Thanks again, Dad. Today is my forty-seventh birthday and the thrill of fishing has lasted, getting better with each new trip. The memory of that first Push-Button and my dad’s fishing lessons will be a treasure in my mind, always.
Chapter 2 - Isthmus?
“Champ, you ready to go fishing?” Dad was shaking me awake. It was still dark outside. Six o’clock came early. Mom and Dad put me to bed on time, but he didn’t know I flounced there until after two o’clock, thinking about going fishing. My head just wouldn’t turn off. In the morning, my head was still half-asleep, but I didn’t complain.
Mom had laid out some fishing clothes for me the night before. I slipped into my most worn out pair of shorts, pulled that ratty T-shirt over my head, stuck my feet in blue-ringed athletic socks, then worked my feet into the old funky Chuck Taylor’s that needed a retread about 3,000 miles ago. I took a moment to fold the socks down below my calves. I always felt goofy with socks riding up to my knees.
I stumbled to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, looked in the mirror, and just put a ball cap over my uncombed hair. The rest of the bathroom business I hustled through.
“I made you an egg sandwich, Champ. It’s in the car with a cup of OJ,” Dad told me as I came in the kitchen.
“What about the fishing gear?” It was missing from the living room where we put it by the front door. Last night I helped Dad rig the poles. Well, actually, I went through every gizmo in his tackle box, asking the what, how, and when, with each trinket.
“I loaded everything before I got you up,” Dad said.
In the front seat of the car, my head fit just underneath the half dozen, rod tips jutting over the backrest. I ate the egg sandwich and drank the OJ en route.
“What do you think we’ll catch today?”
“Well, I’d like to bring home a mess of catfish, but we might tangle with a bream or big carp along the way.” He went on talking, but my eyelids fell down shortly after I downed breakfast.
I woke when Dad opened the car door. Right in front of the windshield was a big lake. I quickly hopped out and looked all around. Day was breaking. Four of the brightest stars still dotted the sky, slowly washing away as the sun rose. Wisps of pink, cotton candy clouds strung along the skyline, with streams of bright sunshine vaulting upwards from the east, silhouetting the trees while bathing their tops in brilliance along the western shore. I was caught up in the wonder. It was like God coming. A light onshore wind brought the odor of the lake to me, smelling good and natural. I could smell the sweet hint of a plant in bloom. It was the beginning of a perfect, early summer day.
“Want to give me a hand with this?” Dad popped off and brought me back to reality. He had already laid out six fishing poles against the front of the car. He pulled his tackle box, worm bucket, knapsack with our lunches, and a five-gallon bucket half-filled with stuff out of the trunk, putting it all on the ground behind the car. He placed the worm bucket inside the five-gallon bucket, and slung the knapsack over one shoulder.
“Champ, will you grab the tackle box and a couple of those fishing poles?” He picked up the bucket full of stuff and met me at the front of the car where the rods were.
“Why do we have so many fishing rods, Dad?”
“I’m going to show you when we get to the fishing spot.”
“Which way is the spot?” He started down a dirt path through some scrubby bushes, me following behind.
“Put the fishing poles over your shoulder, son, so the tips won’t get hung up and break off in the bushes.” I’m glad he said that because I was coming close to catching the tips in the bushes, while looking at everything, not paying attention. I thought he must have eyes in the back of his head. We hiked a quarter mile. From what I could see, the path went down the middle of a spit of land that separated the main lake from a small bay to my right. The path dead-ended on a point. At the point, there was a thin cut of flowing water connecting the main lake to the small bay behind. On the far side of the bay, a canal came in. Looking up the canal from the point, it meandered and then turned out of sight. A sloping, sandy beach went all around the point.
Dad sat the bucket down, slid the knapsack off his shoulder, and spread the poles out so they leaned individually against some bushes. I sat the tackle box down and handed him the rods I carried. He leaned them against a bush as well.
“Champ, do you know what an isthmus is?”
“Sure, this mus be the place we’re going to fish.” Dad broke into laughter until his eyes watered. He stumbled over to blank-faced me, squatted down, put his arms around me, drew me close and rolled back in the grass still laughing.
“I love you, son.” We sat up on the grass together enjoying the moment. “Great answer, but let me tell you what an isthmus is.” He spelled it out for me, then took a stick and drew a map on the ground, starting with where we were.
“This is the point of land we’re sitting on,” pointing to the map with the stick. “A narrow neck of land that connects two larger pieces of land is called an isthmus. This really isn’t an isthmus now, but it once was before the water eroded this channel on the end. I still call it an isthmus because I remember when.”
Dad jumped up, saying, “Let’s get ready to fish.” He took his pocketknife out and cut a pencil-sized limb from a weeping willow tree. He whittled it until all that remained was an eighteen-inch stick with two trimmed branches forming a Y on the thin ends. He whittled six of those sticks. At the waterline, he shoved three of the sticks in the sand, fat end down, facing the main lake. One stick faced the left side of the channel toward the main lake at the end of the point. He stuck one at the end of the point directly at the cut. He angled one stick toward the bayside of the point on the right. The sticks were evenly spaced about fifteen to twenty feet apart.
Dad called to me, “Help get the fishing poles.” There were five medium, light spinning rod outfits and my push-button Zebco® Dad gave me a year or so ago. I grabbed two poles, Dad got the rest, and we walked back to the shore. Working left to right, Dad put the butt of the fishing rod in the sand and leaned the pole against the stick, so that the pole rested in the crotch of the little branches.
“Champ, notice that you lean the poles so the reel doesn’t touch the ground,” Dad said. He continued along, setting a pole in each of the sticks. He placed my push-button on the left side toward the main lake on the point.
We went back and brought the big bucket of stuff, knapsack, and tackle box, down to the shore. Dad had us set up midway between the two end poles; we could see each fishing pole from that vantage point. He pulled the worm bucket out of the big bucket and flipped it upside down. Then he took out a can of corn and a can opener and cut the lid off, putting the lid in the big bucket. We walked down to the left fishing pole, the one farthest away.
“Hold out your hands, Champ.” As I did, he dumped some corn in my cupped hands; the juice ran through my fingers. He shook some corn into his right hand and tossed it as far as he could into the lake.
“Toss a little here and there, son, as we walk the bank.” Dad, with his right hand, and me with my left, tossed corn in the lake all the way to the last fishing pole.
“Fish-call, Dad?”
“You bet, Champ; it costs pennies, takes but a moment to do, won’t ever hurt and may just lure in the catch of a lifetime!” Dad said excitedly.
We returned to base camp. Dad tossed the empty corn can into the five-gallon bucket. Going back to the lake, we squatted at the water’s edge and washed our hands.
Dad pulled out a plastic bag full of hotdogs, pre-cut into thirds. He picked out one section, closed the bag, and walked down to the last fishing pole on the left as I followed behind him.