Pleasant Surprise

Posted on November 3, 2015 by bob in OffTheBeatenPath

“Roostertails,” he mumbled, dejected, peering into the tackle box. “Of all the lures. Roostertails.”

He’d set the tackle box with the spoons, buck-tail jigs and other assorted saltwater lures by the back door so he’d be sure not to leave it behind. Considering all his tackle boxes looked alike, had the culprit been anyone other than himself, it would have been an easy enough mistake to forgive. Except it wasn’t.

The similarity of his tackle boxes was little consolation as he sat on the beach, arms resting on the tops of his bare knees, sun rising over his left shoulder, surveying the wide open Gulf.  Two hundred miles away a small plastic box whose contents were worth a mere twenty dollars held, at this moment, a much greater value.

Had he been fishing even once this year, sticking the wrong tackle box amid the mountain of luggage, diaper bags and baby toys would not have been as significant. There was a time when not a week went by he didn’t wet a line — fly rod, spinning rod, bait caster, trolling. It didn’t matter the fishing style or type of equipment, so long as the fish were biting. But then life took over.

Work demands grew as did familial responsibilities, and suddenly there was no time for fishing. He looked forward to any reason to be away from the office, but this beach trip especially because his oldest child had begun to show an interest in the pursuit he so enjoyed. He’d catch himself daydreaming of pulling bull redfish up on the sand, waves rolling over their glimmering copper bodies, as his daughter stood alongside beaming with pride and giddy with excitement.

“Daddy,” she’d say, “you got a big one!” and they’d both smile for the picture he’d later frame and place prominently on his desk, the way it certainly would have gone except for his tackle box error.  His wife’s voice brought him back to reality.

“I thought you were going fishing?” she asked perplexed, their infant son bouncing on her hip and strangely mirroring the same expression.

He explained his plight, how he’d grabbed the wrong lures, and that it would be a wasted effort. He even showed her the box of Roostertails as proof. Undeterred, she pointed to a silver one with a red skirt.

“Ooh,” she said encouragingly. “Why don’t you try that one?”

She clearly didn’t understand the gravity of the situation, he realized, and further explanation would prove futile. It was simple: fish were smart, fishermen, not so much. It would be pointless, and anyone walking by would go home and talk about that crazy tourist casting bass lures from the beach. He sighed, stood up and began breaking down his rod and reel.

“You know, there’s someone who really wants to fish with her daddy,” his wife said, a bit of force now gracefully present in her tone.

He looked at his daughter playing in the sand and half-smiled.

“Hey, baby,” you want to go fishing?” he asked.

They waded to the second sandbar, his daughter on his shoulders holding the rod, bass lures tucked under his arm. 

“Catch me a fish Daddy! Catch me a fish!” she said as he cast the red-skirted Roostertail into the trough of dark water straight ahead.

He was reeling steadily and holding his breath, hoping that failing the first time wouldn’t diminish her enthusiasm, when his line stopped like it hit a wall.  “Seaweed,” he muttered, preparing to jerk the rod and clear the lure of the debris, when the sound of line peeling from his reel stopped him. He pumped and reeled, gaining on the fish, and in a few moments had a small but heavily-muscled Jack Crevalle in his hand. He held the fish up to pry the Roostertail from its mouth, both of them equally surprised to see the other. He looked at his wide-eyed daughter, a smile extending across her face.

“Can I touch it?” she asked. She marveled at the fish’s smooth skin and coloring. He told her the fish’s name, tossed the Jack back into the surf, and cast into the trough again.

Two turns of the reel’s handle yielded another strike. He drove the hook home and the drag proceeded to sing its beautiful song, one he hadn’t heard in some time. His daughter wanted to touch every fish they caught, eventually working her way up to holding the rod and doing some of the reeling.  When the skin between his middle and ring finger began to ache from fighting the little Jacks, they turned back toward shore.

“Well, how did you do?” his wife asked as they stepped out of the water.

“We lost count,” he said, with a smile as wide as his daughter’s. “She’s hooked. And me, well, I may have a new favorite lure. And a new fishing partner.”

Niko Corley is a USCG-licensed charter boat captain and spends his free time on the water or in the woods. To contact him e-mail niko.corley@gmail.com.

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