Mitch

Posted on December 1, 2015 by bob in OffTheBeatenPath

By the time he came to know “Mitch,” as his grandfather called him, Mitch was an accomplished angler in his own right, though one long-past his prime. Mitch had spent his entire career around the water, fishing both the fresh and the salt. Whether it was his determined work ethic or the fact he could always be counted on when needed didn’t matter; his grandfather admired Mitch greatly.

Mitch had countless trophies under his belt, some that probably still swim. Given his preference, Mitch didn’t fool with small fish – sure, he would pull one in occasionally, sometimes it was unavoidable – but he purposefully targeted big fish. Despite the grandfather’s penchant to fish all day, he always called it quits long before Mitch, who was broad-shouldered, lean-waisted and built to work.

Whether it was striper and cats in the fresh, or redfish, tarpon and gag grouper in the salt, Mitch didn’t care. He was as at home drifting the river channel at the whims of the current, dangling chunks of fresh shad over submerged timber as he was anchored up in the pass on an outgoing tide, free-lining live shrimp and blue crabs down amongst the bridge pilings.

“Mitch old boy, they don’t make ‘em like you anymore,” his grandfather had said dozens of times after particularly good days on the water.

Of French descent, perhaps it was the fact they’d both left Europe by boat bound for America long ago, but Mitch and the grandfather shared a special bond, fishing together for years as often as possible. The grandfather fished with a few Japanese and Swedish fellows from time to time, but targeting big fish meant Mitch was bound to be aboard. Eventually the grandson started tagging along on the fishing trips and over time he, too, came to admire Mitch. Just like him and his grandfather, Mitch didn’t need much and just like them, he loved to fish.

After his grandfather’s death, the grandson made it a point to ensure Mitch always had a place on the boat even if the old man who’d introduced them was gone. They grew closer, fishing new places, chasing new species, making new memories and co-starring in more than a few tall tales. For several years Mitch was a standard guest aboard whenever the quarry was big fish, posted dutifully at the rear of the lean post, a perch affording more room than alongside the helm of the center console.

But time is unforgiving, even to one as able as Mitch, and eventually the salt spray, sun and hard life of a dedicated fisherman took their toll. After one particular trip to the coast, Mitch developed some instability – a wobble really – that soon grew to affect his movement to the point he could barely fish. It was clear that for Mitch to have any hope of chasing fins again, significant rehab was likely in order.

As they walked through the door together he was unsure what all was in store for Mitch. The man behind the counter – probably close to Mitch’s age – set them at ease.

“Ahh, a Mitchell 402. Looks to be a …” he said holding the reel up to the light to make out the worn lettering stamped into the metal. “Yep, a Saltwater edition. This one is vintage for sure.”

“It was a gift from my grandfather,” the grandson replied, “and we caught a lot of fish with it. Is it time to put it on the shelf?”

The man gave the reel a once over, slowly turning the handle and working the bail back and forth.

“It’s a little rough on the outside, but these things were built like tanks,” the man said.

As he put the reel through its paces, a subtle crunching from inside – like sand grinding on metal – was audible and he popped off the metal side plates for a better look.

“Ok. The good news is I can fix it,” he said, “but honestly, for the price of parts and labor I could sell you a new Shimano or Abu Garcia. Your call, captain.”

The grandson looked down at Mitch, parts laid bare on the glass counter, and felt a tinge of guilt for not being more diligent in his maintenance. Directly below Mitch on a shelf with other reels, he could see the new Japanese and Swedish-made models the man had mentioned, along with their three-figure price tags. He swallowed hard.  They were shiny and modern-looking compared to Mitch’s chipped paint, but their side plates were plastic, graphite at best. Their internals were certainly more complicated but they also weren’t decades-old. He thought of all the steady pressure Mitch’s drag had placed on hooked fish, allowing them to be worn down and netted or gaffed. He looked down at the new reels and back up at Mitch once more.

“Just get him back in fightin’ shape,” he told the man. “They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”

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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