The Big Blow Up

Something from the tackle box:

       That evening, Jesus said to his disciples, “Let’s cross to the east side.”  So they left the crowd, and his disciples started across the lake with him in the boat.  Some other boats followed along.  Suddenly a windstorm struck the lake.  Waves started splashing into the boat, and it was about to sink.

       Jesus was in the back of the boat with his head on a pillow, and he was asleep.  His disciples woke him and said, “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re about to drown?”

       Jesus got up and ordered the wind and the waves to be quiet.  The wind stopped, and everything was calm.

       Jesus asked his disciples, “Why were you afraid?  Don’t you have any faith?”

(Mark 4:35-40 CEV)

       Grandpa Otis and little Joey had gone out early in the morning, before sunrise, because grandpa had wanted to get to the far end of the lake, two and a half miles away, before first light.  There was a hole there, just sixty yards due south of the dense clump of cattails that jutted into the lake from the swamp.  Grandpa Otis had never fished that hole himself, but the nice young man who lived next door had told him that the perch would bite there in the first light of day if you fished right down near the bottom.  When it came to fishing for panfish, the nice young man knew the lake better than anyone else Grandpa knew.  The nice young man had also been Grandpa’s next-door neighbor on the lake since the day he was born, so Grandpa trusted the tip as the result of many years of genuine good-neighborliness between their families.  Grandma Otis sure loved perch. 

       At six years old, little Joey was spending a whole week with Grandpa and Grandma on the lake.  His parents and two teenaged brothers were roughing it on a wilderness fishing trip to a remote lake in Western Ontario, and he wasn’t quite big enough for that sort of adventure just yet.  That was OK.  This was his third day at the Lake with Grandpa and Grandma, and his third trip out to fish with Grandpa, or with anyone else for that matter. 

       For a brand new fisherman, little Joey was learning fast, and he liked it.  He liked it a lot.  He had been awake and ready to go when Grandpa had told him that it was “time to get up and at ‘em,” around five fifteen, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite so dark and drizzly as they puttered northwest on the lake this early in the morning. 

       There had been some thick fog on the lake when Grandpa had taken him out on Monday, but that had quickly burned off.  Joey’s first fish had been caught on a glorious sunshiny morning.  Yesterday they had slept in and goofed off in the morning, so Joey’s second outing was a late afternoon affair.  There had been a cool breeze, but the sun was out again, and a sweatshirt was all Joey had needed to stay comfortable on the lake.  This morning Grandpa had made him put on both his sweatshirt, and his fleece lined hooded windbreaker, before putting on his lifejacket and heading down to the dock.  By the time they were a few minutes out on the lake in the cold drizzle, he was glad he had them on. 

       “It’ll be another ten minutes or so until we get to our spot.  Are you OK, or do you want to turn back?” asked Grandpa.

       “I’m OK, Grandpa, keep going,” Joey replied.  But he was beginning to realize that fishing might not always be quite as comfortable as it had been on his first two tries.

       For his part, Grandpa Otis had watched the weather report before turning in the night before.  He had known that they could expect this drizzle, and maybe even some brief rain showers here and there, but he had fished in much worse and, if he was dressed for it, it would be good for Joey to experience a bit of rougher fishing.  It would give him a story on par with the ones his brothers would have for him.  Little did he know…

       After a fifteen-minute boat ride, Grandpa and Joey anchored in their spot at the far end of the lake around a quarter to six.  If it hadn’t been so overcast and drizzly they could have expected to see the sunlight coming through the treetops to the east in another ten minutes or so, but cold gray light was the best they could hope for this morning.  Pondering this fact, it dawned on Grandpa Otis that, drizzly overcast skies or not, it should be getting a bit lighter by now than it was.  That’s when they heard the first deep and long rumble, and saw the first flashes of light, coming from the dark skies off to the west of them. 

       “Well, best fishing buddy,” announced Grandpa Otis, “Sorry to head back in before we even get a worm wet, but that’s the way it is.  Fishing in a drizzle is one thing, but fishing in a thunderstorm is out of the question.  And it looks like that’s what we’re going to get, and real quick too.” 

       With the next flash of distant lightening, Grandpa could see that the treetops on the western shoreline were starting to wave back and forth a bit.  It was blowing up fast.  The lightening wouldn’t be on them before they could get back home, but the wind and rain certainly would be on them in a minute or two.  Grandpa Otis winched the anchor up as fast as he could crank, and then gave Joey a few instructions before firing up the Johnson.

