Where the Gulls Are
Fishing with JoeBy Bob BurroughsAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Bob Burroughs
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4634-1720-8Contents
Chapter 1. Fishing with Joe: What it's about..........................................................1Chapter 2. Getting Hooked The terrible, contagious, incurable Icthyosis...............................6Chapter 3. Learning the Hard Way Boots and Bikes......................................................10Chapter 4. The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of That Man, and That Fish.......................................17Chapter 5. Go North, Young Man, Go North The Shortest Distance to a Straight Line.....................34Chapter 6. Jockey Schwey Impersonating a Crappie......................................................55Chapter 7. Wilderness On The Cheap Canoes and Canvas..................................................68Chapter 8. Unnatural Lakes Opportunities Everywhere...................................................91Chapter 9. Chaos at Coquina Getting the Blues.........................................................103Chapter 10. Coral Corral Paradise Found...............................................................117Chapter 11. The Land of Kah-weh-teh-kon Fishing Sacred Waters.........................................140Chapter 12. On Beavers' Wings Fishing the Inaccessible.................................................163Chapter 13. Chasing Sunsets California Crying Trout...................................................184Chapter 14. A Dose of Salt Landlubbers Learn Lessons..................................................204Chapter 15. A Fish Named Sauger Big Time on the Big O.................................................234Chapter 16. The Sweet Sea Renaissance.................................................................256Chapter 17. Pa-hay-okee Fishing the Edge..............................................................276Chapter 18. Meeting the Natives Lions and tigers and BEARS, Oh, my!...................................304Chapter 19. 61°N, 146°W Yes, Virginia, There is a Salmon Claus................................323Chapter 20. Taman Negara Fishing the Sungei of Malaysia...............................................340
Chapter One
Fishing with Joe: What it's about
This is a different kind of book about fishing.... well, angling. The word fishing is generic. It can encompass trawlers and purse seines and the like. It means the pursuit of fish, commercial or sport, human or animal. Bears and otters and cormorants and kingfishers and ospreys fish. Commercial fleets fish. It is probably grammatically correct to say that sport fishermen angle. But that's not how we really talk. Ed and Charlie, meeting in the parking lot after work, don't say, "Let's go angling next Saturday."
So, here, that word, fishing, means rods and reels, and maybe even arrows and spears and trot lines and jugs. But mostly, rods and reels. (For some reason, we call rods without reels "poles". They're included.) The folks who sport fish we'll call anglers or fishermen, agreeing, of course, that the term fisherman is not gender specific. Fisherperson is too long. The British use the term fishers.
There are more books about fishing than there are salmon in Alaska, going all the way back to the late 1500's. And they are not rare works in the libraries of a few scholars and enthusiasts. There are a great many of us, we anglers. And we read. We read a lot. Isaac Walton's The Compleat Angler is the third most printed book in the English language, behind only The Bible, and The Complete Works of Shakespeare.
There are scholarly tomes, written by graduate student English majors, on Walton and his contemporaries. There are classic books by the great outdoor writers, the likes of Earnest Hemingway. There are useful how-to books by guides and well-known tournament anglers. And, of course, there are those wonderful books and articles that use fishing as a vehicle for humor. And if you don't find some humor in this madness called fishing, you may wish to seek professional help.
But this book about fishing is different. For one thing, it begins with golf.
With the admission that I have never played golf, I will freely state that I love golf. I support and encourage golf. It is a thoroughly wonderful sport. It is played outdoors, on grass, among trees, ponds and streams, under the sky. It provides exercise. It fosters comradeship. Best of all, it keeps people off the water.
Golf is similar to fishing in many ways. Both began as pastimes for the upper classes. Ordinary folks, in the early days of the sport, were too busy trying to make a living to have time for golf. And, they did not have access to courses. And when it came to putting fish on the table, that was serious business, and they tended to use more efficient methods than rods or poles.
With advances in technology came advances in economic productivity, and there followed a general democratization of almost everything, including golf. Public courses appeared, and the game was no longer the sole province of the members of country clubs. The popularity of golf soared. Soon, the game was no longer just a recreational activity; it became competitive at a whole new level. The professional tournament player had arrived on the scene.
And so, to the casual observer, there appear to be three distinct groups of golfers. The first group: the tournament professionals. The second group: those with access to the best courses, the best equipment and the best guidance and instruction. The third group: those with limited time and budget, who play when and where they can, for the pure enjoyment of it.
Let's briefly examine the three groups.
For the first group, golf is a business, a deadly serious business. As for a professional in any sport, practice is endless. Like a racing team trying to get that last 0.5 mph out of its car, the tedious pursuit of elusive perfection is the tournament golfer's way of life. And life is nomadic: from tournament to tournament, from appearance to appearance, from clinic to clinic. And then, there's sponsorship to worry about, and public image, upon which sponsorship and endorsements depend.
For the second group, by contrast, the sport can be a glorious thing. With the resources, the connections and the access, they can play the world's finest courses, in the world's most beautiful and exotic locations. And they can do so on their own schedule. Unlike the first group, they do not absolutely, positively have to be at a particular course on a particular day. And if they happen to have a poor performance one day, the television cameras are not there to tell the world about it. That story is very likely contained within the four walls of the club bar. A little good-natured ribbing, maybe a lost bet, but no disaster.
