Dateline: August 1, 2011 – Chokoloskee, Florida

“Thank God, it’s a small one.” This is not something we hear very often in the fishing world. But that is exactly the phrase a group of 4 of us uttered in a remote bay in the Everglades this summer. 

In species hunting, there is weird and there is WEIRD. Some species are hard to catch, or rare, and others are simply ”off the table.” The Sawfish is one of these “off the table” creatures. They are very rare – listed by the IUCN Red List as critically endangered, and are totally protected from being kept by fishermen in the state of Florida.  They rarely bite a bait, and even when they do, they are so large, so strong, and so dangerous that it would never be a good idea to land one. So naturally, this post is going to be about trying to catch one.

From time to time, people fishing for Shark or Tarpon hook a Sawfish. Most of the time, it ends quickly and badly with a broken line, but sometimes, the situation worsens because some idiot actually tries to land one. It’s one thing when a fish can bite off fingers, but it’s another thing entirely when it might try to knock the end off your boat. You heard me. A mature Sawfish can reach 18 feet long and weigh up to 800 pounds, and a good portion of that weight is a rostrum lined with chainsaw-like modified denticles that resemble teeth. I’m willing to get bitten or spined to catch a fish, but bisected is out of the question.

I had tried to catch a sawfish before - see http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2011/03/24/communing-with-manatees/ - and I was not successful. (Which may actually have been for the best - depending on whether you’re looking at things from a species or safety perspective.) It was right after that trip, back in March, that I met the Arosteguis. Marty mentioned that a guide friend of his in Chokoloskee - the deepest, darkest part of the Everglades – had discovered a pattern in mid-summer where Sawfish were seen in shallow areas and could actually be fished by sight-casting. He even mentioned that some of these creatures were juveniles, which would mean that I could be photographed with them and maybe only risk a finger or two. This stayed in my head through the spring and summer, and by the time I arrived in Miami, I was positively rabid about the idea of catching one.

        Turns out the name was Indian, rather than Polish as I has suspected.

The drive to Chokoloskee is a long, flat dragstrip of a road that goes right through the Everglades, and it was fascinating to watch the sun come up and see countless exotic birds starting their day. There is an unbelievable variety of wildlife here: river otters, manatees, bears, panthers, and numerous escaped anacondas that can eat unpleasantly large stuff, like deer and Smart Cars. It’s quite an isolated place, but the Arosteguis had quite a bit of faith in the area and especially in our guide, Ray Culver. There are a bunch of guides in this area, whom the Arosteguis collectively refer to as “The Infestation Brothers,” because every time you call them about a particular fish, they’ll say “the place is infested with ‘em.” (Or, alternatively, that “the place WAS infested with ‘em last week.”)

On the other hand, if the fish aren’t biting, Ray will be the first to tell you so. He is a great guy – if you want to do any back country fishing in this area, look him up at http://www.floridalighttacklecharters.com/captains_rayculver.htm or call 941-628-1355. This part of the Everglades is jammed with Tarpon, Redfish, Snook, Speckled Trout, and about anything else you would want to catch in the back country, and it’s an easy day trip from Miami. But please don’t ask him to try to catch a Sawfish.

It was a long run to Ray’s secret Sawfish spot, through a pretty much trackless maze of islands, cuts, mangrove swamps, and assorted places where rescuers would never find you. It was absolutely beautiful, until I noticed what I thought was haze over each little patch of land we passed. After a few minutes, I figured out that these were clouds of mosquitos. I hate mosquitos. I figured we were fine if we kept going, but when we stopped, I knew I would prove once again that there is no such thing as an effective mosquito repellant.

A typical back country scene. I am not sure if those clouds are condensed water vapor or mosquitos.

We parked well out on the mud flats waiting for the tide to get just right, passing the time by catching Speckled Trout after Speckled Trout – nice, solid fish.

After about an hour of this, Ray declared the tide was correct and we moved into a small bay, beached the boat on an island, and began to walk the shoreline and look for cruising Sawfish. The mosquitos found us in 14 seconds, and despite my wearing a host of allegedly repellent substances, I was bitten repeatedly and must have looked ridiculous trying to focus on the water while hopping around, holding a fishing rod with one hand and slapping myself all over with the other. The Arosteguis mentioned that this was actually the off season for mosquitos, so if I come back, it’s going to be with full netting or perhaps a suit of armor.

                                            We play mosquito fodder.

About 15 minutes (or 228 mosquito bites) later, we spotted a nice Sawfish cruising about 2 feet off the shore.  I missed the hookset. Over the next hour, we had several shots at fish in various sizes, ranging from maybe three feet to something a bit more dangerous. I missed them all, and as the tide was running out, I knew the pressure was on and we would have very few additional chances.

I am not above letting a guide cast at something, especially in dire circumstances such as this. Ray landed a cast right in front of a cruising Sawfish, and I took it from there. It was a spirited fight, more brawn than speed, and we eased the beast up onto the shoreline. It was a perfect fish, juvenile, about 3 feet long. Within seconds of each other, we all said “Thank God, it’s a small one.”

Of course, then came the issue of how exactly to approach and pick the fish up. It was flopping this way and that, and could swing that saw around in unpredictable directions with impressive force. Naturally, I let the guide handle it. Ray gently but firmly picked up the fish as it was making a move back toward the water, and removed the barbless hook. Below are the photos of one of the most amazing creatures to swim in our oceans.

The Smalltooth Sawfish. There is also a Largetooth Sawfish, which, as you can imagine, has fewer, larger teeth. No, I am not setting a trip to look for one.

The dangerous parts. Imagine this scaled up to 18 feet and 800 pounds or so. And for my old friend “Hedge Witch,” I repeat that the fish was quickly released, unharmed, with a pat on the head and a free Sardine. (See http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2010/08/06/the-yogurt-knitters-strike-back-daily-mail-uk-article-sparks-furor/ for details.) 

Once the mission was accomplished, we needed to head back to Miami to finish packing for Bimini, so we made an early day out of it. On the ride back to the harbor, both Marty and Martini did something that I thought was impossible in a racing, bouncing boat. They both fell asleep, while we were crashing along at 40 miles an hour.

                                     This kid can sleep ANYWHERE.

Once we got back to the Arostegui’s house, Martini and I finally got our chance to try for “the boathouse Goby.” Martini had no idea what species they were, but he was certain that there were thousands of them in their boathouse, and so, with #18 Sabikis and shrimp in hand, off we went. While Marty looked on with faint amusement, I dropped the rig down and was promptly swarmed with small but enthusiastic Gobies.

                               The day’s other species – the Crested Goby.

The little beasts turned out to be the Crested Goby, Lophogogius cyprinoides for those of you who are playing along at home, and for the record, Martini was the one who actually made the identification. But the Sawfish was clearly the thrill of the day if not the year, and as I went to sleep that night, I recalled (loosely) the words of Caesar – “Veni vidi pisces vici” – “I came, I sawfish, I conquered.”

Steve

Dateline: July 30, 2011 – Miami, Florida

I like a good movie now and then, but I’m not exactly a cinema buff. And I don’t mind Gwyneth Paltrow – she was deliciously sociopathic in “Great Expectations” – but I never thought I had much in common with her. Little did I know, that by the end of the day, I would suffer through a crucial and difficult experience that she had endured years before. Gwyneth, if you’re reading this, I’m here to help.

 

Gwyneth Paltrow in “Shakespeare in Love,” which should have been titled “Shakespeare in Pain.”

Back in March, Marty Arostegui (see http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2011/03/27/cavorting-with-exotic-swamp-creatures/) had invited me back to Miami in August to hit the canals, fish the back country, and then to go over to the Bahamas for a few days. At the time, I thought he might still have just been being polite, but he was serious and this guy gets stuff done. By late spring, we had the dates set up and I had bought my ticket. Of course, the events of mid-July really put fishing well down on my priority list, but as things worked out, this trip was probably the most needed vacation I ever had.

Our planned agenda was a busy one, starting with two days of fishing in Miami, plying the canals that have become hotbeds of non-native beasties that people have released from their aquariums or that have actually been stocked there sort of on purpose. We fishermen often find ourselves sniffing at these not-always welcome visitors, yet here I was about to spend two days fishing for species that otherwise would have taken 5 trips in central America to catch. Still, all these undocumented fish would not have gone over well in Arizona. (See http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2010/06/16/the-countdown-to-1000-puns-in-the-high-desert/) As a consequence of all these thoughts of immigration, that damn Neil Diamond song “Coming to America” drifted through my head for the rest of the trip. I really, really hate that song.

Just to make me mad, United Airlines got me to Miami 12 hours late. So our planned dawn departure was altered to an afternoon launch. We headed down to an interconnected set of lakes near the airport and launched a flats-type skiff.  Everything seemed normal, right until they started the engine, but then things went from a calm day on the water to a particularly vicious ride at Six Flags. Martini drove the boat out onto the water and picked up speed. The lagoons soon gave way to narrow canals, but still Martini picked up speed. We ended up in shoulder-width back canals crisscrossed with low bridges, and he continued to accelerate, and, I am pretty sure, laughed maniacally. They fish this area a lot, so it must have seemed safe and familiar to them, but it was neither to me and I spent the next 15 minutes in the emergency landing position while father and son exchanged sad glances.

We have just gone under that pipeline at high speed. Note Marty’s patient expression as he waits for me to stop screaming.

We pounded a side canal, looking for the Jaguar Guapote, an elusive creature with one of the coolest fish names ever. We saw a few, but they are ridiculously hard to catch – the angler has to drop a jig within inches of their noses while somehow maintaining a degree of stealth. The Arosteguis may have these close-quarter combat skills, but I don’t. We did catch some beautiful Oscars and a stray Tilapia or two.

                    Matching Oscars. Yes, mine is bigger.

But, as far as the Jaguar Guapote goes, I thought I had blown it and I was resigned to looking for big Tilapia or Bluegill. We were working our way back out of the channel, and I was casting a float/worm combo, when suddenly, a small, dark shape emerged from some sunken branches and seized the crawler. Instinctively, I snapped back and flipped a small Jaguar Guapote onto the deck. I was thrilled, and I think Marty was stunned, as he had never seen such a lack of casting rewarded with a fish. (But he was also the first to high-five me when the fish came onboard.) But it’s such a cool fish name, I just loved saying it. “Hey guys, I just caught a Jaguar Guapote.” “My, that Tilapia doesn’t look at all like the Jaguar Guapote I just caught.” “Waitress, do you have Jaguar Guapote on the fresh fish board? You see, I just caught one …”

The Jaguar Guapote - I need to be more careful when I allow Martini to be in my photos.

