March 13, 2013 Article

The Old Coot tells a fish story.

By Merlin Lessler

 

I’ve told a lot of “fish” stories in my day, but never one involving fish. Not until now. This one began a month ago when my friend John from Preston Canada took me on as a project; he volunteered to teach me how to fish. It was pretty basic stuff. I knew which end of the rod to hold but that was about it. He loaned me a rig and began the process on the beach behind our hotel. How could I fail; I had the entire Atlantic Ocean at my feet.

 

Day after day, we stood in the surf, casting out, waiting, waiting, waiting. Then reeling in to see if the hooks were still baited. Every so often, John pulled one in, a Whiting. Meanwhile, Ray, from Chicago, twenty yards to our north, reeled them in, one after the other. A bunch of Whitings and every now and then, a nice 5 or 6-pound Pompano.

 

This pattern went on for an entire month. John averaged 2 or 3 a day, I caught 1 every other day and Ray reeled in a pail full, a five-gallon pail. We used the same bait, the same rigging, the same spot on the beach. Some days John and I would sneak out early and take Ray’s spot. No fish! He’d stroll out to our spot and within minutes get a bite. Then another, and another.

 

Still, I ate fish. Not just the few I caught, but the ones Ray tossed in my bucket on his way back to the hotel. Then it happened. (This is where the fish story begins) It was Ray’s last day. He decided not to fish, just to soak up the atmosphere. John went out early. He had two poles going in Ray’s favorite spot. I stumbled out later, juggling my pole, a 5-gallon bucket, a pole holder, a portable lounge chair, my Kindle and a Grape NeHi.  My plan was to lay back and read; the fishing pole would be a prop. I wasn’t about to stand next to it, staring at the tip to see if I had a bite for two hours like I did yesterday.

 

No! This day I was going to be a beach bum. Ray spotted me lumbering across the sand and ran ahead to a spot I’d fished 10 times with no luck. He traced a big arrow in the sand pointing out to the ocean and wrote. “Fish,” next to it. “Fish here he said.” What the heck! I thought, and stuck my rod holder in the sand, set up my folding lounge chair. John looked over and said, “Don’t get your hopes up. Nothing going on here today.”

 

I cast out, an awkward, high flying, pop-up, stuck the rod in the holder and stretched out in my lounge chair, settling in for a long stay. I glanced over at the rod and saw it starting to twitch. Then it jerked. I jumped up out of the chair. (Actually I lumbered to my feet like a newborn colt making his legs for the first time.) Ray and John were talking and looking off in the other direction. I grabbed the rod, irritated that my leisure had been interrupted and started reeling. I reeled and pulled, reeled and pulled. Not exactly sure what I was doing. Finally, it broke the surface, a beautiful pompano. My first one ever. John looked over in disbelief. Ray just smiled and pointed to my feet. I was standing on the arrow. Later on, Ray showed me how to filet it. It’s a little tricky with a pompano. He cut; I watched. My job was to bag the fish after he cut it up and to put the filet knife back it its sheath. The extra sharp filet knife! I dropped it and looked down to see where it landed. There it was, standing straight up, sticking out of the top of my foot. But, I knew I could handle it. John, my fishing partner, was the same John who taught the old coot “cheapness and self medication” seminar a few weeks earlier. I pulled out the knife, splashed on some mouthwash and applied a square of duck tape over the wound. Proving once again, you can teach old coots new tricks!

 

How an old coot fishes.

 

 

Wow! It works!