       “Buddy, I’m going to be taking us back in a bit faster than you’ve gone in this boat before.  I want you to put your hood up and snap that top button under your chin to hold it on snug.  Then I want you to sit on this middle bench, facing me.  Hold on to the side of the boat with your right hand, tight.  Now hold on to the back edge of the bench with your other hand, tight.  That wind coming in is going to stir up some waves for us to go through on our way home, and it could get pretty bumpy, so hold on.  But even if it gets pretty bouncy, don’t worry.  I’ve been out on this lake in rough stuff before with this boat.  She can take it and get us back safe.  We are going to get pretty wet though!  Especially if we have to plow through choppy waves in this flat-bottomed johnboat, which it looks like we’re going to have to do from the way those treetops are acting.” 

       “OK, Grandpa,” replied Joey, as he set down and grabbed the gunwale and the seat edge as instructed.

       Grandpa started the engine and headed them southeast along the lee shoreline.  Even running the little ten-horse Johnson wide open, it would take a good ten minutes to make the run back to the house.  Maybe more if they had to fight a chop.  Which is exactly what they did have to do before they’d gone half a mile. 

       The spray from the johnboat’s bow smacking into the rising waves soon had Joey’s back, as well as Grandpa’s face, dripping wet.  Grandpa kept smiling at Joey with that wet face, and Joey responded in kind, but his Grandpa could tell that it was taking some effort for him to do it. 

       “Keep it up, best buddy,” shouted grandpa over the wind and engine noise.   “Another two minutes and we’ll be at Old Doc’s Cove.  If we have to, we can tie up at Doc Mallery’s place and take shelter there.  That old coot Doc will probably gripe about us waking him up so early, if we do it.  But, on the other hand, Mrs. Mallery will feed us her famous homemade coffee cake until it’s coming out of our ears!  Hot cocoa with marshmallows, too!  Wouldn’t you like that!”

       Grandpa’s wet faced joshing had brought just the hint of a genuine smile to Joey’s face, but it was short lived.  The first bump that was big enough bounce his little bottom off the seat, replaced the forced smile with a look of genuine panic in Joey’s eyes.  His grandpa could see that he was really scared now, and he knew that the big bumps would be coming every second or two now all the way back in.

       “I’ll admit that it’s a bit rougher than the penny-horse-ride at the Walmart, best buddy, but we’re OK,” said Grandpa.  “It would take a lot bigger waves than these to swamp this old boat, or your old Grandpa, for that matter. We’re over half way home now anyway.  I think we can pass up on Old Doc’s place and go right for your Grandma’s hot cocoa. You just hold on tight and pretend that you’re the best cowboy at the rodeo, pal.” 

       The next five minutes were might choppy.  If the truth is to be told, it was rougher than anything Grandpa Otis had ever driven that old boat through before.  But Grandpa knew that it wasn’t bad enough to sink them, and he kept smiling at Joey all the way.  And Joey, in between bounces, kept smiling right back at his Grandpa.  He didn’t like the bumpy ride one bit, but if he had to be the best cowboy at the rodeo to stay on this bronco all the way back to the cottage, he could do it, because his Grandpa believed in him, and told him so. 

       “OK, Joey.  We’re almost there.  One more minute and we’re home.  I can see Grandma standing at the picture window now.  She’s watching us come in with the binoculars.  She’s waving at us,” declared Grandpa.  This news was a huge relief to Joey’s troubled mind.

       Grandpa said, “I’m not going to try and tie up to the dock, best buddy.  It’s too rough for that.  I’m going to run the boat right up onto the sand beach our neighbors put in for their kids to play on.  When I tell you it’s OK, go right up over the front of the boat onto the shore, and then head straight for the cottage.  Grandma is already standing in the doorway, waiting for you.” 

       And that’s just what little Joey did. 

       By the time Grandpa Otis had gotten out of the boat, pulled the craft far enough up to keep it securely beached until the storm was over, and then made his way to the cottage as well, Grandma Otis had Joey in dry cloths and wrapped in a blanket in front of the fireplace, where a newly laid birch stick fire was just starting to crackle to life.

       “Well, best buddy,” said Grandpa, as he hung up his dripping wet coat and hat, and wiped his face with the fresh towel Grandma had just handed him, “You sure rode that one out like you was old Captain Ahab himself.  For nautical adventures to tell about, I guess even that riming Ancient Mariner has got nothing over on you, for the likes of it!”

       Little Joey had no idea of what Grandpa meant by any of what he had just said.  But the way that Grandpa had said it made little Joey chuckle, and that made Grandpa chuckle too. 

