Wednesday, November 28, 2007

HOW TIME FLIES- Oh, and I'm still afraid of catfish.

Has it really been two months since I managed to write? So it seems. I wanted to say a quick thanks to my old friend Potsy, who has been reading the blog and who seems to have referred a few of his friends. I am happy to have all of my readers, but Potsy can vouch for most of the old-school craziness that is posted throughout this blog.

I was talking with Potsy a few weeks ago, and I was reminded of a fishing trip several years ago. This would have been during the aforementioned era when my friends and I would try to fish every day. A bunch of us were sitting around the firehouse one day, and we got to talking about the different types of fishing that we liked to do. One of our friends, whose name was Glenn, was going on and on about how much he enjoyed catfishing in the smaller of the two rivers in our town. It was then that I made a serious slip-up... I mentioned to the group that I was (am) scared to death of catfish.

Admitting fear of anything among a group of twenty-something firefighters is bad enough, but these guys thought that this was the funniest thing that they had ever heard. The chop-busting and ribbing started immediately. For the uninitiated, all of our local catfish species (channel, blue, flathead, etc.) have little venom stingers or barbs under their pectoral fins. As long as one holds a caught catfish correctly, the little stingers are not a problem. The trouble was that in all of my days fishing, I never learned the "magical catfish grip", and accordingly, the catfish have freaked me out since I was a kid.

I blame my father. When he was teaching my brother and me to fish, he pointed out this little issue with catfish, and whenever we would catch one, he would be very dramatic in his efforts to get the fish off the hook. My dad pretty much knows the magical catfish grip, but was never so kind as to teach it to me. All he would to is demand that he be the one to take the fish off, if I didn't ask him to do it first. Dad would tell tales of horrendous injury resulting from catfish spiking. Slashed fingers, venom induced night-sweats, kids getting stung through the soles of their shoes, this is what I remember hearing from my dad. Hey, I realize that no matter what happens with a catfish, it can't possibly be that bad, but even today, I am still wary of even stepping on a catfish to get a hook out.

Naturally, Glenn and Potsy thought that this entire situation was ludicrous. Glenn decided that he had to teach me the not-so-magical catfish grip immediately. Right now. In the late afternoon of that summer day, we hatched a plan to go fishing. We would meet at a pre-designated point at the smaller river, Glenn would put us on guaranteed catfish, and then Glenn would take me out of the world of big woochie pussies.

Of course, speaking of big woochie pussies, Glenn couldn't go to the fishing spot right away. Oh no. He had to go deal with his girlfriend first. Glenn's then-current girlfriend remains a dear friend of mine, but I have to say, to suggest an immediate fishing trip, and then bail to go not only see your girlfriend, but to then bring her to the expedition, is a "man rule" violation.

So the plan was that Potsy and I would wait about thirty minutes, and then drive to the river after Glenn had enough time to pick up his girlfriend and get to the river. Instead of executing that plan, Potsy and I loaded up our heavy-duty fishing gear and went to a convenience store to buy some beer. Potsy was driving some sort of small Japanese sports car with an oversized noisy exhaust and red-painted brake calipers. Bear in mind that this was in about 1992, and he was way ahead of the day. So there we were in his two seat riceburner car, with my 6'4" frame riding "G-angle", four or five fishing poles running the length of the car bent down the rear window, tackle everywhere, beer in hand, case of beer under legs. Getting to the river is easy... just go up the main road, turn left, and drive to the water. No problemo, right?

Problemo. Potsy made the left out of the green arrow light just a little aggressively. We broke traction on the turn and went from 0-50 in the 35 mph zone in about three seconds. Unfortunately, we didn't see the police cruiser behind us in line. The lights came on and we stopped in the next block. Since I was basically laying down in the passenger seat, I could see only the police officer from about his belt buckle to his badge when he walked up to Potsy's window. We were cooked. I'm holding two open beers now, and I know that we looked a mess. "License and registration, please" came the word from the officer. Potsy complied without looking up. The belt, shirt and badge took the documents, and said "You know, you took that turn a little fast." Potsy started to say something, when the officer bent down so I could see his face. Relief rushed over me when I realized that it was a good friend of ours, who next told Potsy to stick his head out of the window. Again, Potsy complied, and the officer smacked him over the head and said "Stop driving like an asshole!", right before making the Flounder-from-Animal House-like-inquiry of "Are you guys going fishing?" Strangely, Potsy was not issued a summons after that traffic stop, and we went to the pre-designated meeting spot.

Glenn and his girl got there, and we started fishing. Glenn had us fishing a bunch of techniques geared toward catching catfish, and we caught everything in the river except catfish. Seriously, we caught bream, largemouth bass, striper, perch, and even a turtle. As the sun was going down, I finally caught a catfish. It was about a foot long. In my view, it was menacing. After bringing it to land, I let it sit on the ground. Glenn said "Oh, no you don't", and picked it up off the ground. He showed me how to slide my hand up the fish's belly and to apply a grip that took the stinging parts out of play. I made the grip, but only with the greatest of caution, and our party then realized that my proclaimed visceral fear of catfish was true. But I made the grip nonetheless, and I had to work very hard to remove the hook from the fish, which I had gill hooked and thereby sentenced to death. Once it was off the hook, I took a moment to study the fish and to try to burn the fish grip technique into my mind. I then threw the fish back.

We all had a good laugh at my expense because of my trepidation with the entire exercise. Despite the embarassment, I was feeling that sort of "first kill" feeling that hunters describe. My hand was covered in blood from the fish, and I used the blood to put two-finger Indian war paint marks on my cheeks. Everyone thought that was crazy, especially the girlfriend, but a good time was had by all. As it got dark, we decided to change spots by about 30 miles and we went to another river, where we all fished, drank beer, smoked cigarettes and caught about a zillion catfish from a municipal parking lot. We had a great time.

That was a long time ago. The girlfriend is married to another friend of mine. Glenn died a few years ago and many years too soon. Potsy lives someplace else. Writing this makes me think that it is important to savor nights like these: you are young, you are (almost) fearless, you are indestructible, and you are with people who (if they weren't already) will be lifelong friends because of experiences like these. Good times.

If you bothered to read this, please leave a comment. Go to my links for important political information, and come back soon. I'll try to write more quickly next time.

DTXMATT12