Call Me Ishmael -- or is it Ahab?

There will be more here about fishing, but, first a brief regression. Be patient.

Monday, for the first time in more than a year, I got out the Bilenky Tandem bicycle -- and 15-year-old daughter Anna.  We set out on a shakedown voyage, partly on streets, partly on paved bike trails – including a long tunnel -- starting and ending from the house.  A good day to ride, slightly overcast, slight breeze, mid-70s. there's something about a tandem that makes onlookers smile and wave - perhaps the old "Bicycle Built for Two" song, and especially this bike, with its traditional back rider – me, the captain – and the passenger in the front, recumbent.  In any event, we had lots of comments and smiles, and Anna looked a bit like a homecoming princess waving at her public.  

I'd forgotten both how good it can feel, and how well the bike performs.  Although I did learn one thing -- being such a lengthy bike, it has some problems with bumps- specifically, we went over a series of small "waves" in the asphalt trail, at moderate speed, and the thing bounced a lot, so much that we began wobbling, almost went off the trail, and nearly spilled.  But didn't, and Anna only complained a little – I don’t think she realized how close we came to going over.

The moment of decision soon arrived – whether to go home in fine fettle, or go further and tempt fate.  Fate won.  Not long after I was reminded of how quickly one's energy can drain if one is not in shape, and the risk not allowing for the return trip.  Which was demanding.  But we made it, and cruised down the home street in style.

We were both a bit rubberlegged when we dismounted -- testament to how far I have fallen, I guess, from my century-training days.  But now that the bike’s been dusted, the tires filled, and it all hauled upstairs (damn thing is heavy and awkward to carry), perhaps it will become a routine again.  I hope so.

Meanwhile, back to fishing, which I had done the previous Saturday, usual time and place, 5 a.m. at the flat spot amid the riprap, between two medium boulders.  Sunrise comes later each week, and the shadows stay darker longer, so it's good thewalk is becoming familiar.  Gray black clouds under a slate sky, no breeze; cool enough for a long-sleeve T and a thin felt vest. The only sound, other than the shuffle and crunch of my feet through the grass, was the gentle dinging of the buoys and the occasional soft slap of a small wave. No mermaids singing, at least to me.

I settled in, arranged the tackle box and bait on one flat surface, lay the two rods on another, and tucked the livenet away in a crevice by my feet, doing it all more by feel and recall than by sight.  I opened the tackle box and pull out first the small scissors, then the flashlight.   I released the line on "my" rod, carefully set it out on the surface, using the flashlight to lay the hook out.  I twisted open the worm bucket, and pulled out a nightcrawler, still contracted and tight from its refrigerated sleep.  I stretched the worm out --it began to stir to life -- then snipped off a small portion, and both parts squirmed.   I dropped the larger part back in the bucket, and slid the other part on the hook.  Not for the first time the old martial phrase "cold steel" came to mind, and not for the first time I was reminded of the moral imprecision of fishing.  But I soldiered on, and tossed the line into the steel-smooth water. I could barely make out the bobber at first, just enough to know nothing was happening.  Reeled in a few moments later, and recast, and watched.

Not much to do but sit.  As I did so, I wondered how what I was doing differed from yogic meditation.  Obviously, I wasn't cross-legged, and my eyes were open.  But I was pretty much free from outside distractions, just me, the slow brightening sky, the smell and sound of water.  I thought, I suppose, that is, thoughts and memories and reflections passed through my mind, but I was at ease, free to let things come and go. As much in the moment as I have ever been during my intermittent efforts at traditional meditation. 

Maybe, I decided, rather than pure sitting, my fishing was more like a cross between a tea ceremony and a long bicycle journey.   Fishing is its own a sort of art, observing and performing, adjustments, alterations, and technique.  In all cases, for those few hours the outside world is at bay -- the cell phone at home, no "real-world" distractions.