Something to take home in your creel:

       One of the most important books I’ve ever read, apart from the books contained in the Holy Bible, is a little volume entitled, ‘Man’s Search for Meaning,’ written by a Holocaust survivor, Victor Frankl.  This little book taught me that, even when we have lost every bit of control over any of the circumstances of our lives, we can always choose how we will react to those circumstances.  Those who chose to react with dignity and loving compassion for others around them, even in the most dire of circumstances imaginable, like being imprisoned in a concentration camp with unavoidable death staring you in the face, choose the best way.  While they may not be able to save their own lives, much less the lives of any others, in doing so, they inspire hope.  They inspire the will to life that is often the difference between life and death for those who witness it.  Victor Frankl knows because he saw it firsthand.

       My little story has nothing to do with anything like Victor Frankl was forced to go through in his life.  Yet, the way we choose to react to the circumstances of our lives, be they ever so mundane, still holds the power to influence the way that others around us react to them.  Do we choose to react in ways that inspire faith, hope, trust and love?  Or do we choose to react in ways that inspire only fear and despair?  The choice is always ours. 

A Fine Mess of Fish

Something from the tackle box:

       Young people take pride in their strength, but the gray hairs of wisdom are even more beautiful.  (Proverbs 20:29 CEV)

     Thanks to all my readers who have conveyed to me how much they enjoyed my last story, Growin' Up.  I thought it was pretty good when I wrote it, and that it might go over well.  One friend in particular, Matt Davis, said that it brought to mind an incident from his own life about a grandson starting to fish with his grandpa.  After he had told me his tale in a few short sentences, I asked if I could expand on it a bit and use it as a story on my blogsite.  Matt graciously gave me his permission, and so that is what I’ve done here.  While Matt was neither the little boy, nor the grandpa, in his telling of the tale, I’ve decided to call the boy, ‘little Matt,’ in my version. I hope that pleases him. 

       Learning to fish up at his grandparent’s cabin on Long Lake was something to look forward to.  Little Matt, along with his Mom, Dad, and two older sisters, had arrived ‘up north’ late in the afternoon, after a long day’s drive up from the middle of the buckeye state.  Nine hours of being belted in the back seat of the Buick, stuck between two pre-teen girls nonetheless, would have been just about intolerable for most five year old boys, and certainly would have been for little Matt, if it wasn’t for the promise of that first fishing adventure awaiting him at the end of the road. 

       Their arrival at the lake sparked a round-robin barrage of hugs and kisses from both Grandma and Grandpa, who were both in the driveway to greet them all before they could get their seat-belts unfastened and the car doors opened.  They all laughed when little Matt informed them that he wanted to go down to the water and start fishing before they’d even gotten their bags out of back of the station wagon. 

       “Let’s all wait until about eight o’clock or so,” said Grandpa, “The fish will be biting again right about then I think.  Anyway, your Grandma has got supper ready to go on the stove, and your folks and sisters probably need an hour to rest up after that long drive north.  Besides, The Laurence Welk Show is on at seven, and I never can catch many fish unless I’ve watched it.”

       Little Matt couldn’t imagine why anyone would need to ‘rest up’ after spending the whole day just sitting there watching the scenery go past the car windows.  But on the other hand, now that he thought about it, he was a bit hungry.  On the phone that morning grandma had promised him tacos for supper when he got there.  Well, thought little Matt, if eight o’clock was soon enough to go fishing for Grandpa, then it was soon enough for him, too!

       The tacos were wonderful, the Laurence Welk show was almost unbearable, and then they did all go fishing, except Grandma, who cooked and ate fish but didn’t fish for fish.  Mom, Dad and the girls took the boat with the motor and headed off to the other end of the lake, out to the spots Mom had liked to fish as a girl.  Grandpa took little Matt out in the rowboat, just a hundred yards or so to the south along the shoreline, right to place where the crocked pine tree bent out over the water, and then straight out into the lake another fifty yards.  There, after swearing little Matt to secrecy, Grandpa dropped the anchor, an old paint can full of concrete attached to the boat by a clothesline.  They were now anchored at what he told Matt was their – secret honey-hole.  This is where little Matt began his education in the basics of bobber-fishing with a cane-pole, and he took to it all like a fish takes to water.  The fishing wasn’t spectacular that evening, but by the time an hour had passed, and they both needed to use the bathroom, he and Grandpa did have ten good-sized sunfish in the basket between the two of them. 

       Little Matt was very interested in that fish-basket.  It was a collapsible wire mesh contraption, with a trap door in the top, and was attached to the boat by its own length of clothesline, just like the anchor.  After unhooking each fish from his or Matt’s line, Grandpa would pull the basket up out of the water and put the new fish into it before lowering it back into the water beside the boat.  Little Matt was fascinated by the way the brightly colored fish placed there would flip and flop in the basket, spraying glistening water drops all over the place.  Each time it was brought up for the addition of a new fish, their display of vigorous acrobatics would become more frenzied.  Little Matt thought that the gyrating fish, dancing in that basket, might just be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.  Once he’d asked Grandpa if he could pull it up himself, just to see them, without a new fish to add to the mess.  Grandpa allowed that they were indeed a pretty sight, and said that he could.  And he did, holding them up against the side of the boat until grandpa informed him that they needed to be let backdown into the water again. 

