Reeling In Time with Fish Tales. Brian E. Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ before he walked back down the pier. When he got to where he wanted to fish, he emptied the stuff from the bucket on a bench. Using the bait from the rag, and the empty bucket as a makeshift cooler, he wasn’t waiting on us to get started fishing. The bucket was half-full of fish when we got to him. He lifted the fish cooler from the pier cart after we untangled it from our web of line. As he lifted the small cooler, he asked where we got the cart. We told him the story. He coiled the line neatly, putting it in the bottom of the cart.

      “Be sure and tell the man thank you,” he said, as Johnny drove the cart back up the pier solo. Gilbert flipped the fish cooler lid open at his dad’s request, and his dad sloshed the fish from the bucket on top of the fish in the cooler. The cooler was just about full to the brim.

      Gilbert and I started fishing with Mr. Sullivan. The action was as fast as it was in the beginning at the end of the pier; all three of us tossing in singles and doubles as quickly as we could get bait to the bottom. In a matter of minutes, the big cooler was full of fish and ice. The lid would just close tight.

      “What are we going to do now, Mr. Sullivan?” I asked.

      “Open the lid on the small cooler and take the food and bait out.” Gilbert threw the Styrofoam cups in a trashcan and I set the bait on the bench next to his dad. When Johnny returned, all four of us ganged up on the croaker. The steady thud of fish landing in the cooler was like a slow, heavy rain on a tin roof. It was a quick thirty to forty minutes before the cooler was as full of fish as it could get. It ended when Mr. Sullivan told us to stop fishing. All three of us had to throw the fish we had on the line at the time back in the ocean. Mr. Sullivan had to throw some of the fish on top back in order to squeeze the lid shut. It was fun tossing fish off the pier. I wondered what the fish were thinking as they sailed through the air before belly-flopping home. They were the lucky ones with a thrill ride.

      Mr. Sullivan walked over to some folks fishing nearby and gave them our leftover bait. When he returned, we were washing the form fitted slime gloves from our hands with a water hose.

      “Why did the fish at the end of the pier stop eating and the fish near the beach start eating, Mr. Sullivan? And, how did you know?” I asked.

      “Brian, fish at the end of the pier never stopped feeding. You see, the school of fish at the end of the pier was the same school of fish at the beach; they just moved closer in with the incoming tide. We moved along the pier to follow the fish in the tide.”

      I stood there with my mouth agape, like the man at the pier house, thinking about what he just said. The only thing I knew about tide was it only worked in saltwater, and it would come in during the day and leave during the day then repeat at night. Where it came from or where it went was a mystery to me, and I sure didn’t know it could carry fish. It was a good thing to know. That was when I learned fish move with the tide.

      “Take your sinkers off your rigs, boys.” While we were busy doing that, Mr. Sullivan came along to each of us and cut the leadered hooks off our rigs with his knife.

      “You don’t save the hooks?” I asked.

      “Brian, I’ve tried, but they end up rusted out by the time I use them again. Besides, they tangle up in everything if you leave them on. It is not worth the hassle.” He showed us how to hook the snap swivel to the reel after cleaning the rig off.

      “Ya’ll stay here till I come back; don’t goof off,” he told us, as he picked up the fishing poles and five-gallon bucket and walked down the pier.

      When he was out of earshot, Johnny blurted, “Those coolers are heavier now than when we carried them on the pier! How are we going to get them to the car?” He was right! I was eyeballing around for a kind looking person who happened to have a pier cart or anything with wheels, but there was nothing within sight.

      “What are we going to do, Gilbert?”

      “I don’t know,” he said. “I thought you and your dad came fishing here before?”

      “We have, but we only bring a small cooler.”

      “Do you think we should go ask that guy to borrow his pier cart again?”

      “Johnny, what are you doing?” Gilbert and I asked in unison.

      “Cooling off.” Johnny was hosing down with the sink hose. It was a great idea, considering we were thirsty, out of tea, boiling hot, and faced with what seemed to be an overwhelming task. Gilbert went to the hose on the other side of the sink and started doing the same thing. Then they started hosing me down. I fell to the pier as if I was being shot, and they soaked me down. Boy, it felt good, especially with the sea breeze. That had to escalate into a water fight; and it did.

      Occasionally, someone nearby would be hit with a stream of water, but nobody minded. It felt that good. Of course, when Mr. Sullivan sneaked up on us, on an open pier, in broad daylight, and caught us in the midst of goofing off, nobody came forward and told him it felt good.

      “What are ya’ll doing!” barked Mr. Sullivan. The hoses went silent. We three boys stood board straight in silence. Everybody around us was silent, waiting and watching to see what was going to happen next. Even the gulls stopped screeching. The world stopped. The only sound was that of running water still flowing from our short pants, splattering on the pier. I’m not quite sure it was all just water either.

      “I can’t believe I can’t leave ya’ll alone for ten minutes without some antics! You’re going to get in my car sopping wet!”

      “Dad, we were just cooling off.”

      “Gilbert!”

      I noticed Mr. Sullivan had rolled a hand truck with him and then I loved that man who was yelling at us. Mr. Sullivan put the large cooler on the bottom, and then put the small cooler on top.

      “You wet rats ready?”

      “Yes, sir,” said in synchronicity. Mr. Sullivan eased the hand truck back and started rolling it down the pier. We quietly followed behind, puppy fashion.

      Gilbert whispered to Johnny, “It’s all your fault!”

      “Yeah, but don’t it feel good?” He was right, it still felt good.

      At the pier house, Mr. Sullivan stopped, gave Gilbert a couple of bucks, and told him to go buy four Cokes. Johnny went with him as I rolled on with Mr. Sullivan. The car was parked at the entrance with the trunk popped open. He set the small cooler in the trunk and then he heaved the large cooler in the trunk. He sure was a strong man!

      Gilbert and Johnny came scrambling down with the drinks. Mr. Sullivan shut the trunk, told Gilbert to roll the hand truck back to the pier house, and slid behind the steering wheel. Gilbert ran back in a couple of minutes and we boys hopped in. We sat still, with shut mouths and the windows rolled down, anticipating the air conditioning. Mr. Sullivan pulled away and asked us if we enjoyed fishing from the pier. That broke the ice.

      We started briefly talking about feeling the fish bite, then exaggerating a guess of how many fish each of us caught. A belch here and there from the Cokes was the only thing that interrupted the chatter. The ride over to the Sullivan’s went by so quickly. It seemed like minutes before Mr. Sullivan was backing the LTD through a gate on the side of his house to a picnic table in the back yard. I thought about how many fish we caught from another perspective, then. The fun was over and work about to begin.

      Mr. Sullivan popped the trunk, set the coolers СКАЧАТЬ