I lack the fishing gene. As did my father. And, his father before him. And, I believe his father as well. Beyond that, I don’t know. But, I do know that it has hampered my ability to surface any discernible interest in, or aptitude for fishing.
But that doesn’t mean that I haven’t had brushes with fish and fishing, over the years. Alright, I never came home from the fair with a goldfish in a baggie (I had a small turtle, which are not recommended for youngsters these days, because they easily transmit Salmonella), but, I’ve encountered fish during my lifetime. Have too! My (barely-detectable) adventures with fish, provided in chronological order (because reporting events, without the guidance of chronology is anarchy), include:
My first fishing excursion
The first fishing experience I can recall was when I was about ten or 11 years old, and attended a father-son weekend with my dad at a Boy Scout camp in Wisconsin, Camp Ma-Ka-Ja-Wan. We slept in tents, and engaged in a variety of outdoor activities, such as archery, hiking, and canoeing. One of the options available to us was to check-out a rowboat, and spend time in a small lake, fishing.
We rowed our boat out into the middle of this small lake, and equipped our fishing poles with worms, casting our lines into the water. After a short period of time, I felt a tug on my line, and, with my dad’s help, reeled it into the boat. It was apparently a sunfish, and was about this big (you’re not able to see me right now holding my hands roughly three inches apart, but, that’s right, the fish itself was barely-detectable). It was exhilarating hooking that fish, and, still basking in the glow of that first catch, we noticed that there appeared to be a bit of water seeping into the rowboat, from the bottom.
We immediately began furiously rowing our way toward shore, ending up fully underwater about fifty yards or so from shore. I don’t remember if I was able to emerge from the rowboat mishap with my first fish in tow or not; our focus was on survival during this nautical tragedy. I’m not suggesting that this event was on the scale of the Edmund Fitzgerald thing, but, the boat did sink. Upon reflection, it was a pretty small lake (with some pretty small fish), and we were never in real danger, but, needless to say, we did not return to that activity during the remainder of the weekend. To add insult to injury, the father-son duo with whom we traveled from the Chicago area had caught a serious fishing bug, and was spending all of their time fishing, displaying their bountiful catch just outside their tent, which was pitched a scant ten yards away from us.
So, yeah, I think it’s safe to say that I was scarred for life (from a fishing perspective, anyway).
Deep-Sea Fishing in the Gulf of Mexico
Shortly after that first fishing excursion, I traveled with my family to Mobile, Alabama, on vacation. One morning we had arranged a charter boat expedition into the Gulf of Mexico, and my dad and me and my two brothers were prepared to do battle with the big fish located there. My mom and my sister were not included in this outing, because it was the 1970’s and feminism had not yet changed the landscape regarding deep-sea fishing, apparently. Or, maybe they simply didn’t want to go.
My dad insisted that the four of us enjoy a hearty breakfast before we set sail, because we were going to be out there all day, and would need the energy boost. That last sentence was my attempt at deploying the literary device known as foreshadowing. As I’m sure you have by now inferred, within twelve minutes of shoving-off from the dock, all four of us were positioned at the side of the boat, vomiting our entire hearty breakfast into the waters below - sometimes father doesn’t know best.
We all got past the vomiting episode, and had an enjoyable day on the water. We managed to hook two fish, neither of them the huge marlins that you see mounted in bars and rumpus-rooms - one was a respectable size, worthy of a picture once we returned to dry land - the other one could likely have been used as bait.
Smelting in Chicago
If you’ve never experienced smelting in Chicago, you’re missing out. Smelt are these tiny fish that run in schools along Chicago’s Lake Michigan lakeshore for a couple of weeks every April. Fishermen place large nets in the water, late at night (the better to justify drinking, I’m convinced. What? These tiny fish don’t run during the day?), and after about ten minutes, they lift the nets out of the water, into which roughly twenty smelts have become ensnared. They remove the smelts from the net, placing them into buckets or large tin cans, and repeat the net placement process, in order to secure more smelts. True smelters come to the pier equipped with portable grills, and breading materials, with which they fry some of the smelts for immediate consumption.
Smelting in other cities means very different things - Wikipedia indicates that “smelting is a process of applying heat to ore, to extract a base metal.” That sounds a whole lot more dangerous than Chicago’s version, and, likely includes a lot less drinking. Plus, it doesn’t sound as if there is pier-side dining involved. No, give me Chicago’s smelting experience any day of the week.
Now, I only participated in this smelting experience once, in high school. . .and I didn’t inhale.