We then moved to a new spot and saw some beautiful Peacock Bass hugging the banks. While I have caught several species of these Brazilian natives down in the Amazon, they are a thrill to catch anywhere. It was also humbling to watch Marty or Martini cast to a fish I had missed 8 times in a row and get it on the first try.

Marty and a Peacock that ignored me for 10 minutes before he cast to it once.

We then started casting some small baits for Tilapia. Oh, Tilapia. I don’t like Tilapia. I don’t like to eat them, and I hate trying to identify them. While I enjoy catching any fish, there is nothing so frustrating as holding a fish in my hand and knowing it will be almost impossible to pin down to a specific species. They are hard to identify even in their pure forms, and they shamelessly cross-breed with anything that will hold still, resulting in bizarre and impossible to pin down hybrids. The one scientist that really understands this family stopped talking to me a while ago, probably because he thought I was stalking him. (On advice of counsel, I am unable to comment further on this matter.)

But there was some slight hope here, because this beast had defined yellow and black bars and teeth – most Tilapia I have seen lack teeth, so I figured this feature might be helpful. Indeed, the beast turned out to be a Hornet Tilapia, a newbie for me, and an immigrant from Africa. (Neil Diamond started in my head again. “We’re coming to America … today.” God I hate that song.)

               The Hornet Tilapia and a typical view of the canals we fished.

On the second day of canal fishing, we headed to a different part of town and launched for a half day. (We needed the afternoon to prepare for the trip to the Bahamas.)

We opened the day casting to more Peacock Bass, and they opened their day by continued to ignore me. After quite a bit of advice and some lucky casting, I finally managed to get the one pictured below.

                               The Arosteguis let me catch this fish out of pity.

Our main target for the morning was the Midas Cichlid – a bizarre bright orange transplant from central America. (And there went Neil Diamond in my head again. On the boats and on the planes … Who writes his lyrics – Dr. Seuss?) Like a freakishly large Goldfish with a bad attitude, these Cichlids are thick in certain parts of these canals, and stand out like, well, a bright orange fish in clear water. I kept pointing at small groups of them as we whizzed by at high speed. Martini would say “Wait until we get there.” When we got there, there was an underwater orange mass that looked like a sunken 400 pound pumpkin. “Now we’re here.” Martini said. I cast, and the entire pumpkin moved over toward the bait, and the float went down. It was easy, which, in my world, makes it fun. The two professionals looked at me patiently.

Now that’s just weird. Martini made me touch the forehead bump – it is soft and squishy, much like my own.

We moved further up the canal, and it was still chock full of fish – dark shapes loomed under every ledge. We cast jigs and bait, and kept picking off nice fish. Martini caught a Bluegill as big as a human head.

This is a Bluegill. Yes, the same thing you caught as a kid, except that this one has shoulders and a forehead. There is no nuclear plant nearby, so I am at a loss for an explanation. Sure, a scientist might tell you this is a breeding male, but I like the radiation idea better.

As we eased along the bank, my float shot off to the left. I set the hook, and the fight was on. I landed a beast of a Tilapia, and with its big black blotches on the sides, this was clearly a Spotted Tilapia. Another easily identifiable Tilapia? YES!! I couldn’t believe my luck, and I’m sure Dr. Kullander is thrilled I won’t be pestering him. Of course, another immigrant, and off Neil Diamond went off in my head again. Who recites the Pledge of Allegiance in a song? And shouldn’t he have retired or something? The guy performed at Martin Van Buren’s inauguration, for God’s sake.

                               The Spotted Tilapia – species # 1094.

I was really on my best behavior most of the trip. I said “please” and “thank you,” showered now and then, and worked hard at decent table manners. But I did have one major etiquette slipup. Marty had made it clear he was looking for an IGFA length record on the Oscar, and every time we saw a decent Oscar, we stepped back and let him throw a jig at it. So at the end of the side channel, Marty saw what looked to be a big Oscar, and we moved away so he could set up. He told us it was no problem to keep fishing the bread rigs where we were, but in hindsight, I should have just waited. Because we all know what happened. Whether it was the fish Marty initially saw or another big Oscar, I got a huge hit on my light rod and finally wrestled in … a large Oscar. A length record Oscar. Marty’s length record Oscar.

        The stolen world-record Oscar. They forced me to smile for this photo.

I felt bad, as he was pushing hard to get his 400th record, was hosting me in his home, and was even passing up fish to give me shots. Then I catch his fish. Bad, bad Steve. Marty, as always, was a great sport, and to end the drama, his 400th record was approved later in the summer. What a milestone. And so it was that my 38th world record was pretty much a gift from the master himself. But I still faintly felt like I had gotten an Oscar I did not deserve - which is the one thing I have in common with Gwyneth Paltrow. Marty doesn’t look a thing like Meryl Streep, but he may have felt her pain.

Steve

Dateline: July 28, 2011 – Birmingham, Michigan

We all need comfort and reassurance from time to time, but on occasion, it can come from very unexpected sources.

One of the worst parts about losing a parent is what I can only describe as sudden and unwelcome change; a lack of continuity. The way things have been – literally forever – is now changed – forever. And nothing puts the emphasis on how different things are than going back to your hometown, to your childhood home – not for a Mother’s Day, or a birthday, or a Tigers game, but for a funeral.

My Mom passed away on July 9, 2011. My sister and I decided to hold the memorial on July 27th, and the family all started coming in to Birmingham on the 24th. It was high summer in Michigan: hot and humid but pleasant, and this brought back memories of now-distant summers, and endless carefree hours where our only worries were bicycle flats and getting home by the incredibly restrictive 10pm curfew. Now, half a lifetime later, everything was so very different.

Shain Park. Or Shane Park, central Birmingham. We spent so much time having fun here as kids that we never learned for sure how to spell it.

Simply put, life had changed. I had actual responsibilities: a job, a house, and now (with my sister) my mother’s estate. And so much had changed about southeastern Michigan. My elementary school was now a community center. The inept Lions of my childhood were being touted as a playoff contender. My junior high was now a “middle school” with a bunch of awkward-looking additions built on to it. St. Andrews Street, the scene of so many pickup baseball and football games, was torn up in a massive, dusty repaving project that my mother loathed. The cracked and patched concrete of my childhood, where individual repairs had marked bases and first downs, was gone. I recognized no one in the neighborhood. Where had my connection to this place gone?

The night after the service, I wandered the town where I’d grown up, looking for a familiar place or at least one familiar face. The buildings and businesses had all changed. Old Kresge’s, where we consumed untold pounds of French fries and endless Cokes with no ice so we got more Coke - had been gone for years. It seemed like most of the new shops were the same ones found at every mall in America. It was still a charming place, but it no longer felt like the town where I grew up.

                                         Birmingham, Michigan.

There was great comfort in hanging out with Sean Biggs, my hockey teammate and general co-conspirator from junior high. (NOT middle school.) He has certainly aged more gracefully than I have. But was there anything here that had not changed?

Then I thought of the Rouge River. The Rouge is a fairly large tributary of the Detroit River, but out in suburban Birmingham, it is a small country stream, narrow enough to jump across in most places.

  A small but favorite section of the Rouge River, Birmingham, Michigan.

It was here that I had spent many hours of my childhood, fishing for the small but cooperative Creek Chub. (See http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2010/11/13/my-old-kentucky-bone/) Sometime in the 1970s, the Creek Chub had become the 6th species of fish I ever caught. Sean and I would get on our bikes and head off, armed with nothing more than Zebco spincast rods and some Cracker Barrel sharp cheddar cheese, which we had liberated from my Mother’s fridge. We would go to our favorite haunts – the Kensington pools or the stone bridge on Manor Road -  mold the cheese onto #8 snelled hooks, drop it in under a bobber, and wait.

The Manor Road bridge. The bank is just as muddy as it was in the mid-1970s.

Once we found the good spots, we generally didn’t have to wait long. The Chubs were voracious and seemed to never stop biting. Although I had caught 5 types of fish before the Creek Chub, the Chub was the first fish I caught completely on my own and with no adult supervision. At the time, this seemed like a tremendous accomplishment. It still does. I will never forget how stunned I was when I pulled up the first one.

I wondered to myself if the Chubs were still there, or if they had all died back in the late 1970′s due to chronic cheese constipation. I borrowed my 12 year-old nephew, Charlie, so I would have an excuse to be wandering a muddy creek bank, and I went in search of my lost youth.

The top of the riffle below the Manor Road bridge. I fished off those very same paving stones 35 years ago.

I could never give someone directions to the small stone bridge on Manor Road, but I could find it blindfolded. (Not recommended while driving.) The quaint stone bridge has been there since before I was a boy, with the brook flowing silently underneath it. There are nice riffles above and below it that were full of Chubs. Upon arrival, I had to deal with something I had never considered as a child – parking. There was absolutely no legal parking anywhere near the place. Luckily, the neighbors are tolerant and it was not an issue.

Charlie is a good kid. I don’t get to see him or his sister Elizabeth as often as I would like – just part of living on opposite coasts. His Grandmother’s passing away hit him pretty hard. He’s 12 years old and they were very close. I was 40 when my Grandmother died and it was still a tough time, so I really felt for him. He was quiet on the drive to the bridge, but he perked up when he saw the creek.

I took a couple of rods out of the trunk and rigged them up – small floats with mini-jigs underneath. My source of cheese was gone.  We stepped down the bank carefully – it was just as muddy as it always was when I was a kid. I shut my eyes and listened, just me and the creek, and for a moment, I was almost back in my childhood. It felt there somewhere, but just out of reach.

I took a deep breath and cast. 35 years, over a thousand species, and 69 countries had passed since I had fished here. The float righted itself and drifted down the riffle, then down into the pool, untouched. I scowled. Pollution? Global warming? Just then, Charlie said “Uncle Steve!” I looked downstream, and the float was gone.

I scanned the water quickly, hoping as we always do to not see the bobber. Instinctively, I pulled the rod back and felt the unmistakable tugging of a Creek Chub.  I treasured the moment, not reeling, just sitting there remembering the thrill of catching a fish on my own. We landed it – small, green, a hint of purple and silver along the flanks. They were here.

A fine example of a Rouge River Creek Chub. This particular specimen is a male.

I choked up a bit. I told Charlie “I used to catch these here when I was your age.” I still had a connection to this place and my childhood.

                             Still life with Chub and bridge.

We didn’t have long, but we made the most of it, getting about 10 fish each in an hour. We worked our way above and below the stone bridge, and then walked up a private side road to a smaller wooden bridge. The pool below it was filled with Chubs and a couple of surprise Bluegill, just as it had been years ago.

