A Fish Story

 

I never said I wanted to fish. I certainly never wanted to catch a fish. I have never been curious about fishing and I already know that I can’t kill a mouse or a rat or a groundhog, and I have good reason to want to kill them. I have no motivation to cause any pain to a fish. I also don’t like boats much, although small boats are better than big ones.

But none of that mattered. A friend of Jon’s who has been a fishing guide for the last 43 years decided that it was time to get us into his boat. He is retiring after this season and he and Jon have been talking about fishing for about 37 of those years. I was never there for any of the conversations – they have an annual cider pressing date where they drink rum and make cider – but somehow I got included in the invitation.  There did not seem to be any gracious way to decline, especially since he made us choose a date when he was here last fall, making cider.  I chose Monday, July 11, knowing that I like to go swimming in July and Mondays are the only day that could happen.

A couple of days ago, I turned the page on my calendar and told Jon, “We’re going fishing with Mark Kovach on Monday.”  Oh yeah? And then a day later we got a letter in the mail confirming the date and telling us where to be and what to wear. Oy.  This was really going to happen. I still didn’t want to fish, but I said I would go and hang out in the boat.  Jon got us fishing licenses anyway.

We arrived at the boat ramp in Brunswick, MD at 8 AM on the most glorious July morning in memory. It was 62 degrees with low humidity, we had driven through fog that lasted from Ashburn all the way past the farm and down to the Potomac River. It was a cornpicking morning with heavy dew.

Mark rolled up with his Jeep, towing a trailer with a boat that is really a very sturdy inflatable raft, rigged out with a custom designed aluminum frame that provides three seats that swivel, a rack for the fishing rods, holders for the oars, and two strong “hip holders” – places where you can stand up and be held firmly around the thighs so you won’t fly out of the boat if things get rough.  The boat was named by his wife: “Potomac Mistress.” Later we would find out more about that.

As Mark unloaded all the gear from his Jeep and loaded up the boat, I was reminded of Lani and all her packing and unpacking to go on horse adventures. So much stuff, organized into specific bags, each with its own spot on the boat. He poured ice into coolers and he refused help because he knew where everything went and he didn’t want to explain it all to well-meaning people who had no idea how to help.

His partner arrived from Martinsburg, WV (now we had got two people out of bed at dawn so we could receive this gift that only one of us thought was a good idea) so he could drop us off up the river, upstream from Harpers Ferry.  These two men had done this routine hundreds or maybe even thousands of times, on this stretch of river.

When we got in the boat (with perfect instructions on what to hold onto, where to put our feet), he asked about our previous fishing experience. Jon had been to camp when he was 15 and had done a lot of fishing. That was 50 years ago. I had never held a fishing rod in my life.  And I still wasn’t planning to. 

So then Mark explained where the fish are most likely to be – hanging out in the areas where the current is not as fast, behind rocks, or in the space between a fast current or a slow current. All very interesting information, not particularly relevant to me, but I listened and asked questions because he was being so generous to spend an entire day doing something he does for a living, and he was giving it to us as a present.

Or course Jon could just flip his wrist and the line went way out, the bait sailing to some place I couldn’t even see because I can’t even watch a golf ball or a hockey puck moving through space. They just disappear.  Mark asked if I wanted to try casting.

That was the beginning of many hours of bumbling around. First I couldn’t do it because I am left-handed, so he switched the mechanism around to the other side of the rod. Then I just did not grasp the whole concept of the bale (bail?) and how it opens and closes – that’s the spool that holds the line, and there is a thing you flip to unlock it before you cast the line. You have to put two fingers above the bail and two below. Your index finger holds the line against the rod. You make sure nothing is tangled so the line will unroll fast. Theoretically, you just hold the rod up, allowing it to bend backwards to gain some energy and you flick your wrist quickly, letting go with your index finger and the bait will pull the line out. You have to aim. Ha. That is a lot of simultaneous motion, the flicking and the letting go.  And then if you happen to succeed, there is more to do.

Mark could see everything I was doing wrong, and he was patient, every single hour of the way. I was letting go too early. I was letting go too late. I was throwing, I wasn’t casting. He had to untangle the line over and over because I was waiting too long to cast and the bait was twirling around at the end of the rod, making knots. He said my knots were getting really sophisticated. By lunchtime I managed to cast successfully, but not consistently. I was still throwing, not casting. Since I never wanted to catch a fish anyway, just learning to cast became my goal. I wanted to do two good casts in a row before the day was over.

