A Fish Story

There are lots of reasons to like November. Hurricane season is just about over, and fall weather is in the air. The leaves around here (the ones that aren't pine needles, that is) are changing color and blowing in the wind. Santa's showing up at the malls. Clocks return to where God intended them to be, and, despite all the troubles which may be nibbling at our souls, it's Thanksgiving, the time our gratitude overflows.

Most of all, however, it's the prime time for surf fishing. You can fish in the ocean's surf any time of the year, of course, but November is the time for some serious fishing. As long as we were living at the beach, only a hop, skip and jump from the water, I fished there pretty regularly, often getting out before dawn and then out again in the evening until it was too dark and I was too tired. But then they ("the gov-mint") began the process of "renourshing" the beach every three or four years, thus changing the configuration of the ocean floor and wiping out most of the available food. Fishing went south, and even my fishing rods corroded and rusted away.

Until this year, when I got the urge to go try it again, which brings me to today, reminding me of all the reasons I enjoy surf fishing. It was just a beautiful November afternoon: a mild breeze coming in off the ocean, cool-ish (about 60, I would guess), hardly anyone on the beach, gentle surf (waves the surfers call "ankle slappers), absolutely perfect. I set up my folding chair, cut off a few pieces of salted mullet for bait, flipped the rig just beyond the waves, put the rod in a sand spike, opened a diet Pepsi, sat and enjoyed. Did I catch anything? Well, no. That would have been lagniappe. The day itself was a "keeper", and here comes the fish story.

In the midst of my reverie about the joys of surf fishing, something caught my eye. In the rolling waves off to my right there was a strange object floating on top of he water, coming in closer with each successive surge. I thought perhaps it was a jacket, or maybe a pile of clothes, so as the waves brought it closer to shore, I had to get up and go investigate.

Turned out to be a rope stringer, loaded with about eight or ten Spanish Mackerel only recently deceased. The stringer had obviously broken loose from any one of the half dozen or so small fishing boats that were off-shore, and was the now futile results of another fisherman's afternoon of trolling. Poor guy.

I can picture him getting back to his dock, or to the boat ramp. Ready to hoist his trophies out of the water, having already called home to announce dinner's new menu, he shouted to share his success with others. I can only imagine the sinking feeling that came on him when he went to pull the now vanished stringer out of the water. Gone. Empty. Nothing, except maybe the stub of a rope.

He tried to speculate, to explain, but it sounded like a classic Fish Story. By now, of course, there were 12 to 15 fish (the legal limit), all some of the biggest he'd ever seen. Maybe a shark had snared them. A big shark. Maybe the Spanish had struggled so hard they'd snapped the stringer rope. Possibilities boggle the mind.

Oh, but I know the true story. And if you're the bereft fisherman reading this and are still wondering what happened to that great catch a few days ago, don't worry. My lips are sealed, like confession to a priest. It's the fishermens' code, even surf fishermen.



P.S. We're going on the road for a while, so the Homeboy Report may not (then again, it may) appear on Friday mornings, because the Homeboy won't be home. Next week we'll be in Johnson City, TN, enjoying the holiday with son Jerry and his family, and the following week we'll be southwestern NC mountains, at the John C. Campbell Folk School, for a week of painting (Ann) and fiddling (me). A nice break, we hope, before coming home for December's festivities.