Reeling In Time with Fish Tales. Brian E. Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ get two fish scalers and two sharp knives from the kitchen.

      He told Johnny to carry the water hose over to the table, “and this time, manage not to get wet,” he said in jest.

      He told me to get two five-gallon buckets from beside the house and a shovel from the garage. I brought the buckets to the table, and he pointed out the garden in the corner of the backyard. I knew what to do, but not exactly how big a hole I should dig. Mrs. Sullivan brought out four big glasses of iced tea with Gilbert. She said she’d hug us later and went back in the house. By the time I had dug a good-sized hole in the ground, Mr. Sullivan had organized a Henry Ford de-assembly line at the picnic table. A custom fit, well-used, sheet of plywood lay atop the picnic table with a clean open cooler, the size of the large cooler we brought on the pier, on top of that at the far end. The small cooler set atop the large cooler at the other end, on the ground. It was open, ready for business to begin. Two metal fish scalers were placed on the table across from one another, close to the cooler of fish. Two knives sat next to the open, clean cooler across from one another. Between the scalers and knives, draped the water hose. One five-gallon bucket sat on the picnic bench seat just forward of the clean cooler on the table. The other five-gallon bucket was the same way but on the opposite side of the table. The only things missing were the line workers.

      Before production began, Mr. Sullivan told Johnny and me that Mrs. Sullivan had called our parents and told them we’d be home after we finished cleaning the fish. I thought, this is going to take forever, plus some. Johnny and I ain’t getting home for quite a while. Mr. Sullivan may have adopted us into a fish labor camp!

      “Gilbert, you and Johnny start scraping the scales off the fish and pass them down to Brian and me to cut the heads off and gut them. The scales started flying; heads lopped off, bellies slit open, and guts rooted out with the scrape of a thumbnail at a steady pace, but slightly slower than the scaling process. Mr. Sullivan was cleaning the fish a bit faster than I was, but I was racing to keep up. The clean cooler was loading up with dressed croakers. When ice was stuck to the fish from the fish cooler, we rinsed it with the hose and dropped in the cleaned fish cooler. Every now and then, someone would grab the hose and give the table a quick rinse of fresh water. The five-gallon buckets filled up with heads and guts.

      “Gilbert and Johnny, go dump the buckets in the hole,” Mr. Sullivan told them. He and I had a backlog of fish anyway.

      They returned and set the buckets back up, saying, “Dad, the hole ain’t big enough.”

      “Go dig another hole then.” Gilbert walked off with the shovel, and Johnny resumed scaling fish, solo. When Gilbert came back, we were steady working, with less than a dozen fish in the bottom of the small cooler. We cleaned those remaining quickly.

      “Gilbert, rinse that cooler out with the hose,” Mr. Sullivan told his son, as he walked off. He returned a few minutes later with a jug of bleach and a rag. Gilbert was relieved of cooler cleaning when his dad took hold of the cooler and dumped the residual water on the ground. He set the small cooler atop the large cooler upright, tossed the rag in it, splashed a good glug of bleach on the rag and in the cooler, and squirted in some extra water. Then he thoroughly wiped the rag around the inside and outside of the cooler and dumped the wash water out. He closed the lid and set the small cooler on the ground beside the larger cooler.

      “When I lift this big cooler up, Gilbert, you slide the smaller cooler underneath.” Before he did that, he said, “Johnny, go dump the gut buckets.” Johnny ran both gut-buckets to the new pit and came back in a flash.

      Mr. Sullivan opened the lid to the big cooler and we were back in business scraping scales and gutting fish. The cleaning tempo resumed with a smoother rhythm. With the second cooler, I was able to keep up with Mr. Sullivan cleaning fish. Either I was getting better or it was good to be young. The second cooler, even though it was larger, emptied in about the same amount of time as the first, smaller cooler. A couple of gut-bucket runs by Gilbert and Johnny and the fish cleaning was over. Amazingly, all the fish that took up two coolers of space fit in a single, large cooler after being cleaned. We couldn’t close the lid, but they fit without falling out.