Meanwhile, Jon wasn’t catching any fish anyway. He was in the front, following Mark’s directions about where to look for fish, and not finding any. Once I did feel a fish tugging on my line but luckily it went away.

I was now learning to untangle my own knots, which was very satisfying. I was so glad this was artificial bait.  Very realistic and squishy and I barely wanted to touch it even though it was made of rubbery plastic (Mark kept changing the bait for both of us, to see if the fish would like something different). After lunch I got better at casting and I could even aim for the area of interest. Sometimes.

We had lunch on an island where we got to sit in chairs at a table that Mark unfolded from one of his many bags (oh, I should say what he brought: salmon candy, fried chicken, chips, drinks, tuna sandwich, roast beef and brie sandwich, cookies, little salads). We talked about our kids and the summer house in Michigan that the family is renovating. We talked some about our businesses. He has been to the farm at least once a year since 1984 so he has some perspective, although it is mostly from the vantage point of the cider press, which is a funny place to watch from.

When we got back on the water, there was an abandoned inner tube on the side of the river and Mark asked Jon if he wanted to salvage it.  While they were focused on that, a fish got on my line. I swore. I definitely did not want to catch a fish. Mark coached me because I did everything wrong in every possible way, but somehow the fish wanted to stay caught so I got it to Mark’s hands and he took it off the hook. It was a small mouthed bass, he said it was about two years old, and he said the teeth were soft and I should hold it by the mouth. Oh good grief. So I held up this tiny little fish by putting my thumb in its mouth and Jon took the picture. Then Mark threw it back into the water.  He said of course I would be the one to catch the first fish, after all that (hours and hours of so many casts from both ends of the boat).  Pretty soon after that I caught another one but we didn’t bother with the picture.

Eventually Jon caught two fish and my total was three. Mark focused on his students, even though we both asked him to fish so we could see how a real angler did it.  He cast his line about five times but didn’t persist.

It was a gorgeous day, all day long. Low humidity, bright sunshine, about 84 degrees at the most.  It also seemed like a long day. We traveled about seven miles, stopping often to fish, occasionally going over some small rapids. The boat was so round and steady that it didn’t matter if we went down sideways or backwards, or spinning. Not like a canoe or a rowboat. Hard to tip it over. Mark did all the decision-making and rowing. We just sat there and looked around at the scenery.

He told stories all day and answered all our questions.  Toward the end, Jon asked him to tell us about the most unusual fish he had caught on this stretch of river. He said he had caught a big catfish, and that it got tangled in the line because it thrashed so hard. When he had it in his hand, and he was getting it unwrapped (and thinking about eating it because catfish are so yummy), the fish started to make croaking noises. He says catfish do croak.  He had two friends with him in the boat, watching this whole scene.  The fish said, “Throw me back!”  Mark looked at it and wondered if he was hearing things. The fish said it again, and Mark asked his friends if they heard it too. They did.  Then it said, “Throw me back. PLEASE!”  Mark threw it back into the water. He wasn’t going to mess with a talking fish, especially one that said “please.”  

I asked him about the name of his boat and how his wife felt about his fishing. He said she used to help him with the business but he wasn’t grateful enough and he neglected to say thank you and she got mad enough to decide never to help him again.  She has stuck to her decision and has also told him when he needs to reassess his priorities and spend more time with the family. They have been married for over 40 years, and they still like each other in spite of the fishing business.

Ten hours of floating and talking and fishing.  I lost one hat, we lost about five lures between us, we didn’t break any of his expensive equipment, and we caught some fish. We saw cormorants and eagles and herons and ducks and deer. It was a day we will remember. And now I know so much more about casting than I did before. I would starve to death if I didn’t have someone else to put the bait on and take the fish off, and Jon would have to cut up and cook the fish, but there is some small chance that I would be able to catch a fish if I had most of a day to do it.

When Lani asked me later why we were parked in Brunswick all day (she can watch me on Google maps), I said we were fishing. She said, “pardon me?” I said “we were FISHING!” She burst out laughing, saying she didn’t think she had heard me right, and that was the last thing she thought I would say. Yeah, me too.