Tag Archives: fishing
Did You Realize Most of the Protein Consumed in the World are Insects?…I like a Big Blubbery Ball of Worms Sprinkled With Roasted Ants and Finished With a Hint of Truffle Oil
Ever been fishin’? I’m talking about Huckleberry Finn, barefoot, cane pole, dig your own bait, fresh water fishin’. Well, I have, and to say the least, it’s loads of fun. Find a shady place, plop down on your butt, bait your hook, set your float at the right depth, swing everything over the water and let it fall. When your sinker hits the river bottom, dig in and wait for the fight of your life.
Did I mention that you would be obtaining your own bait? In fact, all we need is a small shovel and a tin can with the top partially cut so that you can open and close the container. You merely dig into the soft, loamy soil and when you feel something snakelike and slimy, pull it from the ground. You have now caught your first night crawler and/or earth worm. All you have to do is remove eleven more of these foot long, slimy, tangled creatures, dump then in a can along with some of their native soil, and you’re ready to go.
This kind of reminds me of a novel I released last year, “Terminal Core.” It contained a scene where man-eating, ground-dwelling, worm-like creatures, scarfed up homosapien-like popcorn. I guess fishing is one way to get back at these nasty belly crawlers.
There it goes; my rod’s bent double and starting to pull me toward the water. I’ve got an idea for a great novel, but I ain’t lettin’ this fish get away. Either look for a new novel with my name on it next year or keep an eye on the obits…That’ll tell the story!
If you take the time to think about today, as opposed to yesteryear, in the context of your own life, you’ll notice quite a bit of growth. At least “growth” is what we hope to see and certainly that of a positive nature.
Some people grow very little, comparatively, because they were mature as children through puberty and into adulthood. Not that they never made a mistake–it’s just that their mistakes were more like, “Oh no, my library book is overdue,” or “I’m ten minutes past curfew.”
That being the right hand meant there was plenty of room for a multitude of left hands. If you were a left hand, it didn’t matter if you were a mature child or mature through puberty. Once you hit young adulthood, your mistakes included words like: bail, full coverage and “what do you mean you’re two weeks late?”
I was somewhere in the middle. Had a good childhood, made it through puberty, but when I reached young adulthood, I embraced an unequaled love for the great outdoors.
For instance: I was especially fond of drinking beer on the back porch. The front porch was as equally enjoyable; as was the tailgate of my truck, the woods, sitting on the well top eating crabs, and just about any place my rear end would fit was a good place to sozzle down the suds.
Several years earlier, I learned of a whole new world–the wonderful world of fishing. Wait a minute… Why not combine the two? Now I was literally beside myself with joy. One of me was drinking and the other fishing. The next major discovery was of a place where the water contained salt, larger fish, and things called waves. These were special places; places that required extended travel and room rentals for overnight stays.
What a revelation! This meant I could actually take my suds swilling, rod reeling, show on the road, and take it I did.
Now, during this time that I like to refer to as “fermentation enlightenment,” another beast was rearing its rather attractive head. This particular beast arrived on the scene with its name forever sewn into its tighty whitey waistband–that name, “rock ‘n roll.”
You see I had started playing guitar at age 11, and to the best of my figuring why not incorporate this, “rock ‘n roll” into the fold. So what do you know, now I have a reason to guzzle that golden beverage on the inside.
First, you get together with friends who are of a similar mind but play different instruments. Once you have begged, borrowed and pilfered your way through musicians of the same caliber, you will eventually hit that magic number. This magic number I am referring to is the amount of bodies needed to play all the necessary instruments which enables you to refer to yourself as a “band.”
Now you can begin that long journey down the road to rock stardom. I learned early on that there were two paths to achieve this goal. Dedicate yourself to the craft, work hard, practice hard, live rock ‘n roll and maybe one day, you’ll make it; or pound down enough of the golden beverage so that you’re oblivious to the way you sound, which in turn means you’ll never make it, but you really don’t care.
Guess which one I chose… You got it… Bottoms up!
That’s just the way it goes. Sometimes in life even though we strive for mediocrity, we’re unable to reach that lofty goal.
Thankfully, somewhere along the line (before my liver packed up and moved into a retirement home) the golden beverage transformed into ionized water and green tea.
Writing is my passion, but on a cool clear night, if I listen closely I can still hear my Les Paul whine as my fingers sizzle down the ebony fret board…….Nah, it’s just the neighbor’s cat.
