Tag: Fishing

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As I write this, I am watching the scene in Cobra Kai where Daniel goes to Mr. Miyagi’s grave and starts talking to him. He brings up the idea of losing “balance”, and wondering if Mr. Miyagi had all the answers, or if he was just good at covering things up. I get this question. […]

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The vile, electrical current that is engulfing our beloved country, with its short-circuiting sparks of pandemics, riots, political turmoil and people-bashing on social media, as well as city streets, I find myself longing to pull the plug for some semblance of peace; the kind found in simple pursuits, minus electronic devices. The fishing theme makes […]

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Fishing and the Watts Riots

 

Los Angeles, 1943: My Uncle Berle and Aunt Flossie lived a few houses down the alley from us in a rundown 1930s stucco duplex. We were all rural Okies, newly arrived in California, and arrived with more money than the Joads, a lot less than the Beverly Hillbillies. (Uncle Berle is the star of this story, but I couldn’t come up with any photos of him, and since I play a small role, I’m throwing in a couple of photos of me to lend some flavor of the era to my story. Besides, every story, as Alice told her governess, needs a few pictures.)

In Oklahoma, Uncle Berle, A big and gangly kid, fished the ponds and lakes around Wanette, a small farming town an hour or so drive from Oklahoma City.

In California, Uncle Berle must have thought he had died and gone to heaven. It’s true that there wasn’t a pond or lake in sight in LA County and the only river was the tiny LA River that flowed its sluggish and polluted way, encased in concrete, toward the Pacific. But Uncle Berle now had an ocean to fish in. He could fish for sand bass by standing on the ocean shore, a long pole in his two hands and casting his line (with heavy sinkers) out past the waves; he could fish from a variety of piers and from the grassy shores of small Pacific Ocean inlets, and, best of all, he could fish in the deep sea from commercial boats out of Long Beach. The guy just loved to fish.

Group Writing: The Face That Launched a Million Memories

 

Oh, I do love me a good seafood restaurant. Perhaps that’s because I’m a native of an island nation, no part of which is more than an hour or so away from the sea, so when Dad was home on leave from Nigeria, fish was always fresh, plentiful, and on the menu. Or perhaps it’s because I spent most of my first decade living just south of the Sahara, in a place where salt-water fish was simply unavailable, and fresh-water fish was largely suspect. Whatever the case, I really started to get my fish fix on in 1967, when I was twelve years old and my family traveled, for the first time, to Canada’s smallest province, the place known to the indigenous population as “Abegweit,” (meaning “cradled in the waves”), which was called by the French settlers, Isle St. Jean, but which has been known to us, since Confederation in 1867, as Prince Edward Island.

We had other goals on that long-ago trip–we visited Expo 67 in Montreal and explored a bit of New Brunswick on the way over, and Maine on the way back. We weren’t terribly well-off, so we camped on our travels, and had rented a small beach cottage in Cavendish (at Shining Waters Lodge) for our stay on the Island, which I think was about ten days. Confining my large (physically speaking) and boisterous parents, my sister, who was six at the time, and myself, in any sort of close quarters was always a dicey proposition, but we did so well that, three years later, we returned to PEI, and then repeated the annual performance for several subsequent years of idyllic and sun-drenched summers. By that time, we’d bought a 19′ trailer, and augmented the family by one (my brother, born in 1968), and added a dog, and on occasion, a friend, so space was still pretty tight, and we were still on a shoestring budget. But we managed, and I’m glad because the memories of those many years are totally worth the price of admission.

Industrial-Scale Fishing: No Reel Needed

 

There was once a wolf who roamed the fields for food. When a cool breeze started blowing he would go to dried up lakes and ponds to catch fish. One time, upon arriving at a small pond, which had almost completely dried up but for a muddy hole full of shrimp, fish, and crabs, the wolf exclaimed, “Surely today is my lucky day!”

Upon hearing what the wolf had said, the shrimp pleaded, “We are your food, Brother Wolf, but we’re muddy, we won’t make for delicious food if you eat us in such a state.”

Member Post

 

I’ve been doing some history reading lately and I’ve come upon a dilemma I hope some ricochet fishermen might illuminate for me. Consider the Gulf of Mexico with it’s wide and shallow shelves and being stranded there. What kind of tools would be the absolute minimum needed for catching fish? Preview Open

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Too Drunk to Fish

 

It was about 19:00 on a late August evening 1978.  Arlen and I had been out sailing our boats on our local TVA lake all day.  We had come back to the dock, tied up, and were sitting in our respective cockpits enjoying a couple of cold beers while planning tomorrow’s sailing chatting across the finger pier between us.

A big pick-up truck hauling a very expensive bass boat came down the launch ramp, did a U-turn and stopped.  Four guys piled out.  Two from the cab and two from the back bed of the truck.  It became obvious in an instant they had all been drinking.  They were laughing, staggering around and generally having way too much fun.  They were looking forward to a beautiful evening of fine fishing.

Member Post

 

I know now, what I want now for father’s day Q1. What type of fish goes well with GLoP? A1. Big Mouth Bass.  Q2. What bottom feeder bites on Law Talk? A2. Catfish Q3 What rod provides the right Crappie action a Three Martini Lunch? A3 ????  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a post […]

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