       “Well, best fishing buddy, we’ve got a fine mess of fish, and I need to pee.  I’m guessing that you do too, by the way you’re starting to fidget around in your end of the boat.  What say we head back in before your folks and sisters come back down the lake and spy out our – secret honey-hole.  Besides, with the sun getting so low now, I’m starting to get a lot colder than I thought I would.  I didn’t bring a warm jacket like your Mom made you wear.  Wish I had.  We better tell grandma to cover her flowerbeds.  I wouldn’t be surprised if we got a late season frost tonight.”

       Little Matt had forgotten that he had his fleece-lined windbreaker on under his life-jacket.  Now that he took notice of how cold the breeze really was getting, he was glad that his Mom had made him wear it.  Between his grandpa having brought the chill in the air and his need to use the bathroom to his attention, Matt noticed that the row back in to the dock took a lot longer than the row out to their – secret honey-hole – had taken.  Once moored to the dock Grandpa didn’t need to tell little Matt to run on in to the cabin and use the bathroom first.  It was getting cold.  And he did need to pee, bad. 

       After he was back in the cottage, and had made himself much more comfortable than he had been on the trip in, grandma sat him down at the table to share in a warm peanut-butter cookie and cup of hot chocolate with her.  That’s where grandpa found them when he came in from getting the boat secured and tackle put away. 

       “Boy, it’s getting chilly out there,” grandpa said, as he hung up his hat and headed towards the bathroom.

       “Weatherman says we’ll likely be getting a hard frost tonight,” said Grandma.

       “Better get your flower beds covered then, sweetheart.”

       “Already done,” she replied.

       When Grandpa was done in the bathroom, which took a lot longer to accomplish than little Matt had taken, he came to the table for his own cookie and cup of coffee.  When the cookie was gone, but the coffee cup still half full, little Matt’s two sisters came in the back door. 

       “Wow, it’s getting cold out there!” said Tess. 

       “Yeah, Dad had to tell Mom that he couldn’t take it any more, and to get us back to the cabin now!” added Bess.

       “Hot water’s on the stove, the cocoa mix is on the counter beside it,” grandma informed them.  “Fix your own.  Fresh cookies are on the sideboard.”

       “You better get your flower beds covered up tonight, grandma.”

       “Already done.” 

       Before the girls even had their cocoa all stirred up, Mom and Dad came in.  “Man, is it getting chilly out there!” said Dad.  “You’d better get your flowers covered up, Ma.”

       Grandma just rolled her eyes. 

       “Did you guys get any fish?” little Matt asked his parents.

       “Not as many as you guys,” replied his mother.  “Man!  You and grandpa did really well tonight!  That’s a fine mess of fish!  Grandpa must have taken you to his – secret honey-hole.”

       “Mom!  It’s a – secret!” broke in Matt.

       “Anyway, We put our four in the fish-basket with yours.  That will give us each at least two fish apiece for lunch tomorrow even if we don’t catch any more in the morning, that is IF it warms up enough to go out again!”

       “Should we bring the fish inside tonight, Grandpa?” asked little Matt.

       “Well, it’s getting late, and I don’t really want to clean a mess of fish out there right now in this cold.  And then, maybe I’d just have to clean another mess of fish tomorrow, if we DO go out again in the morning.  I’d rather do them all at once, and in the daylight.  We’ll just leave the ones we’ve got in the fish-basket hanging off the end of the dock for now, and we’ll see what it’s like in the morning.”

       “Will they be alright, out there in the cold water, overnight like that?”

       Everyone laughed, and Dad said, “I’m pretty sure they’ll be just fine out there until morning, Matt.”

       It did get cold that night.  Cold enough that sleet was tapping on the windows before the children went to bed at ten.  Cold enough that when the adults decided to turn in at eleven-thirty, they had all agreed that they would not wake the kids up in the morning.  They would all sleep-in under warm blankets until the sun was well up, and the thermometer reading a lot more bearable, before making any decisions about what to do with the rest of the day.  It was a good plan of action – but not one that would be strictly kept.  It was about seven in the morning when Grandpa came into the back room where the kids were all soundly sleeping in the bunk beds.

       “Matt.  Wake up.  Wake up.” Grandpa whispered, as he gently prodded Matt’s shoulder.

       “Wha? – Oh – Hi Grandpa.  It’s morning, isn’t it.”