                                      Charlie and his first Creek Chub.

Charlie and a surprise Bluegill. These fight harder than the Chubs and are always a thrill.

It was a pleasant, hot Michigan summer day, and we got wet and muddy. And for a little while, we forgot about everything except the creek. Charlie caught all his fish completely on his own – he’s turning into a good angler.

Charlie gets wet and muddy. I am certain my sister could name 14 diseases he could catch by doing this. Luckily, as of press time, he hasn’t caught any of them. (Although perhaps the evil parasites that cause Bolivian Drooling Sickness are coursing through his bloodstream at this very moment.)

I pushed it as long as we could before we had to head back for dinner, but I didn’t want to get in trouble with my sister. So we packed it in around 5:30. (I have spent plenty of time in trouble for coming home late from fishing, and I didn’t want my sister to ground me.)

I still didn’t sleep much that night – I don’t imagine anyone does the week they say a final goodbye to a parent. It all felt overwhelming – the sadness, the suddenness, the finality, and the endless to-do list that comes with these events. Then I remembered the afternoon on the creek all those years ago, and one of the first times I really found I could do something important on my own. I remembered thinking that getting a fish without help was impossible, and discovering that with enough work and persistence, I could do that and plenty of other difficult things. And I knew I would get through this.

Steve

Dateline: July 23, 2011 – Duck, North Carolina

I’m asking a lot of you all to even read these posts. So I am probably pushing my luck by asking you to help me with a family situation, but by the end of this article, I am going to do exactly that. It will take just a moment of your time, and I promise that it will help me develop a closer relationship with my niece and nephew AND help me mess with my younger sister. So it’s a win/win. (Unless you’re my sister, and you’re probably not, so don’t change the subject.)

Looking back over this blog, I have not mentioned my sister very often. Her name is Laura Germain, she is two years younger than I am, and we don’t have much in common, because she is normal. She is married to a kind and patient IT Executive named Dan, and they have a stable, suburban life with two children – Charlie, who is currently 12 and hence at my emotional level, and Elizabeth, a particularly stubborn little girl who is 10.

The Germains – my sister and her family. Going diagonally up from bottom left and then straight down and up diagonally back to the left, we have Charlie, Laura, Elizabeth, and Dan.

Laura and I are, at times, comically different. She is a professional worrier, I charge into things with no advance planning. She is concerned about countertop germs, I believe in the 2 day rule. She plans a healthy diet for a family of four; I can survive on Burger King and Red Bull. We do both enjoy travel, history, odd humor, watching Charlie play soccer, and watching Elizabeth plot world domination.

The Germains go to the Outer Banks of North Carolina for a week every summer. I joined them for a few years – 2004-2006, I believe – but then got caught up in other stuff and had not been back until this year. Which is a shame, because we have some wonderful memories there, including the first fish for both Charlie and Elizabeth – sacred moments I will never forget.

Charlie, who is somewhere up under that hat, and his first fish – an Atlantic Croaker. July 2005.

Elizabeth and her first catch, also an Atlantic Croaker.

Most of the time, people look very forward to visiting the Outer Banks. The endless beaches and dunes, the lighthouses, the great restaurants, vacation homes, and historical sites such as Kitty Hawk, where the first powered flight took place. (And probably had bad food and was late.)

But I was dreading this visit.

                                     Bodie Island Lighthouse.

The beach at sunset. That’s when all those pesky swimmers go away and the serious fishing can start.

When my Mom passed away on July 9, my sister and her family were just a week away from their annual trip to the Outer Banks. Once we decided that the memorial would be on the 27th, they decided that they should still go on their trip, just to keep up a beloved tradition for the kids. So much had changed for them – it would be nice to keep something the same. Speaking to Laura from Europe, I decided that I would join them there for a few days before we all went to Michigan.

So it was a very sad trip to a place that has a lot of very good memories, and to tell the truth, I didn’t know how I would really react. Sure, it would be nice to be on the beach and with my family, but being with a group of people who were as miserable as I was for the same reason I was couldn’t be a good thing. We were joined by the El-Hindi family, dear friends of my sister’s – Jamal and Jeannie, and their kids Jamal Jr. and the adorable but evil Leigh. In the grand tradition of little sisters, Leigh will scream like she tore an earlobe if Jamal Jr. so much as looks at her sideways. (Much like my sister did when we were kids. As you likely guessed, I was an innocent and peaceful child and was always unfairly accused of wrongdoing, much like I am unfairly accused of being competitive with Jaime Hamamoto.)

The Outer Banks also holds a lot of golden fishing memories for me. With the assistance of ace guide Caine Livesay (http://finelinecharters.com/ - (252) 305-2683), I added 16 new species to my list in 2004-2006, including some beastly Redfish and a very athletic Spinner Shark. Charlie and Elizabeth also caught their first fish with Caine.

                                       A beastly Redfish. July 2006.

That’s Caine Livesay on the left – ace Outer Banks guide and all-around good guy.

These trips also gave me one of my most treasured fishing photos of all time – the shot of my brutally seasick brother-in-law Dan bent helplessly over the rail, throwing up things he ate in 4th grade. Naturally, I was supportive and ran for the camera before he could finish being sick. Not that I needed to hurry, as he was full-on rail bunny from the time we left the dock until we tied up at the end of the day.

I never get tired of posting this one. I hope I wasn’t too busy taking photos to stop the weight from hitting him in the head.

A rare, never-before-published photo from that fateful day on the water. Look lower left. I think Dan was whispering “Kill me. Kill me please.”

There was a lot of time on the beach, a lot of quiet time around the house, and of course, a whole lot of eating. Laura is a tremendous cook and I eat a lot, so it’s a good match. (I feel obligated to point out that Laura has had one major failure as a chef – a 2004 attempt at a Christmas Cake that went horribly wrong. Even the woodland animals in the back yard wouldn’t touch it – I think it is still in the house someplace as an emergency doorstop.)

We sat around and were sad a lot, but we also had some fun and it was a world of comfort to be together.

Sharing a moment with my sister in the Outer Banks, July 2011. For the record, I crushed everyone in the Germain Family Mini-Golf Open. And yes, those are whales embroidered on my shorts.

I did set up one day with Caine to see if we could scrape up some interesting fish. We didn’t. It was blowing hard from the minute we launched, and the further out we went, the rougher it got – by the time we were a couple of miles offshore, it was unfishable. But I tried anyway, and actually managed to add a few miniscule but new species onto the list.

The highlight of these small critters was a Menhaden - a common east coast baitfish that is notoriously difficult to catch on hook and line because they are filter feeders and dine primarily on plankton. Just outside the sound, we found a huge school of them and I began casting a sabiki rig, against the advice of Caine, who suggested that we would all be old and gray before they actually bit a hook. But I persisted, because that is what I do. After 45 minutes of this, I hooked a Menhaden. Then I got another – and finally, a third that was bitten in half by a shark. And so it was that I caught ”Two and a half Menhaden.” I am not clever enough to make this up.

                              40% of the Menhaden I caught that day.

Heading more offshore, we gave shark fishing a try, but the drift was fast enough to pull up a water-skier. Wisely, we gave up fishing before I gave up my breakfast. My sole reward – the vastly underappreciated Rough Scad, which really are wonderful creatures, because I had never caught one.

The Rough Scad.  It’s somewhere in the Horse Mackerel family, a group well-known to us from the Turkey adventure – see http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2010/12/29/istavrit-not-constantinople-a-k-a-the-trojan-horse-mackerel/

 Back in the harbor, I tossed around Sabikis and various baits, and in between all the Croakers and Silver Perch, I got a solitary Anchovy, which Dr. Alfredo Carvalho indicated was the Elongate Anchovy – rather a fancy name for something so tiny. So it was that we caught a couple of decent species and called it a day – it was great to see Caine and hopefully we’ll get better weather next year and I will finally get that elusive White Marlin.

                                  I have NO pride when it comes to this.

I had hoped to get Charlie and Elizabeth out on the boat with me, but my sister was somewhat skittish about the concept. I have no idea why Laura would be so worried about me taking care of her kids. For example, the photo below was taken on the first day I ever took Charlie out on the water without his parents.

Being fair-skinned myself, I always make sure the kids are well-protected from the sun.

For this trip, however, the extent of fishing with the kids would be an evening on the beach. The kids were very pumped up about this, and of course, they were all asking whether we would catch a shark. My first job was to deal with the parents and assure them that their children would not poke their eyes out or inadvertently amputate something. This is harder than you think, especially with my sister. So before the mothers started saying stuff like “You’re not going to use anything sharp, right?” I decided to hold a safety briefing.

I explain to the parents exactly why their children will survive fishing without infection or permanent blindness. The shorter persons in the group are probably the kids. Laura, shame on you for making Charlie wear that swimsuit.

I took a cast just to make sure everything was OK with the gear, and the Fish Gods rewarded me for having pure intentions. I got a tiny strike and reeled in a silvery creature that I immediately knew was a Butterfish, and this was tremendously exciting because I had never caught one before. These are supposed to be excellent bait, but there was no time for this. There were 4 kids who wanted to catch fish, 5 if you include me.

                                    The elusive Butterfish.

Since Charlie was a gentleman and let all the other kids go first, I thought I would include one of his better fish photos. He got this 12# Redfish all by himself in 2006.

Next up with the rod, my niece, Elizabeth. Cast, reel, bite bite bite bite bite. Mind you, these were not mighty fish, but they were fish, and this represented a challenge, and she was not about to back down from a challenge. Despite a rod roughly 2.5 times her height, and the unfamiliar action of reeling in a batch of Croakers and Spot, she refused help and got a mass of small fish onto the beach.

My niece Elizabeth – also known as “Ebbet.” This nickname comes from Charlie’s early mispronunciation of her name – much in the same way my sister knew me as “Teeb” early in life.

                    Now she’ll think we always catch 5 fish at once.

Next up, Jamal Jr. He had not been fishing before and was something of a quiet kid – of course, everyone seems that way around me – but he was an enthusiastic student and reeled in a group of Croaker and Spot almost immediately.

Jamal reeling in his load of croakers. I think he may have been enjoying himself. Just a guess. Until Leigh, 30 feet away, screamed “Jamal is stabbing me in the spine with a pitchfork! Please ground him before I am paralyzed for life!!”

I was really enjoying this until the croaker smacked me in the forehead.

Next, the cute but sinister Leigh. We made sure she was nowhere near Jamal, so she could not claim he was pointing a flamethrower at her or whatever it is that little sisters claim to get their innocent older brothers in trouble. She then took the setup and reeled in a nice little batch of fish.