For the third group, golf can be equally glorious, but in, perhaps, different ways. The public links, a few miles from home, may be a little threadbare, and the weather may be cold, or raining, but four friends, none of whom will ever break eighty, are laughing, hooting at one another's mistakes, and having the time of their lives. The chores at home and the problems at work are forgotten. And in the lounge, after the last putt has finally been sunk, they are planning their precious, once-a-year trip to a really top-notch golf resort.
Golf with Joe.
Who is Joe? Or is it Joan? Well, he's John Q. Public; she's Jane Doe, or any of the myriad of names given to ordinary, do-your-work, pay-your-bills, mind-your-business folks. She's a neurologist, or a waitress, or a housewife, or an attorney. He's a banker, or a farmer, or a welder, or a professor. Neither can devote much time to golf. Both have other bells to answer. Both have other financial demands. But both relish and treasure those precious hours on that grass, among those trees, under that sky.
Whether John or Jane, from here on, we'll call that famously anonymous, remarkably unremarkable person, Joe. You know who Joe is.........because he's probably you.
Now the trouble with arbitrarily defined groups is that they always have a lot of overlap. But no matter. The concept is what counts.
But what does all of that have to do with fishing? Everything. Fishing has exactly the same three distinct groups. And while the mainstream outdoor magazines, and the overwhelming majority of books on the subject of fishing, pour most of their ink over the first and second groups, this book is about the third group.
Fishing with Joe.
And that's why this book is different.
Here's what it's about. It's about a lifetime of fishing with Joe ......actually, a number of Joes. It's all first hand, written by the guys who were there, sometimes, written right on the spot. And even though there are several contributors, it is, at least in part, a sort of fishing autobiography. It spans seven decades. It includes all of the errors, fumbles and ignorance, all of the disasters and near-disasters, and therefore, all of the learnings. After all, everybody's parents told them, at one time or another, "Learn from the mistakes of others". That is good advice. Learning from the mistakes of others is cost effective and time saving.
These are not the stories of the privileged or the sponsored, the negatives carefully edited out, to evoke an "I wish I could do that" response. These are the stories of the ordinary, the negatives purposely unedited, which may well evoke a plan, rather than a wish, or a knowing, "Yeah, I did that, too".
So...... you're going fishing with Joe, with Joe's time constraints, and on Joe's budget. You'll meet some characters. You'll share adventures, some wonderful and some frightening. You'll be fishing in backyard creeks, in rivers, great and small, in the tannin stained waters of the northern tier states and of Canada, in the remarkable TVA system, in the fresh-water seas called The Great Lakes, in the North Pacific, and in the Atlantic. You'll be fishing in pristine wilderness, and in the shadows of skyscrapers. And Joe will take you on some once-a-years and some once-in-a-lifetimes, because that, too, is part of being Joe. You and Joe will fish in Alaskan glacial streams, over Bahaman reefs, in the Everglades, fresh and salt, on the surf-pounded Outer Banks, in the always surprising Gulf of Mexico, in steep Wyoming canyons, and even in the jungles of Malaysia.
The places are almost all beautiful, but sometimes the fishing won't be pretty. That's how fishing is. Otherwise, as someone once said, they'd call it catching.
Chapter Two
Getting Hooked The terrible, contagious, incurable Icthyosis
My father had it. My grandmother was a carrier. My uncles had it, too. One of them, Uncle Bud, was in the advanced stages. It isn't hereditary, but it is extremely contagious. One close contact and you were infected. Several more, and you became incurable. Most of the victims were infected the same way: by well-meaning relatives. Their lives were changed forever by Icthyosis: Fishing Fever.
My own case is textbook. Millions of Icthyosis victims could tell almost identical stories. I remember the day vividly. It was yesterday.
The depression was winding down. My father, by virtue of two jobs, one as a salesman and another running a poultry farm, was able to trade in his ancient Nash on a brand new, shiny, 1940 Dodge. I can still see it. It was maroon, and had a gleaming, chromium-plated ram proudly charging from the front of the hood. With a new car, there is but one thing to do: go somewhere. And my uncles, Pete and Bill, had the perfect destination.
We lived east of Cincinnati – hardly the fisherman's paradise. But Uncle Pete knew somebody who knew somebody who knew the watchman at a gravel pit. And that pit had filled from the underground water table. Whether by human agency, or by inadvertent stocking by herons and kingfishers, it had developed a population of native species: bluegills, smallmouth bass, and especially, channel catfish. A few phone calls, and the plan was set.
I could hear my father and uncles debating, but I pretended not to.
"Oh, come on, let's take him along. He's almost six".
"He's five", Dad said, "and he can't swim".
"I've got a life jacket. He can wear that".
"It's too big".
"Well, we'll strap it up good and tight".