       “Yes it is.  Come out into the kitchen with me.  We need to talk.”

       “Ok, grandpa,” said Matt, groggy, he got up and followed his grandpa into the other room, both in their pajamas.  They sat down at the table. 

       “So, best fishing buddy – would you like to tell me about what you did last night while everyone was else was asleep?”

       “I didn’t do anything,” replied little Matt, sensing trouble in the air.

       “Well – I pretty sure that you did.  And I think that we should talk about it before everyone else gets up for breakfast.  I’m sure that it will all work out much better for everyone that way.”

       Obviously, the jig was up.  The only thing to do was come clean to Grandpa.

       “When I went to bed I couldn’t sleep.  I kept thinking about those poor fish out there in that cold water all night.  I heard you and Mom and Dad saying that we wouldn’t be getting up to go out this morning, and I knew they would be so cold by the time we cleaned and brought them in. – So, after I heard you guys all go to bed, I got up and went down to the dock in my pajamas to check on the fish.”

       “It was awfully cold to go out there in your pajamas.  And you know that you aren’t allowed on the dock without a grown-up with you in the first place,” interrupted Grandpa.

       “I know, but I just kept thinking about those poor cold fish.  So I went down and pulled up the basket, just to see if they were alright.”

       “And they were just fine, weren’t they?” interrupted Grandpa, again.

       “They were flopping around like crazy!  But then it was so cold – and I was getting so cold out there checking on them – and they started to stop flopping out there in the cold – and I couldn’t put them back in that cold, cold water – so I brought the fish-basket inside and set it on the heater in the living room – where it was nice and hot.  That’s all I did!  Then I went right back to bed.”  The truth sounded perfectly reasonable to Matt, as he told it.

       “That’s – just about what I thought had happened – when I woke up and smelled something fishy about ten minutes ago,” said Grandpa, in a calmer tone than you might imagine.  “As you can see – I’ve taken them back outside.  I’m sorry to tell you this – but they did not make it through the night – despite your noble efforts to keep them warm.  -  As you can also see, I have the cabin windows facing the lake all open.  Fish do not smell good when they die and get warm for too long.  Nor are they any good to clean and eat for lunch.  They will have to go in the flowerbeds to feed Grandma’s pansies.  Now – IF we can get the smell out of here, and the windows closed back up before everyone else gets up for breakfast, we’ll just let everyone else think that the family of pesky raccoons living out back had a nice fish dinner on our tab –  except maybe Grandma.  She’ll never buy that story.  Besides, she’s going to find the fish buried in her flowers before long.  Anyway – just between you and me – the fish needed to stay in the water last night.  They really don’t mind the cold as much as you and I do.”

       “Ok, Grandpa.”

       “You can go back to bed now, if you want.”

       “I think I’d rather have a bowl of cereal now – if that’s alright.”

       “Yeah – me too – best fishing buddy.”

Something to take home in your creel: 

       Wisdom is always best imparted in a gentle manner.  Always remember that many wise things, which are patently obvious to the truly adept, may seem downright counterintuitive to the uninitiated, and may remain so until they have been taught otherwise.  That is only natural – and reasonable.  

Growin’ Up

Something from the tackle box:

       When we were children, we thought and reasoned as children do.  But when we grew up, we quit our childish ways.  (1Corinthians 13:11 CEV)

       Little Joey knew he was getting to be a big-boy.  Everyone told him so.  He had a a whole year of school under his belt.  Kindergarten had been fun, but in September he would be going into the first grade proper, and that’s big-boy stuff.  He’d been told that he would even have lessons to bring home from school to work on and then turn in the next day.  He didn’t mind.  He kind of liked doing schoolwork.  Miss Munther had almost always told him he’d done a good job on just about all of his kindergarten work last year, and both mom and dad worked with him at home so that he could already read almost all of the little-boy books stacked up by his bed, all by himself.  Yep, he’d be on to some regular big-boy books and learning come September.  But, for now, it was summer, and that meant less any-sized-boy learning, and lots more just having fun and goofing off, and that was fine by Joey too. 

       Yesterday mom and dad had dropped him off at the cottage on Long Lake to spend a few days with grandpa and grandma Otis, while they took his two older brothers, aged twelve and fifteen, another day’s drive north into Canada.  There they would backpack six miles in from the end of the road and spend two days pike and walleye fishing on what dad called a real “wilderness” lake.  Joey knew he was getting to be a big-boy, but it seemed he wasn’t quite big enough to backpack into a real “wilderness” lake just yet.  That was OK.  Grandpa Otis had assured him last night that they would be catching and eating more and better fish, right out of Long Lake, than his folks and brothers would out of any old “Canuck” lake, even if they did manage to not get lost hiking through the woods to find it.  That assurance had cheered Joey up considerably as he had full confidence in just about everything that grandpa Otis had to say. 