      When we saw the bottom of the big cooler, we thought the work was over. We were wrong.

      “Gilbert, rinse out the big fish cooler and wipe it down. Johnny, rinse off the table when Gilbert is done with the hose. Brian, go dump the rest of the guts and cover them up. And be sure and clean the buckets when you’re through.” Mr. Sullivan kept us all hopping. In ten minutes, we boys had finished our jobs. Mr. Sullivan took the two empty coolers and gave them each a quick rinse with the hose. He then sat the coolers, with closed lids, on the picnic table bench seat, on the opposite side of the table where he was working. The cooler with the cleaned fish, he carefully dumped on the table then rinsed that cooler out well afterwards and set it with the other two coolers on the bench seat.

      “Boys, fish around, and pick out the chunks of ice and bring them to me,” Mr. Sullivan said. Back in the slime we went, getting a few pokes from the fish fins as we hunted. When we found a chunk of ice, we brought it to him. We’d hold it in our hands while he rinsed it off, and then put it in a bucket. The big blocks of ice were now small chunks, but I was still impressed at how long block ice lasted. Crushed bag ice would have long ago melted away, but Mr. Sullivan’s milk carton, ice idea was smart.

      After sorting out the ice, Mr. Sullivan turned the hose on the pile of fish. The firm spray had slime, blood, and left over scales pouring off the ends of the picnic table. Twice he stopped and had us stir the pile of fish around. By the end of the third rinse, the fish were very clean.

      He gave the closed coolers a quick rinse then said, “Gilbert, go flip the cooler lids open.” Mr. Sullivan had arranged the coolers so the cooler lids opened out away from the table. “Ya’ll boys come over here now,” said Mr. Sullivan.

      “Johnny, the cooler on the far end is yours. Brian, your cooler is in the middle and, Gilbert, ours is on this end,” he directed. “When I toss a fish in my cooler, ya’ll toss a fish in your coolers, OK?” said Mr. Sullivan.

      “Cool, a fish toss,” Johnny said. Mr. Sullivan grabbed a fish and flipped it in his cooler. We all did the same with our coolers. We got in a rhythm and the fish were flying. It was disappointing when we got down to the last two fish. Mr. Sullivan told Johnny and me we could have them. He and I picked up a fish apiece and tossed them in Mr. Sullivan’s and Gilbert’s cooler as a thank you. Mr. Sullivan divided the ice in the bucket between Johnny’s cooler and mine. Gilbert toted their cooler of fish into the house for the bagging process. Johnny and I put our coolers in the back of the LTD, while Mr. Sullivan rinsed the table and area around the table. We washed up with the hose as best we could. Fish smell takes soap, water, scrubbing, and time to get rid of.

      Johnny and I said goodbye to Mrs. Sullivan and Gilbert before loading up in the car and taking the short ride to our houses. It had just turned dark when Mr. Sullivan pulled into my driveway. My dad came out and met us at the car. The men talked a bit as I carried the cooler in the garage with Johnny’s help. Mom was going to bag up the fish and put them in the garage freezer. I came back out and thanked Mr. Sullivan for taking me fishing. I told Johnny I’d see him around. Going back in the house, I felt tired. For the first time, I realized there could be a lot of work involved in the fun of fishing.

      Chapter 6 - Speckled Pink

      I was excited. I was more than excited. Fully adjusted to the darkness in my room, my eyes watched the old digital alarm clock flop over number 12:57 a.m. I’ve got to go to sleep. Are my two fishing rods ready? They had fresh line, fresh grease, the drag was smooth, and they were fully rigged the way Dad taught me to do it. Do I feel sleepy? No, I could go run laps at the moment. What about my tackle? Hooks, sinkers, bobbers, jigs, Rapalas, Jelly СКАЧАТЬ