Leigh and her 4 fish. She is smiling because she had just figured out a novel way to falsely accuse Jamal of some terrible deed.

                Charlie and his catch – the largest Croaker of the evening.

As I sat there on the beach, I wondered to myself why it had taken me so long to come back to this place. I talked to Laura that night, and we arranged for me to come back with them in 2012. I will go every time I can. Family is too precious. 

But in order to really enjoy the time, I must ask some help from you, the 1000Fish readers. One of the things I treasure the most about these vacations is the chance to take the kids fishing. It’s unlikely at this stage I will have kids of my own to pass this all along to, so spending time on the water with Charlie and Elizabeth is important to me. My sister, understandably, gets a bit nervous about kids and boats and sharp objects and fish with teeth, etc. – but I have tried to explain to her that there are rarely fatalities. And so, I would appreciate help from all of you to convince her to let the kids go out on a charter this coming August. Her name is Laura, and her email address is germainfamily@verizon.net. I have even provided a template below. Oh, but don’t tell her I put you up to this. She’ll never guess.

Cheers,

Steve

 

POSSIBLE TEMPLATE FOR YOU CUT AND PASTERS –

Dear Laura,

I happened to notice the plight of your children on line, and I wanted to take a moment to urge you to allow them to go fishing –  on a boat  – in the ocean – all day – with their Uncle Steve next summer. To do otherwise would be clear cruelty bordering on abuse.

Urgently,

Your name goes here

Dateline: July 10, 2011 – Cres, Croatia

I couldn’t fall asleep that night, and while looking out over the Slovenian mountains, I felt as far from home as I ever have. I recalled a couple of bad nights when I was a teenager and I couldn’t sleep because I had just had my heart broken, by the Detroit Tigers or Pam Scott, I forget which. I remembered my Mom telling me – “The sun will still come up tomorrow.” As the night went on, I really wondered if it would. But it did. It did slowly, almost reluctantly, but it came up. The first day without my Mom was Sunday, July 10, 2011 - my 48th birthday.

So what was I supposed to do? We had two more days on the road planned, with our next stop in Croatia. My heart wasn’t in it, but I didn’t know if I wanted to go home either – I knew that would just make it more real. United Airlines ended up making the decision for me – the next available flight was later in the week, so I picked up a fishing rod and decided to go as planned. As corny as it sounds, I know she would have wanted me to.

We started the morning with a quiet breakfast in the hotel, then got into the cars again. The Fungus was grouchy and kept turning up the air conditioning. We drove a couple of hours south and entered Croatia.

I started seeing signs for places like “Krk.”  This may sound like a noise from a fraternity bathroom, but in reality, it is an actual place in Croatia. 400 years ago, the Turks swept through the area, looting, pillaging, and stealing all the vowels. The lonely vowels that survived this time of alphabetic terror tend to hide in large groups of consonants, resulting in words like “Sjlyrnrek,” or they emigrated to Hawaii and bred like crazy, resulting in words like “Jaime Hamamoto.”

The scenery was sublime – as we reached the coast, we were treated to sweeping views of the Adriatic on a perfect, clear summer morning. We drove through several beautiful resort towns on a winding coastal road, and then boarded a ferry to get over to the island. The Fungus got loudly carsick.

The coastline of Cres Island, once we got off the ferry and were driving over toward the harbor.

                       The harbor and bay at Cres.

The inner harbor – lovely homes, local fishing boats, and police thugs.

Our formal welcome to Croatia came when two overenthusiastic policemen decided that Guido was somehow illegally parked and fined him 75 Euros - cash -on the spot. Their arrogant and frankly boorish approach made me understand a great deal about the awkward level of cooperation between Croatia and Germany back in the early 1940′s.

Guido nearly goes to prison – for double-parking and possessing an unlicensed Fungus.

It took a while to get all the appropriate paperwork and equipment in order, and we discussed our strategy as we watched the wheels of bureaucracy slowly turn. We had two main targets:  big bottomfish such as the Silver Dentex, and a shot at the huge Tuna that live in the area. I figured we might also get some of the large seabream that frequent the Adriatic. So we set out that afternoon with high hopes, on a glorious, cloudless, windless, hot Adriatic summer day.

Within 10 minutes, it was obvious to everyone except Guido that the fishing was going to stink. It was just TOO hot and still, and things we expected to bite were just shut down. But we gave it the old college try until the sun was down, and I was able to get a couple of new species.

The Mediterranean Needlefish. Closely related to the Needlefish I caught in Turkey in January – see http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2011/01/01/venus-visits-the-temple-of-diana-mars-goes-fishing/

Mediterranean Rainbow Wrasse – not a new species for me, but they always make a nice photo.

The Spotted Weever. Packs quite a punch for a little guy – very venomous dorsal spines. I am using my most cautious facial expression.

So it was that day one in Cres was a fishing disaster. The guys did their best to throw me a nice birthday dinner – the restaurant in the harbor was top-notch, but I am sure I wasn’t very good company. Still, there was always tomorrow.

The next day again broke bright, hot, and windless. This might sound great, but in reality, the sustained heat wave had really put the fish off the bite. But we were here, and so we went. Before we motored out, I spent half an hour fishing the piers, while Guido tried to teach the Fungus to sit and roll over.

As often happens, the harbor was some of the best species-hunting of the trip. I had seen some comparatively big blennies in the harbor the day before, and I came out in the morning armed with bread. I got to sight-cast and watch one pounce on my bait – great fun.

The Leopard Blenny. An herbivore named after a carnivore. Go figure.

I then got a nice little Mullet, also on bread. Mullet are a pain to identify, and I figured this one had to be the standard Thicklip. But just to make sure, I sent photos of this one along with photos of another mullet I had caught in Tel Aviv in 2010 to Dr. Alfredo Carvalho. To my delight, the Israeli Mullet turned out to be something else altogether – the Boxlip Mullet. A new species for me, discovered 20 months after the fact.  In short: it was an Israeli fish inadvertently identified by a Brazilian scientist while trying to identify a Slovenian fish which was caught by an angler who is half Polish and half idiot.

The Israeli Boxlip finally gets its day of glory. Tel Aviv, January 2010. I caught a fish in Palestine just a few hours before this.

We headed out to sea, hoping to reverse our fortunes from yesterday. We didn’t. We bashed the bottom with baits large and small, we trolled interminably, we enjoyed the lovely weather and scenery, but nothing new would bite.

Marc enjoys a swim the Adriatic. There is another photo in this series in which someone else on the boat was treading water and holding their swimsuit over their head. I seem to have misplaced this photo.

I was disgusted, and I really felt for poor Guido, who came along hoping to get a few decent fish and ended up stuck in my family crisis. Like I said, he should have quit after he caught the Chubs.

Guido’s savage Croatian fish. It’s in the lower middle of the photo. Look closely.

Marc and Steve with more examples of Croatia’s “dominant pest” – the Brown Comber.

Stubbornly, I continued dropping small cut baits right until sunset, and the Fish Gods, in a small gesture of pity, gave me one last small surprise to close out the trip. While checking my bait, I was stunned to discover a small and beautiful goby – too small to even provide a noticeable bite – that was clearly a new species for me.

The rare Kovavic’s Goby. My theory is that it is named after St. Kovacic, patron saint of small Adriatic fish.

So it was not the best two days of fishing, although 5 new species did make their way onto the list. Croatia had certainly been a lovely place to visit – great scenery, and weather that was actually too good. But for me, it was a triumph just to get through it and be headed home. No matter where I visit, I always do look forward to heading back home, but it was different this time. I didn’t know what to expect when I landed in San Francisco, nor when I then headed to Michigan for the memorial service, but I knew it was going to be rough.

                    Sunset over some unpronounceable island.

Just as we were leaving the harbor at Cres, a family with two young children walked by us. The little girl wanted something, and she was crying her eyes out and yelling for her Mom. I knew exactly how she felt.

Steve

Dateline: July 9, 2011 – Bled, Slovenia

On every trip I take, I hope to discover new types of fish, but this was the first time I ever stumbled upon an entirely new form of life. Read on … if you dare.

Road trip to Slovenia!! That’s a phrase I never thought I would say, and yet here I was, on a Friday at my office in Germany, trying to get ready for a lengthy rush-hour journey to the Balkans with Guido Gerhards.

Guido is a co-worker of mine who loves to fish. (See http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2010/10/13/fishing-off-the-company-pier/) He’s a great guy and he volunteered to drive for this trip. This is not an insubstantial commitment – we are talking European summer vacation traffic here, and going 1000 kilometers each way to remote destinations. But he was excited about the fishing and was firm in his commitment. On long trips like this, we discover things about ourselves, and we discover things about each other, but in this case, we also discovered things about biology.

By way of explanation, Guido has two lovely children, ages two and six. As part of preparing the car for this epic journey, Guido removed their car seats to give us more cargo space. But under these boosters lurked a horrifying secret. Nourished with spilled fluids, dropped foodstuffs, and a liberal application of drool, the spots under these seats had become hotbeds of new life, places where things evolved and flourished. The result was a furry square foot under each seat that was not only clearly organic, but was also mobile and had learned to communicate. It looked like a cross between the corner of a poorly-ventilated bathroom and a demon llasa apso. The Fungus kept mostly to itself for our journey, but it snored at night and also kept changing the radio station.

                            The Fungus gets a checkup at the vet.

The drive was long but beautiful, winding through Bavaria and down into Austria to Slovenia. The Alps were so scenic, so green, so charmingly perfect, that I expected a little blond girl in pigtails to come running down the mountain and interrupt the last two minutes of a football game. (Yes, this is an incredibly obscure reference. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJAn3cTMXW8&feature=related )

Your basic Alpine village. We should see Julie Andrews and a bunch of impossibly perfect children up on the hill someplace. Question – how is it that Captain von Trapp was in the Navy when Austria is landlocked?

More Alps. Thinking about it, Austria does have some very big lakes. But still – a Navy? Of course, they guy who led Hungary in WWII was an Admiral. Can somebody explain that?

We arrived in Bled at around midnight and met up with Marc Inoue and Enrico Ghedini. These are both top guys in the fishing field. Marc is a very well-known big game guide who fishes northern Croatia. His background would confuse the most experienced INS officer – American/Hawaiian parents, born and raised in Germany, lives in Slovenia. He has caught Bluefin Tuna over 600 pounds and has quite a host of other trophies to his name. He is a true practitioner of “combat fishing,” and he always has a smile even though he sleeps less than I do.