As the sun rose, the gulls began to stir; I saw the local muskrat paddling across the water, and the ducks appeared, nuzzling and mumbling among themselves.   As the sun rose things came into focus.  I've been to this spot often enough that its  indentations and irregularities have become familiar, a landscape in miniature, hills and valleys and peaks.  Signs of previous habitations by others  appear, a couple old beer bottles in a crevice, a rusty bottlecap, curled wisp of fishline.  I'm beginning to feel proprietary enough to maybe clean up a bit.  Maybe.  Sometime.  The most I did that day was to break off a couple weedy stems that tend to interfere with my casts or to snag the line as I work on it. 

I reeled in the line again, ostensibly to check the worm, more honestly simply for something to do. (Maybe I'm not all that good a yogic sitter after all).  The line jerked and pulled back and I ended up with a moderately-sized bluegill that had grabbed the bait just as it reached the surface.  I held him in one hand, and noticed the bright colors around his gills; a flash of memory and awareness flickered by – I saw the fish and the waves and the sunlight as beauty, and recalled the wonder of being young and outdoors on a fine summer day. 

The fish squirmed and drew my attention back to the present.  I noticed he had swallowed the hook, so I cut the line and carefully dropped him back into the water.  He flicked his tail and vanished.   I rebaited and recast.

A Bluegill in all his glory

On the theory, based on informal research, that fish bite best when the fisherman is preoccupied, I began setting up the other rod, placing on an egg-weight and treble hook, and a glob of stinkbait, which I cast out to where that big old catfish had hit the week before, the one that had broken the line.  When that rod was set, I went back to watching the bobber, which was drifting unnoticed and unbothered.

So the morning went, an occasional boat passing by, the mutual tips of the baseball caps, the growing conviction that the phase of perch and bass-fishing had passed for awhile.  I reeled in and refreshed the worm and recast, wondering how long to stretch this visit out.  

Suddenly a loud clack drew my attention back to the catfish rod, which bent double, then sprang back.  I grabbed it, but immediately sensed the futility  -- no weight whatsoever, the line had snapped again.    Damn.  This had been on Anna's reel, and I wondered if the line were too light, or too old, to hold.  At least it hadn't been my knot that had given, because the weights were gone, too.

So I decided to use my rod for the catfishing, but was reluctant to go through the whole process of removing the swivel to slide on the egg-weight; I opted to switch hooks, remove the bobber, and put on a series of small shot to give it enough weight.  I  recast,to the same spot, and used Anna's rod for the bobber fishing.  To little avail; as I cast and re-cast, I realized that to some extent I was fishing for my convenience instead of using the best technique --I was avoiding weedy or awkward areas because they caused me problems, instead of placing the bait where it might be the most effective; similarly, because I hadn’t  wanted to hassle with removing the swivel on the catfish line, I had minimized my chance of success -- there's a reason those egg-weights are used (to minimize resistance when the catfish is testing the bait).

Be that as it may, I decided it was too late in the morning to adjust the catfish line, which sat still and quiet.   Toward the end of my allotted time the bobber on Anna’s line began to gently disappear under the water, without a strong enough hit for me to set the hook. That engrossed me for a while, until I finally did catch the culprit -- a moderately sized perch, which had also swallowed the hook, so I once again cut the line. 

Eight o'clock was near, so didn't bother to rebait Anna’s line, and simply reeled in the catfish line -- and while doing so snagged the line that had been broken off before, and dragged it in, "hook line and sinker (and bait)"  Apparently the catfish that had hit and broken the line had spat back the bait.

He was taunting me.

I recalled an earlier fishing trip to the spot, on the other side of the channel, when a younger man -- though more and more are younger and younger these days -- had mentioned to me that "there's a real monster in here", describing a battle he had had that had finally ended up with a broken line for him.  At the time I had put his words down to simple fisherman talk, but it occurred to me on this August morning -- he  was likely describing the same fish.  My fish.

At that moment I found myself a new mission.  To catch this guy.  I resolved to plan and upgrade, and every week cast to that same spot.   He cannot treat me with such disdain and get away with it.  He is my Moby Dick, albeit not white and I hope not as dangerous.

My Moby Dick -- or is it Walter?

Call me Ishmael.  Or is it Ahab?