Although I lived on a lake for forty-three years, I’ve never been a fisherman. I’ve thrown my line in the water a few times, but seldom more than a couple of casts off the dock. Most of the time I had one of the three kids with me or, later, my grandkids. They’ve all caught more than me.
David caught his first fish when he was around four. We were standing on our dock one morning. He had his line on one side and I had mine on the other. I cast my line a couple times then turned around to check on him. He had pulled in a twelve inch bass. It was under the legal limit so we tossed it back. Not bad for a four-year-old.
About thirty years later his son, Brady, caught a bluegill off the same dock. As we baited his hook with a worm, he was concerned that the hook was hurting the worm. I talked him through that trauma as best I could. A few minutes later he landed a bluegill. The fish had swallowed the hook so his innards tore out when I retrieved the hook. Brady wanted to throw it back, but I explained that the fish was dying. He insisted we bury it so we grabbed a shovel, dug a grave, and held a brief ceremony by some flowers near the beach.
I recall going fishing with my dad three times. The first was part of a cub scout outing. We were among several father-son fishing teams on a charter boat in Lake St. Clair. The fathers and sons lined both sides of the boat, sitting shoulder to shoulder on a long bench. Dad and I were sitting with Bill Graham and his dad, Andy. At some point during the excursion, Andy had a huge strike on his line. He fought for more than ten minutes until the ship’s captain stepped in. One of the boys on the other side of the boat had a strike at the same time Andy’s fish took his line. The captain determined that the two had tangled their lines under the boat and they had been fighting each other the entire time.
There was a fishing contest for the boys as a part of the outing. Our leader, Mr. Martin, measured each boy’s fish as we placed them on ice. I won. Mr. Martin presented me with a trophy at the end of the trip. It’s packed in one of the several boxes that we still have stacked in our new condo.
Another time, Dad and I went fishing with my Uncle Earl and my cousin, Tyler. They picked dad and me up at 3:00 a.m. for the ride to Grindstone City on Lake Huron. The dads rode up front while Tyler and I slept in the back. We stopped for breakfast just before we threw in our lines. Uncle Earl ordered a bag of hamburgers for us. We munched on them throughout the morning. It was the strangest breakfast I’d ever eaten.
When we got home, Mom took a picture of Tyler and me. It was a very successful trip. Good thing I wore my lucky “Davy Crocket” shirt that day.
My Uncle Harry Barner had a fishing boat before he had kids. He lived just a couple of miles from us in Royal Oak, so he pulled his boat over to our house and took me to Lake St. Clair a half dozen times. We fished for perch and caught several on most trips.
Most of the time we went in the late afternoon. He decided to go one Saturday and invited my dad along. We’d been out about an hour with the sun beating down and not a fish in sight. We pulled up empty line after empty line no matter where we moved the boat.
Dad got tired so he laid down on the bottom of the boat and took a nap. As soon as he fell asleep, the fish started biting. We pulled up fish after fish, sometimes two at a time. We couldn’t bait our hooks fast enough. This went on the entire hour Dad slept. We were pulling up anchor when he woke up. We pulled the stringers from the water to show off our catch. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
He promised to clean the fish if we didn’t tell Mom about his nap, so Uncle Harry didn’t tell her until the fish were clean.