Enrico, a well-known Italian sportswriter and IGFA representative, is the guy who made the whole thing happen. It’s a long story (isn’t it always?) but this trip had to be put together in a big hurry. Adrian Gray over at the IGFA put me in touch with Enrico, and Enrico handled it all from there. All we had to do was show up – what a great guy, doing this for a fellow angler he had never met before.

                                  Steve and Enrico

In the morning, Marc and Enrico met us for breakfast. Now that it was light, I could see that our location was beautiful – near the top of a mountain, looking down over miles of green valley. We then drove about 20 miles, all downhill, and stopped to meet our local contacts. Breakfast consisted of grain-based products. (Mostly beer. Some vodka.)

Breakfast. You heard me. From left to right (or in order of sobriety) it’s me, Enrico, Marc, and Hauba.

Hauba, the president of the local fishing club, was a man of delightfully strong opinions. Whereas a British guy might say – “I don’t care for tuna,” Hauba was wonderfully, candidly Balkan – “Tuna is @#&%. It tastes like @#$% wood.” And he would knock on the table to demonstrate the texture of wood.

It was nearing 11 by the time we got on the water, and many of us were not on top of our game by this stage. On the drive to Mavcic reservior, the Fungus woke up and ate a pair of Guido’s socks. We parked, kept a window cracked, and left it a bowl of water.

It was stiflingly hot outside – pushing 100 – and the gamefishing had pretty much shut down. But this was our day to fish Slovenia, and we were going to catch something, darn it. We putted around the reservoir for a couple of fruitless hours, enjoying the beautiful scenery, when I noticed a large group of fish camped out in the shade under a willow. Chubs. A common and aggressive European predator, Chubs can stand fairly warm water and still actively hunt. I switched from Pike lures to smaller spinners, and within minutes, I hadn’t caught a damn thing. The school parted like the Colts defense every time I cast, and this left me bewildered and annoyed. At least the scenery was gorgeous.

       A perfect summer day on the Mavcic Reservoir on the Sava River.

The Slovenian Alps in the distance. Slovenia has a Navy too, but then again, they have a coastline.

It was Enrique who saved the day by setting me up with a small yellow and green plug I would have never picked out by myself. My second cast with the plug drew a hard strike, and moments later, I had landed a Chub – and added Slovenia as country #69 on my fishing list. Guido was catching fish from the other boat, so the bite must have been wide open.

             Slovenian Chub. It was not in the Navy.

The good bite kept up for an hour or more. We chatted back and forth between the boats. Guido pointed out that he had caught more chubs than me. Luckily, I am not competitive or I would have pointed out that he was dressed badly. Why is it that Germans think it is perfectly OK to wear dark socks with shorts?

Guido and his first Chub. He was legitimately thrilled to be catching decent fish on lures. Little did he know this is the largest fish he would see all weekend.

We finally took a break and ate lunch at a very nice lakeside restaurant. Later in the afternoon, we were working our way back, casting along the shady side of the lake. Guido was still getting Chubs - perhaps there was something to the dark socks. As I was casting to a downed tree, I got a much harder hit and a determined run. I thought I had gotten a very big Chub, but as I played the fish out, it was clear I had something different. And different it was – as it surfaced, I could tell immediately it was a Nase, an unusual creature that is scattered around central Europe but will almost never take a lure. What followed was a very slippery 20 seconds of my life, as I twice attempted to Boga Grip the fish, then finally just scooped it up with my hands. The day had become a total triumph – not only had I added a country, but I had also put a very exotic species on to the list.

             The Nase – a truly unexpected bonus. Definitely not Naval.

Shortly afterward, we headed for the dock - where there would likely be more beverages. This time, the drink was some sort of grapefruit/beer thing that tasted as bad as it sounds, but was strong enough to be classified past beer, past malt liquor, and more in the “solvent” category. We took some photos and prepared for what was certain to be a very late and regrettable night. The Fungus howled and barked at us from the car.

            Hey Guido, how many pairs of white socks do you own?

It was then, just when all seemed right with the world, that my sister called. I could tell from the sound of her voice something terrible had happened. Our Mother, she of the 5am hockey practices, had passed away in her sleep the night before. I wandered by the lake as we spoke for a moment, numb and shocked.

Hauba came back to ask me if everything was OK. I lied and told him it was – I didn’t want to share what had just happened. I had spoken to her only a couple of days before. I drank my beer quietly that night, and it was only when I was leaving, to go to what would become a sleepless night, that Hauba asked me again and I told him what had happened. I’m sure it was obvious something was wrong. He held my face in his big hands and looked at me, and gave me a long hug from the very bottom of his heart. I wept silently. My world had changed in an instant.

Even as I write this, some months afterward, it is very difficult to think of that moment. It had been a great day of fishing – a new country, a new species, and some new lifelong friends. I know this will sound awfully trite, but it won’t if you ever have to go through this – please, if your mother is around, call her. If she isn’t, remember the good times with her for a moment. I try to every day.

Steve

Dateline: July 2, 2011 – Eagle Lake, California

I have now attempted to play parent – for a single weekend – and having had close experience and observation of the upcoming generation of American 17 year-olds, I have come to the conclusion that, as a country, we are screwed.

No, dear readers, I did not get a shocking phone call from some old college girlfriend, at least not one that involved children. This recent experience  would hearken back to our good friend Garreth Bowman, a.k.a. Eminem’s evil twin, a family friend who I attempt to take fishing now and then. (See http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2011/02/27/blue-suede-sturgeon/)

The July 4th weekend happened to be free before my planned trip to Europe. As I pondered my options, the Fish Gods decided to send me on a strange path that would end many miles to the north on a semi-pointless quest, all in the company of a teenager/cell phone hybrid. It all started with an innocent “what the heck have I caught” email from a buddy, Kevin Fried, who had caught a Tui Chub in a Sierra Lake. I have not caught this species. So I got thinking, and after a few hours of planning, I had set up a largely sleepless agenda that involved a 6 hour drive to the north, part of 2 days fishing for said chubs, then a stop at Lake Oroville for the legendary spotted bass there. Garreth’s lovely and ever-patient Mom, Donna, arranged for him to go along.

It was during the lengthy drive to and from the fishing grounds that I discovered why this particular generation is doomed.

There is apparently something called “Facebook.” I am not sure exactly what happens on “Facebook,” but apparently if you have a page on it and you do not review it every 8 minutes, you will die. There is also a device called a “Smart Phone” which grinds itself onto the right hand of teenagers, and if they do not send a “text message” every 4 minutes, they will die, again. There is also apparently a requirement to make or take a phone call every two minutes, which always contains the same conversation – “Yeah. Huh. Yeah. Aardvark. Later.” I never thought that Beavis and Butthead could sound like Einstein by comparison, but there you have it. The downside of this is that this entire generation never has more than 45 seconds of uninterrupted thought, meaning that any problem that can not be solved in 44 seconds or less will never get solved. We are doomed.

Now, a number of my friends are likely to jump up indignantly and say “Uh, Steve – you’re on your cell phone 24/7.” And I would reply “Yes, but my stuff is IMPORTANT. Now get your finger out of your nose.”

Garreth actually kept it together fairly well on the drive up to Eagle Lake. As we went in and out of cell phone coverage, he would get sweaty and twitchy, but then we would have coverage for a moment and all would be well with his nervous system. He mumbled intermittently to himself, like the inventory guy at Fort Knox – “One bar, two bars, 5 bars, 2 bars …”

                      Mount Shasta. People actually hike this thing.

On the way up, the scenery was simply beautiful. We drove up the central valley from Vacaville to Redding, then turned east through the mountains. Snowcapped Mt. Shasta loomed in the distance, a stark reminder that any hike I have ever done was comparatively easy. We wound our way in and out of redwood forests and mountain lakes, stopping once to fish in the spillways on the Chester Flood Control Channel, where I caught a beast of a Sacramento Pikeminnow.

The Chester Flood Control Channel – a weir every 300 yards. The truck driver is not crazy – he is driving on a concrete ford – but watching him head into the river certainly got my attention.

The native and reviled Sacramento Pikeminnow. Fishermen criticize it for eating the eggs and fry of planted gamefish, but it was here first.

We got to Eagle Lake around 2pm, met guide Steve Williams, and headed on to the water. Once again, I’d put myself into the odd juxtaposition of traveling to a famous trout fishery with an excellent guide only to chase some sort of poorly regarded “junk fish.” (That term always bothered me.) He checked tactfully a few times why it was that I would be pursuing this creature, then hustled us quickly to the ramp so we wouldn’t tell the other guides.

High summer on Eagle Lake. What’s not to love about downriggers?

These are Rainbow Trout up here. Eagle Lake is highly alkaline, and for whatever reason, this means the trout are meaner than other trout. (I guess I would be mean too, if my eyes were burning all the time.) We got a nice batch of rainbows under a cloudless summer sky, but unfortunately the chubs were not biting. There was always tomorrow morning, so I tried to just enjoy the afternoon – high summer in Northern California.

Note the shameless plug for Steve Williams’ S&S Guide Service, 530-640-0419. The guy was good, and remember that I had him doing something that must have seemed unfamiliar and indeed perverse.

Garreth and I ended up staying in a horribly grungy hotel back in Susanville. The kind of place with hot and cold running dope dealers and a crack in the shower wall that a rhinoceros could crawl through. (I actually think this may have happened. I don’t know how else to explain the rhino in the shower, unless one of the Kardashian sisters has gone missing.)

The next morning was more beautiful than I could imagine – sunrise was breathtaking  and the lake was glassy still, reflecting a cloudless sky. “The cell signal is better if it’s cloudy.” Garreth mentioned, but once he started catching fish, it was all about the outdoors. It was sweatshirt-cold until the sun rose over the mountains. We again nailed a load of very solid trout, but the chubs were still nowhere to be found, and my disappointment over this left Steve in complete bewilderment. Still, I knew a Tui Chub was an outside shot, and it was a thrill to be here, even if Garreth was cranky about the inconsistent cell signal.

The second one of my rainbows was the 1000th fish (not species, just fish) I caught in 2011. Yes, I also count the total number of fish I catch, and no, July 3 is not the earliest in the calendar year I have accomplished this. (How about May 8, back in 2006?) We fished for a few more hours and called it a day, and alas, no Chubs. So it was a beautiful weekend, but not a new species in sight. Being me, I was faintly disappointed.

A lovely Eagle Lake Rainbow trout. The 1000th fish (NOT 1000th species) I caught in 2011.

The look on Mr. Williams’ face says it’s probably shower time for Garreth.