In the end, Dad lost the debate. The ratty, old kapoc life jacket was like being clamped between two boards, but it got me included, although I wasn't sure in what. I was outfitted with a steel casting rod (it's still in the basement) and a raspy level wind reel, filled with braided black line. The line extended through a balsa float, about the size of a longneck beer bottle, to a hook snelled with what looked like today's trimmer cord. I also got a full thirty seconds of instruction.
Dad at once removed the hook, and replaced it with one having no barb. Instead, where the barb would have been, the hook was bent into an S-curve, intended, apparently, to at least slow down the escape of a hooked fish. I haven't seen one of those hooks in sixty years. That's testament to how well they worked.
On the way, we stopped for bait – not at a bait shop, but at a grocery store. My uncles bought shrimp, bread, lunchmeat and beer. We already had plenty of chicken liver. No thought was given to soft drinks. Cincinnati was a German heritage town. Of course the kids drank beer.... in those days.
The water in the gravel pit could not be seen until we walked to the edge of the steep bank. Dad insisted on carrying me down to the water's edge, where a narrow shelf of level ground extended twenty or thirty yards in each direction. He placed me up against the grade and strictly warned me to go no closer to the water. He looked at my uncles and shook his head.
The water was very clear, and green tinted. All I could think of were those jungle pools in the Tarzan movies, and half expected to see a hippo surface at any moment. Uncle Bill put a piece of shrimp on my hook, and cast the huge float about fifteen feet. Then, he baited his own hook with chicken liver, and sat down. We all sat down ... for what seemed a very long time.
I remember that the sun was behind the high bank, and the sandwiches long since eaten, when Uncle Pete's float twitched. "Hey! Pete!" somebody shouted. There was considerable scrambling, and by the time Pete had rod in hand, the float was gone. I had no idea what to expect. But when I saw that steel rod become U-shaped, I was mesmerized. On the other end of that line must be some horrible monster of the deep.
The "monster" dragged up onto the gravel bank was a channel catfish of, perhaps, two pounds. But it was silver gray above and creamy white on its belly and was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Here was this creature, invisible and silent, unattainable deep in that green water, and now in our hands. This was a miracle.
Now, I became very serious about this enterprise. I watched my float intently, but it remained still. Dad and the others caught two more, but I was being ignored. Finally, Uncle Bill reeled in my line, removed the undisturbed shrimp, and draped a huge glob of chicken liver on the so-called hook. He cast it very gently, so as not to dislodge the chicken liver, not more than eight or ten feet. I resumed my intense watch. But nothing happened.
The attention span of a five year old is short, and soon began to waver. I recall Dad reminding me several times to watch my float. The third or fourth time I turned back toward it, I had trouble finding it. "Dad, I can't see it".
"You got a bite. Reel in until you feel something, then jerk up on the rod".
My execution of those instructions missed on all counts. But when the line came taught – even though I had been reeling in the wrong direction – there was this surge. There was something alive, dynamic, strong out there. I was connected to some unseen force, some mysterious power. But not for long. The barbless hook performed its intended function and came easily free.
My father and uncles cheered as if I had scored the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. "But Dad", I whined, "he got away". Then Dad said something that I did not understand until later.... much later.
"That's OK. That's not what it's about".
The genie was out of the bottle. All I wanted to do was to go back to that green water. Something wonderful lived in it. Movies, amusement parks and the like had instantly become insignificant as destinations. My father wisely turned my incessant pleadings to constructive advantage. Going fishing became the ultimate reward for exceptionally good behavior.
It took several more outings, outings not nearly so well remembered, before I actually landed a fish. Strange. I don't remember that fish. But I'm sure that some radiologist, examining a scan of my brain, will be puzzled by the indelible, ghostly image of a magnificent two pound channel catfish.
Chapter Three
Learning the Hard Way Boots and Bikes
My fishing education was interrupted by a cataclysmic event: World War II. It is said that everyone remembers exactly where they were, and what they were doing, when events of global magnitude occur. It's true. I was flat on my stomach on the living room floor, looking at the pictures in the comic section of the Sunday paper. My father, as usual, was reading the rest of that paper, listening to a classical music program on the Crosley. I think it was The Longines Symphonette. (Everybody in Cincinnati called a radio a "Crosley" – no matter who made it – because broadcasting pioneer Powell Crosley built those well-respected receivers there. The catalog houses specializing in nostalgia items still offer replicas of Crosley radios.) Those too young to have been there have witnessed the scene many times, in old movies, and on The History Channel: "We interrupt this program to bring you the following message".
And, the scene is a time-honored classic. A family is gathered around their radio. The announcer introduces a newsman, who describes the attack on Pearl Harbor. The children look puzzled. The parents exchange worried glances. That is exactly what happened.
The children had no clue as to what this all meant, but I could sense that it was very serious, and not good. Soon, Uncle Bill, Uncle Bud and my Cousin, Al – everybody called him "Moe" – were in uniform. Uncle Pete was working 12 hour shifts, seven days a week, in a machine tool plant. My father took on yet another job, in a factory making defense electrical components. All of my fishing instructors were either absent or otherwise occupied.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Where the Gulls Areby Bob Burroughs Copyright © 2011 by Bob Burroughs. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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