“When I lift this big cooler up, Gilbert, you slide the smaller cooler underneath.” Before he did that, he said, “Johnny, go dump the gut buckets.” Johnny ran both gut-buckets to the new pit and came back in a flash.
Mr. Sullivan opened the lid to the big cooler and we were back in business scraping scales and gutting fish. The cleaning tempo resumed with a smoother rhythm. With the second cooler, I was able to keep up with Mr. Sullivan cleaning fish. Either I was getting better or it was good to be young. The second cooler, even though it was larger, emptied in about the same amount of time as the first, smaller cooler. A couple of gut-bucket runs by Gilbert and Johnny and the fish cleaning was over. Amazingly, all the fish that took up two coolers of space fit in a single, large cooler after being cleaned. We couldn’t close the lid, but they fit without falling out.
When we saw the bottom of the big cooler, we thought the work was over. We were wrong.
“Gilbert, rinse out the big fish cooler and wipe it down. Johnny, rinse off the table when Gilbert is done with the hose. Brian, go dump the rest of the guts and cover them up. And be sure and clean the buckets when you’re through.” Mr. Sullivan kept us all hopping. In ten minutes, we boys had finished our jobs. Mr. Sullivan took the two empty coolers and gave them each a quick rinse with the hose. He then sat the coolers, with closed lids, on the picnic table bench seat, on the opposite side of the table where he was working. The cooler with the cleaned fish, he carefully dumped on the table then rinsed that cooler out well afterwards and set it with the other two coolers on the bench seat.
“Boys, fish around, and pick out the chunks of ice and bring them to me,” Mr. Sullivan said. Back in the slime we went, getting a few pokes from the fish fins as we hunted. When we found a chunk of ice, we brought it to him. We’d hold it in our hands while he rinsed it off, and then put it in a bucket. The big blocks of ice were now small chunks, but I was still impressed at how long block ice lasted. Crushed bag ice would have long ago melted away, but Mr. Sullivan’s milk carton, ice idea was smart.
After sorting out the ice, Mr. Sullivan turned the hose on the pile of fish. The firm spray had slime, blood, and left over scales pouring off the ends of the picnic table. Twice he stopped and had us stir the pile of fish around. By the end of the third rinse, the fish were very clean.
He gave the closed coolers a quick rinse then said, “Gilbert, go flip the cooler lids open.” Mr. Sullivan had arranged the coolers so the cooler lids opened out away from the table. “Ya’ll boys come over here now,” said Mr. Sullivan.
“Johnny, the cooler on the far end is yours. Brian, your cooler is in the middle and, Gilbert, ours is on this end,” he directed. “When I toss a fish in my cooler, ya’ll toss a fish in your coolers, OK?” said Mr. Sullivan.
“Cool, a fish toss,” Johnny said. Mr. Sullivan grabbed a fish and flipped it in his cooler. We all did the same with our coolers. We got in a rhythm and the fish were flying. It was disappointing when we got down to the last two fish. Mr. Sullivan told Johnny and me we could have them. He and I picked up a fish apiece and tossed them in Mr. Sullivan’s and Gilbert’s cooler as a thank you. Mr. Sullivan divided the ice in the bucket between Johnny’s cooler and mine. Gilbert toted their cooler of fish into the house for the bagging process. Johnny and I put our coolers in the back of the LTD, while Mr. Sullivan rinsed the table and area around the table. We washed up with the hose as best we could. Fish smell takes soap, water, scrubbing, and time to get rid of.
Johnny and I said goodbye to Mrs. Sullivan and Gilbert before loading up in the car and taking the short ride to our houses. It had just turned dark when Mr. Sullivan pulled into my driveway. My dad came out and met us at the car. The men talked a bit as I carried the cooler in the garage with Johnny’s help. Mom was going to bag up the fish and put them in the garage freezer. I came back out and thanked Mr. Sullivan for taking me fishing. I told Johnny I’d see him around. Going back in the house, I felt tired. For the first time, I realized there could be a lot of work involved in the fun of fishing.
Chapter 6 - Speckled Pink
I was excited. I was more than excited. Fully adjusted to the darkness in my room, my eyes watched the old digital alarm clock flop over number 12:57 a.m. I’ve got to go to sleep. Are my two fishing rods ready? They had fresh line, fresh grease, the drag was smooth, and they were fully rigged the way Dad taught me to do it. Do I feel sleepy? No, I could go run laps at the moment. What about my tackle? Hooks, sinkers, bobbers, jigs, Rapalas, Jelly Worms, Bullet Weights®, Snagless Sallys®, Hula Poppers (big and small), finger nail clippers to cut the fishing line, knife, swivels, extra fishing line, leader line, and…. Did I remember the plastic worm hooks? Yes, they are next to the Bullet Weights®. Let me go through the list again just to make sure. I’m not tired, but I’ve got to get to sleep. Mentally I went back to the tackle list another time, and again, and again.
The buzz of the alarm clock at 5:30 a.m. was shocking. The tackle list worked like counting sheep for me. I crawled out of that warm bed and put on the jeans, T-shirt, and an over shirt that I had laid out the evening before. The first stop was the bathroom to take care of urgent business and wash my face. In the kitchen, Dad was over the stove scrambling eggs in the bacon grease. He is such a morning person.
“So, today is your big day to go fishing with Mr. Poe in his nice bass boat?”
“Yes, sir,” I said in a yawn.
“You don’t seem too excited about it, Champ. Go ahead and drink your orange juice. Mom packed you a lunch last night before she went to bed.” Mom isn’t a morning person and I’m just like her. The best time of day is in the morning, but I just wished they started a bit later.
At 5:55 a.m., I was leaning against the door jam, looking out the screen door, keeping an eye on my two fishing poles and tackle box that I set by the maple tree in the front yard. I had my jacket and my ball cap from last year’s Little League team on. Well worn, the hat had both sides of the bill bent down to look cool. It had a distinctive odor of boys’ play juices rung around the sweatband. I was poised in the door, anxiously waiting the day in a sleepy state of go.
Six o’clock sharp, Mr. Poe coasted to a stop at the edge of the yard. It looked like an eighteen-wheeler out front, with the amber running lights adorning the top of the truck cab, down the running boards and continuing along the trailer, ending in two big red brake lights mounted a good foot higher than the gunnels of the boat. The lights reflecting off the freshly waxed truck and shiny aluminum sixteen-foot bass boat, made the rig look much larger in the darkness than during the day.
“He’s here!” I announced to Dad. I ran outside with my lunch bag in one hand and grabbed my two poles and tackle box with my other hand. I sat my bag lunch on the bow of the boat, while I stepped up on the trailer tongue to put the fishing poles and tackle box in the bed of Mr. Poe’s truck. Dad had followed me out. He shook hands with Mr. Poe.
“Champ, come here,” Dad said, and then started chatting with Mr. Poe. They talked a few minutes about fishing, weather, and tomato plants. I was standing beside Dad when he bent over, gave me a hug, and said, “I love you.” I was at the age when you get somewhat embarrassed about being hugged and so forth by your parents. I was an outdoorsman, and true outdoorsmen don’t get hugs from their dads before going to conquer the outdoors. When I ran around the front of the truck to get in the cab, I was happy Dad sent me off with a hug, but next time we might have to do the hugging part in the house.
Billy, Mr. Poe’s son, slid over next to his dad to give me some room on the bench seat.
“Hey, Billy.”
“Hey, Brian,” we exchanged, when I got in the truck. We ran together so much we didn’t have to catch