       Joey knew it was morning now, even though it was still pretty dark, because grandpa Otis had told him so when he woke him up.  He had his fishing clothes on and was sitting at the table as grandma Otis set a scrambled egg, two strips of bacon, a slice of toast with strawberry jam, and a glass of milk in front of him.  Grandpa had twice as much food on his plate, and coffee instead of milk, but then, grandpa was way bigger than he was.  A grandma breakfast was always good, and Joey ate all of it with gusto, just like his grandpa did.  All, that is, except the top edge of the toast crust, which never felt quite right in his mouth. 

       “Well, buddy,” said grandpa Otis, “I think we’re in for a good morning of fishing.  There’s quite a bit of fog on the lake yet, but the spot I’m counting on the fish being at isn’t that far away, so we should be able to find it without any trouble.  There’s not going to be any powerboats to worry about out on the lake this early anyway.  I’ve got everything we need loaded up and ready, and all we’ve got to do is get up and at ‘em.” 

       A confident nod and the word, “Yep,” was Joey’s only big-boy response as they got up to head out. 

       The twelve-foot, square-ended, johnboat was tied so snuggly to the dock that Joey didn’t even need any help getting into it, which was as it should be for a big-boy.  He surveyed the gear his grandpa had stowed and ready to go.  Two life jackets, two seat cushions, a bait box, a fish-basket tied to some cloths-line, and two very long cane fishing poles running the length of the boat, their but ends laying on the bench seat back by the engine and their tips extending a good three feet out over the front of the boat.  It didn’t look anything like the fishing tackle his family was taking to the “wilderness” lake in Canada.  These poles didn’t even have any cranks on them to wind the fish in with. 

       “Get your life-jacket on,” said grandpa.

       Joey did, and then took the front bench seat while grandpa Otis unmoored and pushed away from the dock as he got in.  Grandpa took the stern seat and started fussing with the outboard and gas tank.  After just three pulls on the cord, the old ten-horse Johnson began to putt softly on its own.  Grandpa turned them to follow the shoreline going north, and they set off. 

       The fog was pretty thick, but Joey had been on a good number of boat rides around the lake in his six years of visiting the cottage, and he knew right where they were as they rounded the edge of Delmar’s cove, passed the long row of docks, crossed the mouth of Old Doc’s cove, and then turned right to cross the lake to where he could just make out the tops of the tall pines through the fog that were guiding them to Gazebo Point. 

       “This is where we have to really watch out for other fishermen who might be out in this pea-soup to fish this morning too,” were the first words spoken in the boat since they’d shoved off ten minutes ago.  “The only other person I’ve ever seen fish this spot were going to is the young man who lives next door to our place, and he always fishes out of a canoe, so we sure don’t want to bump into him by accident.  That’s why I’m going so slow.”

       When they had gotten close enough to the other shore that Joey could just make out the structure that gave Gazebo point its name, through the fog, grandpa shut the outboard down and they began to drift.

       “Turn around Joey.  See that red lever on the top edge of the boat, right up at the front?”

       “Yep.”

       “Well, see if you can lift it so that it’s pointing straight up.  That will let the anchor go down.  But keep away from that winch crank when you do it, or the handle might hit you in the leg as it goes around and lets the anchor rope run out.”

       “Got it, grandpa,” said Joey, as he followed his grandpa’s instructions.  He was surprised how fast that crank handle did go around as the anchor took rope off the spool on its dive.  His grandpa was pretty smart.  That thing could hurt ya if you weren’t paying attention!

       “Now that the anchor is down, push that red handle back down flat with the edge of the boat.  That will keep more rope from running out and letting us drift away from this spot. 

       “Got it, grandpa.”  And he did. 

       “Okay, Joey.  I’m going to unwind the line from this pole and hand you the hook end.  I want you to put your own worm on, just like I taught you last time when we fished off the dock.  Once you get it on, toss it over the side and I’ll hand you the pole.  The bobber is already set so that you’ll be fishing about seven feet deep, which is about where I think the fish will be.  Once you’re fishing I’ll get my rig set up and fish a three or four feet deeper than you, right near the bottom, in case I’m wrong about where I think they’re at.” 

       “Got it, grandpa,” said Joey again, as he took the hook end of the line in hand, very carefully got an angle worm out of the bait box and threaded it on the barbed hook as well a big-boy six year old fisherman could be expected to do.  He took the pole from grandpa and rested it on the edge of the boat.  He watched his bobber drift out towards the end of his rod, ten feet or more away from the boat, and waited for some action.  Grandpa didn’t use a bobber, but lowered his weighted line all the way to the bottom of the lake, until his line went slack, then drew the tip of his rod up, a foot or so, until his line was tight again. 

