I began my fishing career — yes, I do consider fishing a career — like most kids. It all started with tagging along with Dad. Besides learning to bait hooks, removing those same hooks from fish lips and my own fingers and learning how to avoid catfish barbs, the most valuable lesson I was taught was how to be a good fishing partner. According to my father’s instruction, the key factor was, “Know when to keep your beak shut.”
Now, if that sounds like the old story of kids should be seen and not heard, you would be very mistaken. I was permitted to ask any question in the world. What kind of fish is that? Why do they call them bullheads? Is this poison ivy? Why aren’t we catching fish? Why can’t I say that word? Yep, any question at all. That was the beak-open part of our day.
After wrapping up any fishing trip, it was also not that unusual to stop by my uncle’s place for a visit and, just as often, at the Loyal Order of the Moose. Dad would enjoy one adult beverage, myself an Orange Crush, and he’d order fish and fries to take home. Most everyone there would quickly figure out that we’d been out fishing, and the question would always come, “Well, Gus, how’d you and the boys do today?”
This was the time to keep my beak shut. Dad would expound about the trip and the fish we’d landed, but also how much he enjoys returning them back into the water till they became real keepers.
The first couple of times this occurred, I thought that he was talking about some other fishing trip with some other kid. Every time my beak found itself opening, Dad would just give me a smile and a wink — on cue, I learned to just smile and shake my head in agreement.
As his buddies sat around listening, inevitably, a few would begin trying to match his stories with their own. One of the regulars — regular in that he seemed to be at the Moose whenever we stopped in after fishing — was Herb Hooks. Herb owned a local bait store named (wait for it) “Herb’s Baits.” Herb didn’t seem to have much imagination outside of the Moose or when he was talking about fishing.
As dad described the size of the fish we were catching — the ones I still wasn’t sure ever existed — Herb would always remind dad where he bought a lot of his redworms, minnows, leaches and spikes (a more gentlemanly term for maggots). At that point, the entire conversation turned into a commercial that was loud enough that only the deaf couldn’t eavesdrop. It sounded like something between a secret disclosure and proselytization. Looking back, maybe it was coordinated propagandizing for some future discount.
A fish story
After one such angling adventure and stop at the Moose, we were driving home in silence. I was still nursing my bottle of pop and nabbing a few fries from the takeout order when my beak loosened up. I still remember the conversation.
“Dad, who were you fishin’ with when you caught all those big fish?”
“What do you mean? You were there.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“I don’t remember any fish.”
“It’s a fish story.”
“You mean a lie?”
My father looked shocked.
“Absolutely not! A fish story isn’t a lie ‘cause nobody expects the truth… at least not the exact truth. Trust me, if you were to ask where some guy caught their biggest bass, you’ll get directions to the furthest point from where that fish was swimming… maybe even a different state. Also, never measure a fish with anything but your eyes — then add a few inches to make up for error. Same thing goes with weighing them.”
“Is that how they measure record-book fish, too?”
“That’s different. If it looks like a record book fish, then you’re stuck with getting reliable witnesses — preferably people with limited fishing experience.”
“This all sounds confusing.”
“Just keep fishing, and you’ll eventually get it. Just remember to keep your beak shut.”
“So, that story in church about the loaves and fishes is a fish story? I wondered how that was possible.”
I got a long side-look, “No, that one’s true. It was a miracle.”
“Soooo… when a fishin’ story is true, it’s a miracle?”
“See, I told you you’d start to get it.”
Dad only fished with a few other trusted people besides us kids, but I don’t think they trusted each other to keep quiet. His brother Harry was the exception. Put those two together and you’d think that they held most of the world’s freshwater fishing records, both supporting the other’s fish stories like they’d actually happened.
Their claims usually ended with, “Well, we didn’t get it officially measured and weighed because you got to tell folks where you caught it. That’s a good way to ruin a good honey hole. Besides, it would be a shame to kill a fish like that — rather see it swim off and keep growin’.”
Dad also liked to help at fishing derbies and other scout events, but I never saw him wet his own line. He just enjoyed helping youngsters catch their first bluegills and crappies. It seemed like he told every one of them that the fish they just caught was getting “darn close to a new state record” as he’d help them release it “to grow even bigger.”
My eye-measuring stick must not have been as good as his because I didn’t think any of those fish were close to even keeper size. Still, he drew a lot of excitement from those kids on the end of that pole.
The right partner
Since those long-ago times, I’ve tried to stick with that creed of finding just the right fishing partner that could replace Dad’s old position. There’ve been several in the running, but some turned out to have problems with keeping their beaks shut. One in particular was a guy named Mike. Without getting into the gritty details, he was present when the world-class catfish Big Ugly shook my hook and swam away. His rendition of that heartbreaking day ended up in a newspaper column and even a book — talk about beak problems.
Luckily, I was able to include my version of the story to combat his extraordinarily exaggerated whopper. Using a few cues left by my father, you can trust my version was Honest Abe honest.
Today, I found myself enjoying alone time while fishing. I’ve had some remarkable days on the streams I fish — but I do miss the company who knows how to properly witness a good fish story.
Then, one bright spring day it occurred to me that I’d already rediscovered the best fishing partner of my life — actually, there’s been more than just one. They were always eager to go, didn’t throw stones in the water when they got bored, never complained about the time — and every one of them knew how to keep their beaks shut — and everybody trusts a wagging tail.
“Dogs are better than human beings because they know but do not tell.”
— Emily Dickinson