While waiting for Steve to pull the trailer down the ramp, I noticed that there were hundreds of little fish under the floating dock. I rigged up a #22 hook, which is smaller than a #20 but bigger than the part of Pink’s brain that chooses hairstyles. I put on a microsmidgen of night crawler and proceeded to watch the little @#$% fish ignore me for ten minutes.  Garreth didn’t notice because he was on the phone. (“Yeah. Huh. Yeah. Platypus. Later.”)

It was just then that one of the little things decided it was hungry, and I flipped the mini-beast up on to the dock. It was a Lahontan Redside, a new species for me, and I did the primeval dance of joy which almost landed me in the water but earned $1.27 in tips. Garreth hadn’t noticed. (“Yeah. Huh. Yeah. Echidna. Later.”) Steve knew he was supposed to be happy but couldn’t quite muster up a high five over a fish smaller than his pinkie finger.

      In my warped little mind, this made the whole trip worthwhile.

We then headed over for Oroville to spend the afternoon float-tubing after Spotted Bass. It’s about a three-hour drive in the mountains, and the scenery again was stunning. Clear blue alpine lakes, small trout streams,  snow-covered peaks. We stopped at a couple of the small streams, catching and releasing half a dozen rainbows. Well, at least I did – Garreth didn’t leave the car because there was a good cell signal. I even turned off the AC to try to get him out into the fresh air, but no way. Facebook was calling to him.

Mount Somethingorother in Northern California. Snow-covered in July.

An absolutely amazing trout creek right off the freeway. I got 6 rainbows in here in about 15 minutes, at high noon, in the middle of summer. Imagine what it’s like with better conditions.

During the drive down from Eagle to Oroville, Garreth made the terrible mistake of drifting off to sleep. I have explained to him that his only job is to stay awake and keep me entertained. He failed. Park of growing up is learning that there are consequences for failure.

Seconds after this picture was taken, I slammed on the brakes and yelled “TRUUUUUUUCK!!” Once Garreth pried himself off the roof, he managed to stay awake the rest of the day. His mother tells me he is still having trouble sleeping through the night, but that his fingernails have grown back.

It was getting late in the afternoon when we finally set up the float tubes, and we would only have a few hours to fish before we needed to get back on the road. Float tubing in the summer is one of my favorite pastimes: kicking around the lake, getting to wear my cool red swimsuit, and never needing to look for a bathroom. It’s hand-to-fin fishing at its finest.  I also noticed that Garreth was ignoring his fishing duties and playing with the smart phone, which he apparently felt he was going to take onto the lake with him. I took the drastic step of seizing the phone – not because I had been granted any specific parental authority, but merely because it was driving me nuts. Once he got over the trembling and sweating, he actually started catching fish. The kid is pretty good at this.

“Nice Garreth” with a Spotted Bass. In this photo, he looks like one of those Disney boy band kids.

And then his mood shifted (likely a cell phone withdrawal tremor) and he got that “Eminem” look – like a mug shot of someone who took the School Nurse hostage.

I like to think of Spotted Bass as “Bass for Beginners.” They aren’t as big as largemouth, but they come in droves and they aren’t real picky about what they eat. Even Spellman can catch them.

A very solid Spotted Bass. These are very aggressive fighters and will take most artificial baits.

Garreth and I both caught about 10 good fish, and we enjoyed the summer heat and the cool water. As the sun set late in the evening, we pulled out of the water, jumped in the car dripping wet, and headed for home, with a stop or two at Taco Bell on the way.

On the drive back to San Ramon, Garreth did not dare nap, because he had a previous traumatic experience – see  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJouSk_FQ1o.  So we talked. We had a fascinating discussion in which he presented his case why it was morally wrong to force teenagers to take summer jobs. He also summarized his research on why forcing him to rise before noon could stunt his growth. My counterarguments, which sounded a lot like things I used to hear from my parents, all went longer than 44 seconds and therefore went completely unprocessed by Garreth’s brain. We got home at about 2am. There was a bunch of work to do, like cleaning out the car and putting away gear, but I told him we could wait until morning. Predictably, he had his mother pick him up before I got up, leaving me stuck with the lousy part of the trip. Creep.

And so, in short, Garreth and his generation are doomed. He has no attention span, avoids responsibility, and cannot focus on anything but Facebook and girls for more than 44 seconds.

Reminds of another 17 year-old I knew, way back in 1980.

Me.

Steve

PS – There is also another species to report. On a Half Moon Bay party boat on June 25th, I somehow caught a type of sculpin called a Brown Irish Lord. No matter how much I tried, I just couldn’t make this one exciting, so I’ll report it here and we’ll save you all the trouble.

The Brown Irish Lord. The delightful byproduct of an otherwise unspectacular day of rock cod fishing. Oh, except someone barfed.

Yes, we had quite a few “Rail Bunnies” that day. For some even better seasickness shots, see http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2010/08/07/im-a-sole-man/

Dateline: June 11, 2011 – Central Thailand

Fishing and humility go hand-in-hand far more often than I would prefer. In the 1000 Fish blog, I have certainly had some favorite targets for my trademark cheap shots and lowbrow humor. Lindsay Lohan, Charlie Sheen, and Cousin Chuck all come to mind, but one of my favorite targets has always been … the French. Not even any particular French person, just the entire white-flag waving lot of them. So it is with particular humility that I acknowledge that this installment of the 1000fish blog, and the amazing species it will report, are completely due to the incredible efforts and tireless friendship of, and I can’t believe I’m writing this, a French guy.

OK, I’ve said it. I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on the French, at least not until I’ve retreated a mile in their shoes.

His name is Jean-Francois Helias. Ah, Jean-Francois. This irascible, Bangkok-based French expat has become the giant of the Thailand fishing scene (http://www.anglingthailand.com/) and there is almost no body of water there he hasn’t guided. If you’re in Bangkok, you have to find a way to spend a day on the water with him, whether it is a local trip for giant Catfish or one of his signature upcountry Snakehead adventures. This guy doesn’t just know how to catch fish – he knows how to teach people to catch fish.

                         Jean-Francois and a close friend.

He has become a very close friend of mine over the years while he has steadily increased my species totals – Jean-Francois has gotten me 76 of my species. (2nd most of any guide worldwide.)  He is also the guy who got me started on my world record quest, having guided me to 5 of my records, none more important than the May 2005 Barramundi that got me on the IGFA scoreboard.  There are quite a few fishing stories that involve me and Jean-Francois and very little sleep following a misspent night in Bangkok, but only 3 of these are suitable for family reading. (I do NOT want to be the cause of someone’s kid asking “Daddy, why was that man wearing a dress?”)

Thailand has been a land of wonder and mystery for me ever since my first trip there 15 years ago. The wonder of the misty hills, the ancient culture, the breathtaking temples, and the mystery of how I would ever catch a Siamese Giant Carp, the fabled Pla Caho, a rare and revered creature that can exceed 200 pounds and loves nothing better than to run anglers into structure and break them off.

There have been a few fish which eluded me for years, despite efforts that were extensive and occasionally desperate. The Atlantic Salmon was probably the most notable - and certainly the most expensive – but the Siamese Giant Carp is one fish I would have considered mythical, except that I had seen them in person when more fortunate anglers caught them right next to me. I have tried to get one on almost every one of my trips to Thailand, and that’s a lot of trips. 

But this was definitely going to be “the trip.” Jean-Francois told me he had found a “slam dunk” – a sure thing on Siamese Carp, and he does not make these claims lightly. I came into Bangkok for a couple of days of business, and then scheduled the weekend for fishing.

Jean-Francois had one of his trusty van drivers pick me up in the pre-dawn hours Saturday. We drove for an undisclosed amount of time in an undisclosed direction to an undisclosed lake, rolling out from the flat green plains around Bangkok and into the low, forested hills found in the mysterious direction which we were heading. Guiding hotspots for the Siamese Carp are closely guarded, and being that Jean-Francois was letting me in on his guaranteed honey-hole, I am sworn to secrecy. It’s not like I could have pronounced it anyway – these people have place names that are longer than Charlie Sheen’s rap sheet. The language is sort of like Norwegian, except there are at least a few basic rules connecting the alphabet and pronunciation, so that Pla Mrygfringamathan comes out pretty much like you just said, but in Norwegian, the word “Vangshylla” is pronounced “Cleveland.” (See http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2010/07/20/countdown-to-1000-norway-land-of-the-hidden-stairs/)

As I got to the lake, Jean-Francois came out and gave me a big hug. He then introduced me to John and Selena Mitchell. Lovely folks, who were there FLYFISHING for Siamese Carp. Could it actually be that good here that they get them on the fly? I was very psyched up, but Jean-Francois grabbed me and said “First thing, my man – we have a good bite on Golden Tinfoil Barb down in the corner. Let’s go get that one.” I am always up for a new species. We walked about a hundred yards and set up a light float rod with Lam paste. I don’t know what Lam Paste is, and judging from the smell, I don’t ever want to know. I am certain a yak is involved. But whatever it is, it stays on hooks and fish love to eat it. Moments later, the float dipped and I swung up a beautiful little barb – species #1071.

       The Golden Tinfoil Barb. A lot of name for something so small.

We then headed back for the main event – the Siamese Carp.  I expected to set up shop on the shore and wait many hours for that one perfect bite. I even brought a book. I flipped out a few casts and got the lam paste nibbled off, then had a streaking run off the Shimano Baitrunner 4500 (which Jean-Francois insisted that I use), and when I locked up, the fish just kept going. I was on for about 15 minutes. I kept saying “Catfish,” and Jean-Francois kept saying “No my man – it’s definitely a Carp.”  As the fish got close, I could tell it was big because it left some very big boils as it ran away from the shore - but still no hint on species.

One of the lake assistants went down to net the fish, and I kept sneaking looks over his shoulder to see if I could get a peek, but the water is muddy and the fish stayed low. Finally, he swung with the net, and there it was – beautiful gray color,  big scales, powerful, heavyset build. I had my Siamese Carp. So what was I going to do for the next 2 and a half days?

I finally get the privelege of getting in the water for the traditional “swimming with the carp” photo. I always fear I am going to end up with Cholera or something worse from going into the muddy, bathwater-warm ponds, but so far so good.

When all the excitement died down, I resumed fishing and landed several more Siamese Carp, with a mix of other interesting species such as Rohu and Mekong Catfish.

            These actually get a lot bigger. The fish, you pervert.

Later in the day, Jean-Francois sent me to explore a couple of areas further along the shore, toward the corner where I caught the Barb. (A great guide knows the water not just by structure and location, but also by what fish are likely to be where at a given time of day.) The sun was just starting to set, and I was still awash in giddy joy from the big Carp.  