Have you ever had someone tell you when you’re in a tense situation to go to your happy place? Is this something that you’re able to accomplish? For me, there is no such thing as a “happy place” in my head. When I close my eyes, all I see are the inside of my eyelids.
My happy place entails luggage, vehicle, and enough gas to make it there. One I remember fondly is Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. I and my wife would travel there every October for our anniversary. She would read and I would fish.
The next trip would be in the winter with my son to fish for Striped Bass. The trip after that was usually in spring with my son to fish for Drum, Blues, and anything else that would bite our hooks. The fishing, the wonderful meals we would prepare, and the just being together would make for a long, wonderful weekend. We would leave Friday morning and not return until Monday, sometimes with coolers of fish and sometimes with coolers of melted ice.
It’s hard to describe the feeling of beaching a 30 lb. fish in the surf, or for that matter an 8 ounce Spot. Whether or not we caught fish was really immaterial. It was the time spent together that was most enjoyable.
I haven’t been able to fish in this manner for several years due to life’s unforeseen hiccups barring my path with unforeseen obstacles, as it does with us all. But God has brought me even closer to my family than I could have ever realized.
I am now in the middle of writing my autobiography. As I write, I take the time to remember the many situations that make my life my own. Even if you’re writing a work of fiction, be thorough. Make the work your own. I guess what I mean to say is to claim ownership over your writing. Don’t be afraid to put a piece of yourself in your characters. You will find that this will make your story more interesting because you are writing about something you know…that something being you.
Do you like to fish? Or are you a fish-stick kinda guy? Does the majority of your interest lie in the thin outer crust of a frozen four-inch processed twig–one that bears no resemblance to a living swimming creature? Or, do you insist on physically removing your catch from the hook–scaling, beheading, cleaning, and cooking, not giving a second thought to any stray bones that dare cross your incisors? If both scenarios should present themselves in the form of a story needing to be told, which tale would you weave and how would you spin it?
Adam lived to surf fish. Whenever he could squeeze a sufficient number of minutes together he was on the road to Hatteras, whether for a week, a weekend, or a twenty-four hour jaunt. A three and a half hour drive was nothing compared to this, he thought, as he pounded his rod spike into the loose white sand.
Adam soon had his gear assembled, baited, and with a nice-hundred yard cast, stood smugly with the butt end of his rod propped against his thigh. The breeze was light, dancing through the eyes on his rod, whistling a familiar tune . A wide smile spread across his face as he absorbed his surroundings. The sharp tug on his line stirred him from his reverie. This was the most difficult time of the fishing game…waiting to set the hook. Too soon and he’d rip the hook from the boney mouth. Too late and the intended would expose the ruse and spit the hook. Just right and…Adam reared back on his rod, driving the point of the hook home.
The line pulled taught and all motion ceased as if he had hooked a bulldozer. After one of the longest seconds of his life had finally passed the chase was on. The quarry made a mad dash out to sea. Adam would have lost this one due to complacency had he not loosened the drag just before the line reached its breaking point. Yard after yard of braided line peeled from his spinning reel.He preferred braid over mono, “It’s a touch thing,” he would say.
The first run’s always the longest, he thought. Bring it, bring it. Suddenly the unseen warrior at the end of the line made an abrupt one-eighty and headed straight for the beach.”Nice move,” Adam said as he began to wind furiously. Pump, wind, pump, wind, pump, wind. “Line tight, no slack…turn, turn,” he barked. The line jerked hard right causing hunter and prey to begin their second run laterally up the beach.
Adam ran through the shallows sending spray into the air before the receding wave could completely retreat. This parallel movement allowed him to use the drag to keep the line at bay. The pair once again came to a halt. This time sensing a dire situation turning worse the captured beast began to thrash wildly, desperate to throw the hook at any cost. The cold steel barb held fast causing the exhausted combatant to attempt one last feeble, if not brave, dash for freedom.
“Now…you’re…mine,” Adam growled. He horsed the defeated bronze creature through the surf, his line straining to its limit, the undertow struggling to rob the victor of his spoils. One more wave and the defeated lay spent, deposited on instantly compacting sand, the ocean returning to its origin.
The processing trawler made its last haul, dumping tons of sea creatures on a conveyor belt. Various species of fish were separated from the rest, disappearing down a dark tunnel as they did so.
“That’s it, Mommy,” the child said, pointing to a package of fish in the frozen food case. She stood on her tiptoes barely able to reach over the edge. “Right there, the one with the man on the box. That’s the kind I like.”
Which one would you write?