fish and tell

I like talking with other fishermen. Some of them, anyway.
What I've found is that most fishermen around here don't fish and tell. Well, they tell you what kind of fish they caught, but when you ask them where they caught them, they'll pinch their mouth with their finger and say, "Right about here," simulating the hook in the mouth of the fish they just caught.
Fishermen can be really secretive to the point where you barely believe them. Then they show you the photo, or, worse, the fish.
Me, I like to share. And for a second, it pains me to reveal the fishing hole from which I plucked a very fine trout or redfish. Then I get over it. Quickly, too.
Why? Simple. Because anyone who thinks there is just one place on earth meant for him or her to fish, that one place where he or she just fits, connects, aligns, well, that's a pretty boring world, even if it is just a fishing hole.
I think what it comes down to is this: If I get out to a favorite spot and it's elbow to elbow, I've been sedentary too long. Just like in the workaday world, you snooze, you lose. If you do the same thing over and over, you're really not growing.
That may sound like psycho-babble, but I don't think it is. Fact is, someone took pity on me as I stood on the bank of a river void of life a few weeks back and told me of a place where the trout were hitting.
The following week, I caught a 16-inch spotted sea trout on a fly rod, and I was happy.
So I paid it forward, so to speak, and when a fishing buddy I only know from the Internet told me his family had a place on a nearby island, I let him know where that fish was taken and how to get to it.
I don't expect that he'll reciprocate — that's the whole point of karma, or at least giving selflessly, right? But if he does, well, I'd listen. Which got me to thinking. Each Saturday when I cruise out to that said fishing spot, I cross over another that's at least 10 miles closer to home and think, "Well, there are bound to be trout in there."
In fact, I know damn well that there are — I've seen them myself. I was kayaking with a buddy last summer and the trout were tailing in less than a foot of water. Our hulls were starting to get hung up, and when we looked ahead, we saw the fish going nuts on a school of shrimp that were flitting by, even landing in our kayaks.
A former boss of mine also told me he used to strike the motherlode on that very creek. So why haven't I fished there? You got it: I was too comfortable in the old spots. Maybe I'll get the kayak out next weekend...

So, last weekend, I brought my father-in-law, Tom, out to a place I hadn't fished yet, but was told there was some action. We went right at dead low tide — couldn't have timed it better — marched through a half-mile of plough mud, spartina and oysters, and we reached the bank.
The wind was blowing solid at about 20 knots, and out flies were being spat back in our faces. At one point, Tom hooked himself. Me, I lost two to brittle wind knots. And one was my favorite shrimp pattern.
Needless to say, we got skunked. Worse, we were sore as could be. Tom did almost hook a curious snapping turtle, but we're both glad that didn't happen. Not sure how we would have unhooked that without losing a digit or two.
After an hour and a half, we gave up, and went back to the fishing hole that I did all right in the week before.
The wind was still too big a factor, and after hiking nearly a mile, we were ready to pack it in. (Note: This story doesn't have a happy fish-catching ending, so if you want to skip to the next blog, I wouldn't blame you. There is, what I imagine, some intrinsic value coming up, but I wouldn't count on a life-changing experience.) The morning's coffee was cold. Tom drank his; I nearly gagged on mine.
We studied the landscape on the half-hour ride back to the house — the spartina was that early spring kelly green, the blue sky reflected in the water and the sun danced playfully on the wet plough mud, looking like billions of diamonds glistening. The windows were down, it was 80 degrees by 10:30 a.m.
And as we crossed the Chowan Creek, I said barely loud enough, "There's supposed to be some good fish in there, too."
Tom glanced off to his right and remarked that we could stop the truck and walk just a few yards down the bank and probably do all right.
Why push it, I thought. Maybe next weekend.