I had caught a couple of decent Mekong Catfish and was barely paying attention when I got a wrist-wrenching strike and a strong run right toward a tangle of trees about 60 yards away. I leaned back hard and finally turned the fish just as the branches above it were shaking. I had to stop him two more times before he finally came out in the open. Jean-Francois trotted over with a net – “I think you have a Jullien’s, my man.”  (I have a WHAT?) “A Jullien’s Golden Prize Carp! Probarbus jullieni!” (Jean-Francois is more of a fish geek than I am, and that’s saying something.) He scooped it up in the net, and it was indeed a beautiful fish – a golden sheen with bold black lines running down the side, like a Tigerfish without the inconvenient teeth.

                      Back into the water for another photo!

What a day. As the sun finally set, Jean-Francois, Selena, John, and I headed into the local town for a lovely Thai dinner and fish stories until the late hours.

At dinner near Lake Mystery. Despite my best efforts, I didn’t get John’s wallet.

Day two at Lake Mystery was another solid day of fishing. The Siamese Carp continued to bite, and John and Selena landed some very nice ones on the fly, including a seriously beastly one by John.

John’s fly-caught Siamese. This is the biggest one I have ever seen in person, and no, I can not explain the look on my face – I am guessing it’s either gas or John is going for my wallet.

The Catla, a close relative of the Siamese Giant Carp. I had caught one previously, but it was practically microscopic, so I am thrilled to get a decent example.

The old guy who owns the lake, Mr. Khwam Luklab, seemed like a nice fellow, despite the fact I don’t speak a word of Thai. He was understandably nervous about making sure we handled the gamefish gently, but when Jean-Francois explained my quest to him, he racked his brain trying to remember every possible critter that lived locally.  He actually showed me and let me loose in his private pond, which apparently has Wallago and Snakehead. I was stunned when one of my first few casts got a strike and a nice fish, but when I pulled it out of the water, it turned out to be an overambitious Tilapia.  Tilapia do not normally hit lures, but they will make exceptions to irritate me.

The owner of Lake Mystery, Mr. Khwam Luklab – better known by his nickname of “Mr. E”

A few casts later, I got a small but frisky hit and dragged up a Striped Snakehead, a lovely little predator that would take my finger off if I wasn’t paying attention. I also hooked a Wallago, which spit the hook as I was landing it. I try not to look at this like a lost species – I try to look at it like a reason for a return trip.

The mighty Striped Snakehead. Yes, I know the hat is really cool.

On the third and final day at Lake Mystery, I was looking for three specific fish I knew lived there but were on the rare side - the Black Sharkminnow, the Climbing Perch, and the Zigzag Eel.

Looking for the Sharkminnow, we continued to pound the shoreline with lam paste baits. Rohu, Catla, and Siamese Carp continued to bite, and I was hopeful that each bite would be the beautiful dark gray Sharkminnow, but they were not forthcoming. I was just getting ready to take a shot at the Climbing Perch when my float dipped under one more time. “Sharkminnow.” said Jean-Francois, long before we saw the fish. And it was a Sharkminnow. “How the hell do you know these things?” I asked. He winked.

The Black Sharkminnow. There are apparently two species that live in Lake Mystery, but that would be a bit much to ask.

Next up was a shot at the Climbing Perch, so called because it can actually walk on its spiky-bottomed gill plates and move from pond to pond. Mr. E took me on a long walk to the very back of the lake, then down an embankment to a small, muddy ditch. The place smelled like a sewer because, well, it was a sewer.

I have gone to some awful places to catch a new species, and this would “rank” in the bottom 5. Probably #2, so to speak.

The old guy opened up a plastic bag, handed me a small chunk of honeycomb, and motioned for me to use it as bait. I held my nose and cast the small float rig. Horrible things drifted by, and the minutes dragged on without a nibble. Reluctantly, I retrieved the rig and changed the float depth, cursing myself for not carrying hand sanitizer. Moments later, the float dipped and I swung a wriggling perch to shore, and, true to form, it tried to walk away.

     The Climbing Perch. Holding it under my nose was a big mistake.

The Climbing Perch in climbing mode. Note the spikes on the bottom of the gill plates – they flare these out as shown and walk along on them.

We were 2 for 2. I couldn’t believe it. Now all I had to do was get a Zigzag Eel – easier said than done, especially as it was getting late in the day and we needed to get back to Bangkok.

We took an aroma-improving walk to the main lake, stopping at the wooden steps used to take fish photos. I set up a small float with worm and drifted it under the structure. After a dozen false alarms from small tilapia, the float eased under the water completely and disappeared from view. I leaned up on the rod, and pulled a small, wriggling eel from the water. This was the Zigzag Eel – a beautiful, small oddity that occupies nooks and crannies throughout Southeast Asia.

             The Zigzag Eel – also known as a Spiny Eel. See below.

                                I found these the hard way.

My species count for the trip – 7 – was complete. In one day, I had gotten three of the more unusual creatures to be found in the area, and I was pleased. But then I remembered that someday, I would have to write an article about this, and that I would have to write nice things about a French person. And while this couldn’t completely put a damper on the day, it still troubled me. But only a little.

Where does a French guy in Thailand get a Wisconsin Muskie t-shirt?

Jean-Francois and I cleaned up gear for the haul back to Bangkok, took some photos, and thanked the staff.

                     Some of the staff at Lake Mystery.

So am I totally thrilled with the trip? Yes Siam. I trust Yul forgive me for the pun.

Steve

 

A 1000fish Public Service Announdement  - Thailand is experiencing unprecedented flooding – heavy rains and high tides are devastating areas around Bangkok, and the main city is under serious threat. Almost 400 people have died so far, and thousands are homeless. To donate to the Thai Red Cross relief efforts, see the link below.

http://english.redcross.or.th/home

Dateline: June 7, 2011 – Southern Islands, Singapore

This post wasn’t supposed to be about casting lures in the Southern Islands. It was supposed to be about an amazing trip to Malaysia. But the trip to Malaysia got rained out - for the second year in a row - because the Fish Gods are, to put it simply, sadistic. So we decided to schedule one more day with Henry down by Sentosa Island. And of course, once we had given up on Malaysia, the weather turned lovely. Jarvis and Alex picked me up early on the 7th, and as they were not in a tank, Jarvis was driving. The abuse started early. (“Where did you buy that panty shirt? Do they sell men’s clothes there?”)

There is no mercy in this group. The ragging is pointed, high-quality, and relentless. Nothing is off-limits. My choices in clothing are too feminine. I drink “panty drinks.” They insisted my last girlfriend was actually a man. And one of the ways that Jarvis and Alex have shown their love for me is to christen me with their own special nickname – “Angry White Man.” This may have been out of their deeply mistaken belief that I take the whole fishing thing too seriously and do not react well when things do not go my way, which is ridiculous. I am always patient and constructive. Just ask Jaime.

Over the years, we have pulled quite a few heartless fishing pranks on each other. One that stands out occurred in Malaysia in 2007 – I hooked a big Sailfish on light gear, and instead of jumping to maneuver the boat and help me, they both sat down, opened sodas, and laughed their soft little heads off while I frantically ran up and down the deck trying to keep the thing from tangling me in the motor. For the record, I landed the fish. And for good measure, I may have thrown them both into the water.

The Malaysia Sail, October 2007. I am still angry at them for not helping me.

The Fish Gods had been very kind to me on the species front, and with the endless abuse I had been absorbing for catching “panty fish,” I figured I would devote a day to fishing lures instead of bait for the local gamefish – the Queenfish and Trevallies will take a lure under the right circumstances. This is all done on light tackle and can be an absolute blast on the right day.

June 7 was the right day.

We started hitting Queenfish on poppers 5 minutes out of the dock. They were solid 3-5 pounders and they were everywhere. I also dropped a jig to the bottom and got a solid Spangled Emperor. Things were going our way.

The Spangled Emperor – these get to about 20 pounds, but even this size puts up a spirited fight.

The weather, which had betrayed us so badly the day before, stayed just hazy enough to keep it from getting oppressively hot. We worked our way around the lush tropical islands, hammering Trevally after Trevally, with Jarvis and Alex dumping non-stop abuse on poor, innocent me. (“Put away the panty sabikis and fish like a man!”) None of the fish were new species, but to tell the truth, today, it didn’t matter. It was non-stop action the minute the lures hit the water.

In the video below, Jarvis demonstrates proper use of the popper and gets a toothy surprise.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SOKiSjOUB_s

Most of our activity consisted of dropping small metal jigs to the bottom then ripping them up at breakneck speed. My arm ached after a few hours of this, but when a fish slams a speeding lure and stops it dead, it’s a huge thrill. Advil can take care of the pain later.

      Jarvis laughs – likely at something unfortunate happening to me.

We only did a bit of bait fishing during the trip, dropping big live shrimp out in a deep shipping channel. Henry carefully maneuvered us around the oceangoing freighters as I felt the smaller “bait stealers” nip at the prawns. A few minutes later, my rod tip surged down and stayed down for about 2 humiliating minutes until whatever it was buried into the coral and broke me off. Henry smiled politely. “There are some biiiiig fish down there.” he said.

“And they’re STILL DOWN THERE!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!” added Alex helpfully.

Not to be discouraged, I tied another rig and lowered it back down with the largest shrimp in the tank. Moments later, as we drifted over a deep, rocky bottom, I got crunched – literally, as you will read in a moment. The fight was very strong and I could feel my line scraping across the bottom. I pulled inadvisably hard, preferring the dignity of breaking my own line to the pain of losing another fish in the coral. In that moment of truth, my knot held, and the fish started stubbornly edging off the bottom. Ten minutes later, I had landed the largest Blackspot Tuskfish I have ever seen – and to my astonishment, the world record is more than twice as big as this beast.

             The beastly Blackspot. Note the in-process leg sunburn.

                                  And yes, they are cute.

                 This is a normal-sized Blackspot Tuskfish.

We then continued catching Trevallies, and frankly, Alex and Jarvis were hammering me, each of them catching about 3 fish to my one. There are 3 or 4 kinds of Trevally in the area, generally weighing about a pound, all strong and active fighters.

           Steve, Alex, and a normal-sized Sawai. We caught tons of these.

I was happy catching a few of these gamesters, although a faint tinge of competitiveness had crept into my psyche as I watched these guys totally outfish me. This is why I found myself very engaged when I had a jig strike that was noticeably heavier than the other fish. I thought – “There’s no way this is a normal-sized Sawai.” (Sawai is the local name for one of the Trevally species.)

