged around camp for the remainder of the afternoon, had a great
steak dinner and a perfect sleep. In the morning we were completely
refreshed and anxious to start catching some of those famous big
Walleyes, Northern Pike and Small Mouth Bass. As we organized our
fishing gear John went down to the water’s edge where he had tied off
the bucket to get some leeches to distribute among us. From the
lakeshore there issued a pathetic lamentation that would  make
the cry of the loon, heard earlier, seem like a giggle.
Concerned, we
all rushed to John’s rescue. The treasured leeches
were gone - the
bucket had simply disappeared! There was no mistaking it;
my jinx was
decidedly operative! Frankly though, I was a little relieved.
I have
nothing against leeches other than the fact that
they are the
quintessence of bloodsucking parasites but I might prefer
to use a
lifeless lure and catch no fish at all than to handle those repulsive
things.
That day it was
again windy and remained so most of the week. According to John, windy
conditions made for poor fishing. As usual, halfway through the first
day I was growing bored with fishing until I got a very small Northern
on the line. He struggled weakly and as I drew him near enough to get a
good look he got free of the hook and swam off. That was my only
encounter with a fish that week and I couldn’t even count that.
The others were only a little more successful. John was always off by
himself absorbed in fishing despite the lack of those essential
leeches. Rather than fishing from his kayak, he had brought
along
his “belly boat”, a preposterous sort of inner tube kind of thing with
built-in wader-like pants that dangled his bottom half in the icy cold
water, lots of little pockets for tackle and multiple rods splaying off
in several directions.  He propelled this implausible
vessel with
dive fins. He was a hysterical caricature of a rotund, floating, giant
squid. As the rest of us were from the gator and shark
infested
waters of Florida, we had never seen anything like it nor could imagine
ever chumming with our lower limbs in such a manner. I am
suspicious that any sensible fish would be frightened of this
contraption and flee in terror but John claimed to have caught and
released a few bass. Only he and the fish can verify this.
 Near the end,
George and Pat went off to another lake. I suspect they
were trying to escape the jinx. They returned after at
least eight
hours with three smallish bass and one small Northern which
were fried
and savored with a gusto that flaunted their
titanic achievement.
The genetic origins of my curse were validated by both of my
sons who
failed to catch a single fish between them that
week.
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