Chapter 6: Fish Tails and Wool Jackets

It’s been requested of me that I tell a fish tail. I find it surprising that I
haven't told of these tales as of yet since the sport has been wrapping its 15
lb test around my spinnin reel for the better part of my life. You see,
it all began when I was all golden-brown curls and cherry-red cheeks sitting on
the end of a dock on a Buckhorn Lake in Canada sandwiched between my
four year old summer-blonde sister and my gracefully greying grandfather
(God bless his soul). With my turquoise pole, that was longer than I was
tall, my tiny fingers gripping the soft cork handle, I baited the hook with a
squiggling earthworm and plunked it into the boundless abyss. It wasn't
long before a tug, tug came along bending my little pole seemingly in half and with
an Indian war cry, I deftly lifted it out of the water at such a pace that
it near smacked my little sister in the face! I had caught me a Sunfish,
or was it a Perch? Either way it was a fine looking fish, damn near
all of 5 inches! My grandfathers giant hands put down his Pabst Blue
Ribbon Canadian beer and reached down to assist in the de-hooking
process, lest I wind up catching myself. The air was crispy-cool and he
wore a new red, white, & black checkered wool jacket with navy buttons that
were adorned with sailor anchors. My grandfather passed on his love of
fishing to me and my sister that day and since then we have done him proud by
hooking some rather large mouths. There was that one time when my sister
landed a silver bullet Tarpon off of a dock in the Indian River
Lagoon. (and they said it couldn't be done by a girl!) Or that
other time I reeled in a lunker redfish out of The Cut that gave me a
grapefruit-sized bruise on my hip, where the butt of the rod was braced
during the fierce fight. But my favoritist fishin' times were
when I would go off of St. George Island State Park's Goose Island (sorry Roy,
I gave away your honey hole). On a falling or rising tide, the conditions
were right if you could just see the tops of the submerged oyster bars.
Best times were right at sundown when the wind slacked off and a multitude of
pink shades reflected off of the glassy salty-sweet waters of Apalachicola Bay.
The sound of Oystercatchers clucking furiously as I so rudely rousted them from
their supper on the coon bars. Paddling my trusty orange-sherbert colored
kayak named the Fishtalker, said
either just that way because it could "talk to the fish" or
pronounced Fish Stalker because
it could sneak up on 'em like a tiger-striped alley cat. On winter days,
when the water was clear, I could sight the reds as their fins broke the
surface and waved in the air while they fed off of the bottom, as if they
were thumbing their noses at me saying "catch us if you can!" And
I could. And those 2'-3' fat daddies would haul me and my Fishtalker around in circles like a 4-ticket County
Fair ride for about 5-10 minutes while I laughed maniacally, hooted, and
hollered to no one in particular. When they finally got tuckered out from
hauling my fat ass around, I could easily rest that beautiful spotted tail in
my lap, gently remove the hook, and with a bronzed swish it was gone--too darn
pretty to eat. Paddling back to the ramp, with a full moon lighting my
path, its a little chilly and I button up my thread-worn red, white, &
black checkered wool jacket. The very same one my grandfather wore when I
was six on family fishing trips to Canada.
This place in Belize where
I'm currently stationed in the Peace Corps is called San Pedro, named
for the Patron Saint of Fishermen. Coincidence? I think not.