Monday, September 12, 2011

Fishing with Steve and Bob

One gets so awfully tired of reading *the same old combination of self-serving boastful crap, all wrapped up in a Yoda-like layer of vomit. So let's just clear something up: It's officially okay to talk about fishing. You know, not about numbers; just that mildly relevant metric that you caught fish, or not. No need to keep schtum; mum's the word; a nod's as good as a wink to a blind man.

I went fishing Saturday night with Steve and Bob. Good guys to fish with. They're happy to be sneaking away, no school next day, and consider discussion of food, tobacco, women, steelhead, and a rich dissection of fishing as much a part of the evening as playing tag with their egos. They're happy fellas and for the most part I think they go fishing for the same pleasure as me - to catch a damned fish. (As the great Bill Hicks once said, if this offends anyone, "go ahead and kill yourself. No joke. Do it now"**).

We fished a delightful beach in the Western-most part of RI&PP. We were trying to catch those fish in the wash, but we still had light and thus a pristine view of our flies swinging on up the beach after each heavy wave. As far as I know this wasn't putting us on what you'd call productive water, but we tried valiantly for 20 minutes or so. I kept my eye on Bob, on my left, and Steve, on the right, and they might have been peeking back to see who'd blink first and call a halt to the madness. You see, when the waves are that big you just cannae control your fly, but by jings it was nice trying. Steve worked a ball of mullet (only now do I realize how sexy this sounds), a spin guy landed a large blue, and my feet sank 6" after every wave, a feeling that I really like, though it's a mildly alcoholic sensation. Steve was knocked for 6*** by a wave and cackled. He did it again on the breachway too, when I thought he'd caught a fish but was just poking around trying to retrieve his fly. (A nicotine-starved aside: I wonder how often laughter is the last emotion before you're swept to your watery death?) The spray on those rocks was just the refreshing side of dangerous, and our minds wandered to thinking about what it'd be like to take a dip in Pulaski in 20 degree frozen rain. (Ans: More Death. But I can't wait to get up there. Trout fishing just hasn't been the same this year.)

Pounding wind and white water. Bob wears only a T shirt.

We went inside the breachway - no wind here - and saw shoals of medium-sized mullet that initially we took to be entire current seems there was so much of it. It was one of those atmospheric nights when it's lovely to be out under a near-full moon doing your stuff, three guys covering the water rather nicely, even if you long suspected that your chances of catching were never fair. And that's got to be okay, right? I mean, it'd take a special kind of loon to fish half a lifetime and still think the fish are always there. On the drive home we happily agreed that on this occasion they probably weren't, and that certain sexual acts are ill advised in the wake of a good chili.

Bottom's up! Here's to great company, and better fishing to come.


*Brayshaw's gone back to school, but he mentioned this earlier tonight.
***A "home run" in the game cricket. 


  1. The fish were there.

    I was not.


    the fish


  2. Steel follow Stripers
    Nickel plated
    flanks surging upstream
    They're both there
    But not for
    But that's not
    the point