Fishing is Kool, Eatin is Better

Becoming a fisherman, err -- fisherperson, was not exactly a fast track experience. It began at age 7 in my uncle's gold-fish pond. I cried when I saw the hook had actually torn the poor fishy. That realization stymied my fishing for 45 years.

Then, I found myself on this yacht in the Mexican Carribean, along with some colorful characters. I did not say likeable, just brightly colored. By comparison, I was somewhere between beige and dark brown.

My Spanish language skill is limited to tamale, enchilada, chips and salsa. Most of the natives only speak Spanish. Luckily, they are very good at creative hand/leg/toes/body/sign language.

I began to check out my surroundings and borrowing from my one earlier experience, I looked around for bait. Imagine my surprise when I learned the bait had graduated from garden earth worm to whole fish. I thought for a minute: using fish to lure other fish. It made sense to me. I knew it worked with people.

I had heard the word troll upteen million times and never before had a true understanding of it. I'd always stayed clear of using it thinking it related to trollop, and I didn't want to have to explain that to anyone.

Those were very strange-looking belts. My thoughts wandered back to troll and trollop.

I had no idea that fish were so smart, witty, and uncooperative. I flexed my muscles at piloting and was sharply directed to stop moving that rig in a straight line because the fish would realize we weren't really what we were representing ourselves to be. You have to be sneaky when you deal with fish; you have to trick them into giving up.

Fish on! Brother, those words will get your booty moving. My first reaction: really, where? One of the Colorful knocked the breath out of me as he pushed past. I'd just regained my breath when I looked out and saw a sailfish tail dancing across the top of the waves! And I had thought only Jesus could walk on water.

The concept of a fighting chair had never before entered my head. For all the protection it offered, you might just as well have been on the back of a Hogg, racing 120 mph down I-35, not wearing a helmet. The idea of taking an unexpected dive among sharks didn't deter anyone-- 'cept me.

After a lot of work -- I mean a lot of work -- we championed the great sail, shot some photos and sent it back to it's point of origin.

Troll. Troll. Troll. Troll. Y-a-w-n.

Just as I'd almost given up hope for another bite, a billiantly colored Dorado came up along side our boat and spoke: I'm planning on committing suicide. Drop me some bait and I'll be your's forever. I did.

I like sports. Eating is a sport.


© Coninc., TheDownsideUp.Com 2006