       “The way I’m fishing is called, Jigging,” said grandpa.  “I’ll know I’ve got a fish checking out my bait by feeling the taps that will come through the line and rod.  If one grabs on and pulls I’ll be able to feel that too, and I’ll pull him up out of the water and see if he’s big enough to keep.  You’re bobber fishing, just like you did off the dock last time you were up.  Remember to keep your eye on your bobber.  You have to see when you’ve got a fish checking out your bait when your bobber starts dancing.  If it goes under he’s taken it, and you can lift him out.” 

       Joey watched his bobber intently and, sure enough, in just a few seconds it started to wiggle and jiggle on the surface.

       “You’ve got one playing with your bait, Joey.  Wait for your bobber to dive under before you pull up on him, or you’ll miss him.”

       Joey waited, and then his jiggling bobber just plain disappeared from sight in an instant.  Joey hadn’t thought it would happen quite so suddenly, and he didn’t react until his grandpa shouted, “PULL UP,” and then he did!  He could feel the fish darting and tugging around and around as he lifted his pole high in the air over his head.  Finally the fish broke the surface of the water.  By lifting his pole as high over his head as he could he got the fish over the side and into the boat, where his grandpa grabbed it before it even hit the hull. 

       “Well, look at that!  You got the first fish, and it’s as nice a perch as I’ve seen this whole summer.  Looks to be about a foot long to me.  That will make your grandma happy.  We always let grandma eat the perch we catch.  She likes them so much better than the sunfish and bluegills I usually catch.  Now, personally, I   can’t taste any difference, but it always makes her smile when we allow her to take any perch on the platter.”

       Joey marveled at the golden sheen interspersed between the dark green bands that colored the fish’s sides as grandpa placed the beautiful perch into the fish basket that he dropped over the side of the boat after tying its rope to the oarlock.  Joey could look over the side and watch the fish swimming around in the basket just a foot below the surface.  It was magical, and the thought of making grandma smile with his perch pleased Joey.  He would eat bluegills like his grandpa, if that was what they were going to be catching. 

       They did catch a good many fish that morning, seventeen in all between the two of them, with grandpa judging eleven of them as big enough to go in the basket to swim in captivity beside the boat.  With one of the smaller sunfish that was pulled in grandpa taught Joey how to grasp the newly caught fish by combing its dorsal fins back, so that they didn’t stick you, as you held on to him and removed the hook.  Joey watched and tried it himself, and only got poked a little bit on his smallest finger as he held the fish and tossed it over the side to swim away. 

       Grandpa also had Joey remove the hooks from some of the lip hooked fish that were brought in, but handled all the deeply hooked fish himself.  Joey was just as happy to have it that way, as he saw a bit of blood appear on grandpa’s fingers with a couple of the fish that needed the use of a tool to get the hooks out.  He wasn’t really sure if the blood belonged to the fish, or grandpa.  Either way, he was OK with letting grandpa handle that fishing chore this time out. 

       The last fish Joey caught was their second perch.  While not quite as big as that first fish, it was judged as “pan worthy” by grandpa, and into the basket it went.  The sun was now well up in a blue sky, the fog was all gone, and the morning daylight was bright.

       Grandpa smiled and said, “Well, partner, I think we’ve got more than enough for a feast,” as he hauled the basket up out of the water and set it in the bottom of the boat.  Joey marveled at the beauty of the fish that were all flopping around together in a mess of glimmering wet colors.  “Let’s go in and you can help me get these cleaned up for grandma to cook for our lunch.  If we let grandma have the two perch, I’ll eat the two smallest sunfish, and that leaves the seven biggest ones for you!” 

       “Oh, grandpa!” laughed Joey, who could always tell when his grandpa Otis was joshing with him. 

       Joey kept right on smiling as grandpa fired up the Johnson and headed them across the lake, at an angle straight towards the Otis cottage and a grandma waiting to cook fish for them.  They went much faster than when they had come out in the fog and grandpa made a couple of pointless hard turns just to make Joey laugh and hold on to his seat.  It was as good a morning as Joey could recall ever having, and grandpa was rating it pretty high on his list too. 

       Pulling up to the dock, grandpa shut the outboard down and secured the boat before letting Joey take of his lifejacket and climb out.  Grandpa lifted the fish-basket onto the dock before getting out himself.  Joey noticed that the fish were not flopping around quite as vigorously as they had when grandpa had first put them into the boat, their colors were not quite as bright and shinny as they had been either. 

