FISHIN’
By Bob Ellsberg
Most of my life I’ve been pretty helpless. I’ve been able to make a living with my ability to speak and write but have no real world skills. With barely enough coordination
and hand-eye skills to tie my shoes, and no mechanical talents, I
find myself asking buddies for all kinds of help
In an effort to pay them back, I’ve had a big boat for years and
love to get my old friends together for a bit of fishing. At first that
was no big deal, but over the years the old crew became more difficult to assemble. True enough, most are retired now and have
more time to play. But now I have to gather a boatful with an eye
toward that old manufacturing principle that Emile Durkheim and
Adam Smith defined, the “division of labor.” As we age, some of
us have shaky hands and can’t thread the bait; others lose the ability to raise the anchor, and some are too slow to swing the net!
This last weekend—our last chance to chase sturgeon—a day
of fishing was lost because we couldn’t line up a guy to pull up the
anchor. One of us was recovering from shoulder surgery; I had
back surgery a few months ago, and my buddy Bill was going under
the knife the next week. Jim, our only healthy back, had other
plans so we had to postpone the adventure.
Big Strike
Finally on Sunday we signed on all the necessary crew. I ran the
boat, Jim handled the anchor, Milford was doing the bait work, and
James brought some food! We actually got out and anchored at a
decent hour and before long were getting some action. We landed
a couple of little guys with no problem and were enjoying the flat
water and sunshine when Milford’s rod pulled down hard.
Stumbling back to the transom, Milford set the hook and held
on for dear life. It was a pretty good battle, a tough old man and a
lumpy, crusty gray slab. It was nip and tuck for about ten minutes,
and then Milford’s shoulder got wimpy. No longer able to hold the
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weight, he passed
the rod to James
with the admonition, “Don’t you
dare lose my fish!”
James was really
set up for failure
now. We were all
yelling instructions
to him. Milford was
pleading pitifully,
pointing out that at
his age this might
be his last chance at
a big fish! As the
fish slowly emerged
from the depths we
could see that this
was one we actually might be able to take home. Most seasons that
was no problem, but this was only the second keeper we’d had near
the boat and our season was ending.
The battle was determined, but finally the fish succumbed to
nearly a century and a half of angler experience! I slid the net
under the big diamond sides and we stretched out the tape. From
the inside of the tail to the tip of his prehistoric nose, he went a bit
over 46 inches, a nice fish by anyone’s standards.
Blurry evidence of Milford’s big fish is captured on a
camera phone.
Bob Ellsberg
Recording the Catch
Stringing the fish through the gills, James yelled at me to take
Milford’s picture. These days there is no excuse not to get photographic proof of any angling success. While bringing a camera to the
boat always portends bad luck, we all had cell phones that were more
than capable of recording the catch. These days if you see a creature
from Mars or catch a lunker fish, you have no excuse for not documenting the event. We all had cell phones stuffed in our pockets.
But remember, we were a bunch of old guys. Lots of cell phones
but nobody ever actually used the photo feature! Our grandkids
take and send them out hourly with their text messages, but we
didn’t have a clue.
Since I had done a little shooting with mine, I got elected. As
you can see from the picture that comes with the column, it wasn’t
the best of efforts. For one thing, someone should invent a cell
phone surface that doesn’t reflect blinding light. I couldn’t see a
thing till I got under the canopy. Even then I couldn’t get the whole
fish framed.
While the photo didn’t set the world on fire, it looked just as
clear as the one we saw at the dock where someone had tried to get
a shot of a 10-foot-plus monster. All you could see was a smiling
angler, the side of the boat, and a hole big enough to eat a basketball!
We split up Milford’s fillets and all vowed to practice with our
phones before the next trip. After all, we might run into a bunch of
aliens getting off their flying saucer and that shot would be worth
money! ;
Bob Ellsberg’s column, Fishin’, appears monthly in RV Life and at
rvlife.com.
