Fishing with my Dad

The boy watched the red and white bobber move slowly with the current on the small lake. It was just after sunrise on a beautiful spring morning. There was a slight breeze with only some puffy clouds in the sky and the water was a crystal blue with tiny waves that beat a comforting rhythm against the shore. He was excited to be fishing with the father, knowing that this was a special time that would not last long, but relished and remembered for what it was…a break from the bad times at home.

He knew that this was a special time because it was a Saturday morning and the father was not hungover. He had not drunk himself into a stupor the night before and was able to wake early and get on the road while it was still dark. The boy also knew that this brief interlude was going to be short-lived because it was going to end in about 2 to 3 weeks. The father always got sober for a few weeks in the spring because it was the start of bream fishing on all the lakes and ponds in the state. The bream would be building nests soon and hatching babies, ensuring that there would be ample stocks of both males and females near the shoreline.

In the South bream (pronounced “brim”) were also called bluegill and almost anyone who fishes for them will use either name. But they all mean the same thing, a fierce fight, and great eatin’.

Bream were not available at any store and could only be eaten if you fished for them yourself. They were typically pretty small, rarely exceeding 2 pounds but they could be caught in large numbers and a “mess of fish” usually meant at least 20 to 50 bream or more.

And what fighters! A bream weighing just 1 pound would just about pull you into the lake, especially if you were using the most popular method of fishing which consisted of a long bamboo pole, very thin fishing line, a number 6 hook, and a plastic or cork bobber that could be moved up and down the line to reach the proper depth. The best bait was live crickets but simple earthworms also worked just fine.

The best part of bream fishing was eating them with homemade hush puppies, coleslaw, and a big glass of sweet tea.

The boy glanced over and watched his father cast a line up against a partially sunken log about 20 yards down the lake. While the boy was focused on bream, he was hunting bass and was deadly accurate with his casts as he perfectly positioned his favorite topwater lure just inches from the log. It was a “Hula Popper” and was one the best baits for bass fishing on the market. In the hands of a master fisherman like the boy’s father, it was like magic.

The lure was made of wood and was about 3 inches long with a treble hook off the back and another in the middle of the lure. The one he was using this day was red and white and had large eyes painted on the front part of the “head.” But the special feature was the large carved “mouth” on the front of the lure just below the eyes. When you yanked gently on the rod the wide mouth would make a loud “pop” in the water and alert any nearby bass that there was a potential meal for the taking. It was called a “hula” popper because of the brightly colored plastic “hula” skirt that draped off the back of the lure.

The father worked the lure slowly away from the log with short jerks that produced the “popping” sound. After each jerk, he waited for a very long time before he jerked the line again. It was this extreme patience that ultimately paid off as the wary bass hiding under the log eventually could not stand it anymore and charged to grab the lure and the fight was on.

The boy marveled at the father’s patience in fishing as he was not a very patient man in everyday life. In fact, his hair-trigger temper and quick reactions scared the boy and kept him always alert for changes in the father's mood.

But on this day the fishing took center stage and the father showed great skill with the lure and drew the boy closer to him. But he knew it would not last, so he focused on the moment at hand and enjoyed watching the father fight with the large bass that he had so adroitly captured on his line. The battle did not last long as the bass tired quickly and the father reeled the fish close to shore, reached down, and carefully picked up the bass by grasping his lower lip. He quickly removed the lure from the mouth of the fish and then gently placed it back in the water and stood quietly watching it slowly swim away.

The boy wondered why his father never weighed the fish or took any pictures. He never asked, but supposed that it was just not interesting to his father to keep any records of his fishing exploits other than what he and the boy remembered about the day.

After watching his father cast the hula popper back out on the water he paid attention to his job. It was a simple one. While the father fished for bass and released any that he caught, the boy was expected to bring home as many bream as possible, although if he started getting a lot of action and was pulling in fish, the father would walk back, lay down his bass rod and start fishing with a bamboo pole that he kept rigged and ready on the bank. Working together they could fill up a cooler in no time. The boy loved it when this happened and was once again drawn into a certain kind of “closeness” to the father. However, this conflict of emotions, built up over years of interactions with the father caused the boy to always be on guard.

Attending to his fishing pole he checked to make sure the cork float was set at the right depth for this spot on the bank. The boy knew from years of fishing that the water was mostly shallow but had deeper pockets and he knew them all my heart. Many of the larger bream would stay just a little deeper and watch for food swimming by in the shallower water.

After making sure that the cork was set to the right depth, he reached down and put his hand in the “cricket bucket” to grab a fast-moving cricket and push the single hook through its body at just the right spot. The goal was not to kill the cricket but to keep it alive as long as possible so it would move in the water and attract a big bream.

Right above the hook was a small round lead weight that he had attached to the line and squeezed shut with his teeth. The rig was simple but very effective in catching large numbers of bream when they were in a hungry mood.

Swinging the line out the boy watched as the cricket and hook disappeared beneath the water and pulled the line tight. The cork bobber stopped the line at the correct depth and settled on the surface. The boy watched as the ripples from the cork hitting the water settled and then all was quiet. There was a slight breeze but the water was very calm and had a deep blue color with sparkling highlights that were mesmerizing if you let your mind wander. He knew not to let that happen as he turned his focus to the cork and waited for it to start giving up the secrets of what was just below.

The father had taught the boy well and he knew that the cork was the key to catching large bream. The cork would also tell the boy if he was too shallow and was only attracting small fish that would just have to be released.

If the cork moved slowly to the side then a fish was mouthing the bait and had not engulfed it along with the hook. If the cork just bobbed a few times with short “blips” then a small bream was just eating away pieces of the cricket and soon the hook would be bare.

But if everything was just right, the cork suddenly shot underwater with no warning, causing the boy to jump. Then the exciting part happened as the line tightened, the cane pole bent and the battle between boy and fish began.

He watched the cork with rapt attention and waited patiently for a large bream to grab the hook. He did not have to wait long as all the conditions were right and the cork suddenly disappeared, the line tightened, the pole bent, he set his feet on the bank and pulled back as hard as he could. The fight seemed to last forever until finally the large bream broke the surface and he pulled it near to shore and then onto the bank. He grabbed the fish just behind the head, making sure to flatten the dorsal fin so as not to get stabbed, and removed the hook from its mouth. He took a moment to admire his catch then dropped it into a nearby styrofoam cooler filled with ice.

The boy knew that the rest of the day would be good as the cooler filled with fish, the father caught both bass and bream, and a certain bond continued to grow between them, based on the simple act of fishing.