       “Why don’t you go in and use the bathroom first.  I’ll carry this mess over to the cleaning station before I take my turn.  They need to settle down a little bit more before we start dressing them out for grandma to cook anyway.”

       Joey ran into the house, he really did need to go pretty badly, but stopped on the way long enough to inform grandma that they had caught lots of fish, and that he had caught two perch for her to eat.  He could hear grandma chuckling about that as he dashed on into the bathroom. 

       After grandpa had followed him in using the facilities, and taken a good deal more time than he had in doing so, Joey followed him out to the cleaning station, a short walk back into the woods from the cottage.  The fish were already lined up on the edge of the cutting board, where grandpa had laid them out, not moving at all any more.  Grandpa had Joey stand on an overturned crate, so he could watch as grandpa began working on the fish.  He started with the big perch, the first fish Joey had caught.

       “First, we have to take off the scales,” said grandpa, as he began vigorously rubbing a funny looking tool over the side of the fish, scraping away all the color that was left, as Joey watched.

       “It’s not nearly as pretty as it used to be,” Joey commented.

       “That’s true.  But the scales won’t taste any good if we’ve left them on when grandma cooks them.  So, off they come, pretty or not.”  Grandpa continued, “Next we have to cut off the head and fins.” 

       This announcement was followed by a few quick knife strokes that accomplished just what grandpa had declared as being needed.  Joey felt a little queasy at the suddenness of it all happening in front of his eyes.  With a bit of a halt in his voice he asked, “Does it hurt the fish to do that?”

       “Well, the fish is already dead, so he doesn’t feel anything now.  They died when we took them out of the water for a while.  Fish breath water like we breath air.  And they drown when you keep them in the air too long, just like you would drown if you kept your head under water too long.  Remember, I told you why I always make you wear a lifejacket when we go out in the boat, - to keep your head up so you won’t drown if you fall in the lake, or the boat sinks.  Well, fish are just backwards from us in that respect.” 

       “Oh,” said Joey.  He guessed that he had known the fish grandma made to eat were from dead fish, just like chicken nuggets were from dead chickens and smoky-links were from dead pigs, but he hadn’t really thought about just how those fish had gotten to be dead, or the part that anybody like his grandpa, or he, ever played in that fact.  It all made him feel a bit like crying and, in fact, a bit of water did well up in both of his eyes, which he quickly wiped away with his sleeve so his grandpa wouldn’t see.

       “It is a hard fact to come to terms with, I’ll admit.  But don’t let it bother you too much, Joey.  Lots of critters eat other critters.  And we humans are about the only critter I know off that tries to let that other critters, that we’re eating, die comfortably before we do it.  It didn’t hurt these fish to pass out from being out of the water, and it doesn’t hurt them now when I’m getting them ready for grandma to cook.  Which, come to think of it, is maybe more than they deserve!  Just think of those poor minnows that this big fish ate just before we caught him!  They went down his throat alive!  Wiggling and squiggling all the way!”  Grandpa was joshing again, and that made Joey chuckle a little bit, even through his tears.

       Joey watched soberly as his grandpa dressed and washed all eleven fish.  He was glad that his grandpa let him help by hosing down the cutting board, and then carrying the cleaned fish in a basket back down the trail to the cottage, when it was done.  There they found that grandma was waiting for them, the table already set.  A deep-sided frying pan was heating up on a front burner, and string beans were simmering on the back of the stove.  Grandma took the fish, brushed them with some egg, rolled them in a mixture of cornmeal and cracker crumbs, and then laid them in the pan where they sizzled and snapped, cooking up to a crispy golden brown.  Out of the pan, each piece was allowed to drain for a minute before being loaded on to a platter and carried to the table where grandpa and Joey sat at their places ready to eat.  Grandma put just one fish on Joey’s plate.  He could tell that it was that big foot-long perch he had caught on his first try.

       “Don’t you want to eat the perch, grandma?” asked Joey.

       “I think I’ve got a taste for some bluegills today.  If you can eat that one, you can have the other one too,” she replied with a smile. 

       “Well, don’t that beat all….,” added grandpa, with mock astonishment, as Joey chuckled.  “So, partner, do you want to go fishing with me again tomorrow morning?”

       “Yeah, I think I do, grandpa.” 

              

Something to take home in your creel:

       Joey ate that perch, and half of the second one too.  It tasted different than any fish he’d ever eaten before.  He couldn’t really tell if it tasted any worse, or any better, than any of the fish he’d had at the cottage before that day.  It was just different.  Joey decided for himself that, in fact, it was very good fish, and he liked it a lot, - as different as it was. 

       What Joey didn’t know yet, was that everything would taste different to him from now on.  Yep.  He was getting to be a big-boy.