The beastly Longfin Trevally. Alex has not caught one this big. Neither has Jaime.

And so, as I finally got the creature to the side of the boat, Henry looked down into the water and said “Man, that’s one big Sawai.” After I brought it on board, I immediately went to the collection of ID and record books I carry with me for just such an occasion. After a few minutes of research, it was clear – this was not just a bigger Sawai, it was a potential record Sawai. Hahahahaha yourself, Alex. (Alex responds “There you go again, Angry White Man.”)

                                      Alex expresses his love.

We headed back to port as the sun started down, so it was already dark by the time we got cleaned up and into the car for the short ride back to the Hilton. I had a wonderful Chilli Crab dinner awaiting me, a local delicacy which is best eaten hand-to-hand and is the enemy of clean white shirts everywhere.

Steve

Group shot with assorted Queenfish and Trevallies.  This is about 20% of what we caught in total – the rest went back.

Carrying Jarvis over the threshold. He’s heavier than he looks. I may have thrown him in the water after this shot was taken.

Dateline: June 5, 2011 - Southern Islands, Singapore

Sometimes the seemingly worst disasters have a silver lining. Mostly, they don’t, but sometimes they do. And whereas rain is usually a bane to fishermen, in this case, it actually ended up being a soggy blessing.

Early June found me off to Asia, looking forward to another chapter in my Singaporean adventures with Jarvis Wee Lee and Alex Ong Eng Kiat. These two and their unique comedy stylings were mentioned in the very early chapters of this blog – as a matter of fact, in the 2nd and 3rd episodes ever …

http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2010/04/18/the-countdown-to-1000-slow-going-in-the-south-seas/

http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2010/04/21/the-countdown-to-1000-slinging-fish-in-singapore/

I have published 53 episodes I since then – a progression of ever-more complex stories about ever smaller fish, which should have the logical conclusion of me someday writing a novel about catching nothing. Looking back, I noticed that I had done no justice to the personalities, vicious and juvenile though they might be, of these two lifetime friends.

I met Jarvis about 10 years ago, and he has been a huge if bewildered contributor to my quest for 1000 species. He still can not understand why I am interested in catching anything small, and he gets positively miffed when I break out the sabikis. “Throw a jig, dude. Throw a popper. Be a man.”  Jarvis is a very, very serious fisherman, but he is still constantly laughing, albeit usually at something bad happening to me. Jarvis has hunted trophy fish throughout the world, and is also in one of the “in guys” in the Asia tackle business. (Needless to say, his sales soar every time I visit.)

                  Jarvis Wee Lee – Singapore, February 2002

Alex is more the Costello of the team. Boisterous and good-natured, with a quick and maniacal laugh, he loves to be on the water, and has somewhat of an understanding of my obsession. It was Alex who arranged for me to add Indonesia to my country list back in November of 2008, a bumpy but fun weekend that saw me catch more big marine catfish than I ever care to again. Like Jarvis, though, he still gets edgy when I break out the sabikis. “Throw a Yo-Zuri, man. You’re catching panty fish.”  Oh, I forgot to mention something – with these guys, anything … ANYTHING … can be made funnier with the addition of the word “panty.”  (e.g. “That’s a panty reel – buy a better one - hahahahahaha!”)

Alex Ong Eng Kiat – Indonesia, November 2008. For a sample of Alex’s maniacal laugh and his awful taste in music, see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=axBuha0lhJs&feature=related

Jarvis and Alex are incredibly passionate fishermen, especially when it comes to lures. Whereas I will lose my patience on a jig after a while and switch over to bait or other proven species-catching techniques, they will both stick to a lure all day, even if it means catching only one fish. Of course, the one fish is usually a very good one. This is much easier said than done in Singapore – there is intense fishing pressure all around the island, but the two often make the run up to Malaysia (5 hour drive, 2 if Jarvis is behind the wheel) for a more pristine location.

And speaking of precipitation … when it rains someplace, it does so regardless of whether I flew 9000 miles to go fishing there. So it comes as no surprise that June 5 broke dark and ominous as Alex picked me up at the Singapore Hilton and we headed off to a UMF breakfast and a day on the water.

Jarvis was out doing something sinister and could not join us that day, but Alex’s friend Ben joined us and was kind enough to drive. Oddly, it seems that Alex never drives us, even though the Singaporean army trusts him to drive a tank. We headed to Sentosa Island, where we met the boat and trusted guide Henry Chan.

It was good to see Henry again. A man of very few words, he is welcome relief to the constant high-energy abuse from Jarvis and company.

We had a nice time for about an hour casting jigs and poppers to Queenfish in the outer harbor. These are tropical fish, aggressive and fast, and the action was steady enough that I did not notice the ominous clouds building above us. Lightning flashed to the north, and it turned that sort of twilightish dim that an educated person would call crepuscular, but I just call “twilightish dim.” Henry looked up, and with a startling grasp of the obvious, opined “Oh, man. It’s gonna rain like hell.”

No sooner had he spoken these fateful words, the sky opened up like a warm shower with no flow restrictor. (Curse the liberals for those things.) There was no defined space between drops, it just came down in sheets, amplified by Henry running the boat at high speed to try to get to shelter. We pulled up at a small island and dashed on to a covered pier, soaked down to our underpants, presuming that everyone was wearing same.

Alex is the only entrant in the 1st Annual Sentosa Wet T-Shirt Contest. He lost.

                       It rained like this for hours.

I stared balefully out into the worsening torrent, irritated that the Fish Gods had, as it were, rained on my parade. It didn’t look like it was going to let up anytime soon, and here I was stuck on this pier. I had fished here before, and it seemed to host only endless Indo-Pacific Sergeants, a creature so widespread I have captured it in 5 countries. But after having dripped dry for a little while and eaten a bag or two of Doritos, I figured I might as well set up a rod.

The first catch, unsurprisingly, was yet another Indo-Pacific Sergeant. I sighed, but I cast again, because the Fish Gods reward persistence. My next two fish were the treasured “what the hell is that” kind, and I suddenly forgot about the rain. What rain? What soaking wet underpants? What panties?

These were not beastly creatures, but they were coming up fairly regularly, and a rotten day of weather slowly turned into a solid day of new species. I would like to give a special thanks to the Fish Gods for apparently hearing my plea about plain brown Damselfish back in Brazil, (see http://1000fish.wordpress.com/2011/03/17/a-ray-of-hope/) because a couple of these new Damsels were not only beautiful, but they were actually able to be identified without a DNA analysis and 5 bickering scientists. In 4 or so hours at the pier, I managed to rack up 5, count ‘em, 5 new species. Banded Damselfish, Pastel Wrasse, Brownstriped Wrasse, Honeyhead Damsel, and Whitespot Damsel.

                                        A Banded Damsel.

Ben and Steve celebrate the new species. At the time, I would have been ecstatic with one newbie.

                                       The Pastel Wrasse

The male Pastel Wrasse. Note that it is gaudier than the female and tends to sit on the couch all day watching sports.

The Brownstripe Wrasse. OK, not exactly a work of art, but a species is a species.

 

The Honeyhead Damsel. Note the beautiful blue markings on the head.

The Whitespot Damsel. Cousin Chuck, can you help us figure out why it is called that? Anybody?

I even dared to make one trip out into the rain, as Jarvis told me there were gobies of some sort on the far side of the island. So I got re-soaked, but I did manage to add the spectacular Sand Goby to my species list.  

The savage and reclusive Sand Goby. Well, more reclusive than savage, really.

This is cheating. The species is a Silty Wrasse, and I have caught them before, but they are so beautiful that I thought I’d throw one in.

The weather finally broke around 3. We were still only semi-dry, and it was so humid that my glasses were steaming up like there was a Penelope Cruz movie on pay-per-view. But it was strangely calm and cool by Singapore standards. We glided out into the islands and started throwing jigs and live shrimp, and all kinds of stuff starting hitting. Ben and Alex were catching good-sized trevally, but the highlight of my afternoon was a Goatfish - while relatively small, it was yet another new species. We also caught Indian Threadfin and other assorted gamefish.

                                    The Freckled Goatfish.

                            This is why they are called Goatfish.

Me and Ben with an Indian Threadfin. This is a juvenile – they get much bigger. The fish I mean – Ben is taller than I am.

               Alex, Henry, and the highly-prized Golden Trevally.

As we were getting ready to pack up, I had put down a “home run” bait – a very large slab of fish, hoping for a Grouper or Shark. I kept thinking I saw the rod tip twitch, but then it would stop. I finally picked up the rod, and there was a definite THUMP THUMP THUMP down there. I set the hook – hard. Nothing moved. I had apparently snagged the bottom, but the thumping bewildered me. I sat there for a moment, bewildered. Then my line started pulling out, slowly but powerfully. “What the heck?*” I observed. I leaned back on the rod but drag just kept going out. Henry raised an eyebrow. “What you got there?” These were the first four words he had spoken since the pier.

                     It wasn’t slowing down much at this stage.

“No idea.” I responded, just as the fish shifted gears and really took off – my drag started peeling at high speed, and water sprayed off the spool. Henry didn’t mess around, pulling the anchor immediately in case we had to chase the beast. It wasn’t tuna-fast, but it was heavy and it had an odd swimming motion to the fight, so my bet was a big stingray. We idled after the creature, and every time I lifted it toward the surface, it would make another powerful run to the bottom. This went on for more than an hour. I began taking guesses at to which species of ray it was. My arms began getting sore, and I was having awful flashbacks to Indonesia in 2008, when I fought a big ray for three hours only to have my line break.

This is what happens when I leave my camera unguarded. Of course, my Aunt Diane left her camera unguarded one fateful Thanksgiving, and we left a lot worse than this on it. Let’s just say the whole family saw that Cousin Chuck is amazingly flexible, especially when he isn’t wearing pants.

About 30 minutes later, my opponent surfaced, and to my surprise and Alex’s great delight, it was … a turtle. A great big, surprisingly agile turtle. My feelings went from fish-fighting adrenaline to full-on guilt. Alex couldn’t stop laughing. “It’s a turtle, man! You thought it was a ray? Turtles have flippers! Hahahahahahaha!”

                                         My opponent swims away.

I felt bad, because I certainly didn’t want to leave any hardware in the fellow, as turtles are cute – just check any Disney movie. So I stayed with it, hoping to get close enough to plier the hook out. This got old quickly, and finally, about half an hour later, the line popped. I felt awful until I reeled in and saw that the hook had bent and slipped out, so there was no souvenir in the turtle. He swam away after giving me the briefest of dirty looks.

Steve

*Only I didn’t say “heck.”