The Personal Growth of “Vinny the Fish”
Even though I was deprived of the experience, as a child, of arriving home from the fair with a goldfish in a baggie, I was not going to deny my children that joyful experience - thus began the “Vinny the Fish” era in our household. In line with my belief that everyone should have a “Mafia Name,” in addition to their given name, the naming of Vinny the Fish was a tremendous time-saver, in that it checked both boxes (no, I am not sharing with you my “Mafia Name”).
Not convinced that Vinny the Fish was absorbing the necessary nutrition required by a growing goldfish from the few flakes of goldfish food we provided him each day, my oldest son decided one day to supplement his diet with a snack. . .of Nilla Wafers. . .about twenty of them. The thing about Nilla Wafers is that they are quite absorbent, and served to suck-up all of the water in Vinny the Fish’s bowl. Discovering his plight, I sighed, and resolved to retrieve Vinny the Fish, and flush him down the toilet. I don’t remember, but this may have been Vinny the Fish II, or even Vinny the Fish III, at this point - you know how fragile goldfish lives can be.
But, in the interest of exhausting all possibilities, I first refreshed Vinny the Fish’s bowl with fresh water, and placed him back in there. The apocryphal story that lingered for years in our household was that I performed CPR on Vinny the Fish, and brought him back to life. Again, my memory fails me here, but I simply do not recall performing mouth-to-gill resuscitation, or any other such life-saving techniques for poor Vinny the Fish. Regardless, Vinny the Fish survived! And, thrived.
After a couple of years, we were relocating to a new city, and, given the logistical challenges of transporting a goldfish in this process, we made the tough decision that Vinny the Fish would not be accompanying us on the journey (several of the children barely made the cut). Thankfully, my dear mother-in-law, Pam, volunteered to welcome Vinny the Fish into her household - she had a habit of taking in strays. And, we had visitation rights, every time we visited Chicago.
Pam housed Vinny the Fish on her kitchen counter for years - this goldfish had longevity like nobody’s business - perhaps his spirit was fueled by the Nilla Wafers incident. And, as Vinny the Fish grew bigger, Pam secured larger bowls to accommodate him. One of my favorite Dr. Seuss books was Fish out of Water, a story about a goldfish that kept growing. . .and growing. A key element that Dr. Seuss omitted from his story about ever-growing goldfish is that they become really unsightly-looking. Vinny the Fish had entirely shed his gold color within a few years, as he grew, taking on this ugly gray-brown hue; he also developed what appeared to be a tumor, growing a large bump on his back (I don’t know, do goldfish have backs?), and seemed to put out a distasteful odor. The worst part was that Pam kept Vinny the Fish on the kitchen-counter - you know that’s where food preparation happens, right? Gross!
Eventually, Vinny the Fish expired, and Pam’s kitchen-counter was available for use once again, without having to shield your eyes, and hold your nose.
Extending the Fishing Tradition to the Next Generation
One summer, while staying at a family cottage in southeast Michigan, on a small lake, I felt compelled to engage the kids in a fishing expedition. We took a boat out onto the water, secured worms on the hooks, and cast our fishing-lines into the water. For a few hours. Nothing - not so much as a nibble.
Upon hearing our tale of fishing woe, my father-in-law offered the suggestion to secure the fishing-poles to a spot on shore, and allow the lines to dangle in the water overnight. The next morning, as we checked our lines, we received a solid lesson in food chain dynamics. The worm had been swallowed-up by a fairly small bass, which had in turn been gobbled-up by a larger fish. All three life-forms were floating in the water, secured by a single hook. Right then and there, my kids became hooked on fishing (yes, I know - that’s a horrifying analogy) - I’m just kidding - as far as I know, none of the kids has taken even the slightest interest in fishing of any sort. So, the hereditary legacy of a fishing-free life has been successfully passed along tot he next generation.
The Importance of Fish in My Life
In spite of my checkered history with fish and fishing, I do enjoy a nice fish dinner on occasion. Take the trout provided at Off the Hook, in Wexford, PA, as an example - truly delicious! (no, they’re not a Rule of Three sponsor, but they should be).
I hope you’ve enjoyed my fish stories - every single one of them true. If there are any that “got away,” that’s due entirely to my faltering memory. Join me next week as I recount my hunting experiences, which consist entirely of hunting the elusive tin pie-plate with a BB-gun at Camp Tosebo in the early 1970’s.
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Bill thank you for this. The plural of deer is deer and the plural of fish is fish. Until reading this I would have said the plural of smelt was smelt. I ma certain I will never use this new fond knowledge , thanks again.
MJP