Editor's Log
June 12, 2008
Electronic Greetings from Yamamoto Central!
Pete Robbins had a good piece a few days back. It was all about the way to teach your wife to fish, or how not to teach your wife to fish as the case may be. I enjoyed that one. It brought back memories of emotionally charged afternoons spent guiding various family groupings on the desert giant, Lake Powell.
I think I had ‘em all at one time or another, every possible combination – father and son or daughter, aunts or uncles or grandparents with nieces, nephews and assorted grandkids, married couples, and then occasionally those working up their courage to give that fine institution a shot. Woops, I forgot another interesting set of pairings, married folks out for a day’s fishing, but not necessarily married to each other; now that was interesting.
One of the unusual aspects of these classic as well as eclectic pairings was that it seemed that the more folks were actually related to one another, regardless of whether by blood or by marriage, the worse they actually treated each other. It was astounding. I’m sure most of those folks would never have dreamt of treating a complete stranger or even a dog with the degree of utter disregard and rudeness that they seemed to save for those persons nearest and dearest to their hearts. Man, you can really dump on someone if you truly love them, or so it seemed.
I must admit that mostly it was the husbands that were the worst offenders. I could never figure out why they even went to the trouble to bring their wives along on the trips; the wives sure weren’t having any fun. Most of the guys in this category of clowns would never have dreamed of encouraging their spouse to make the first cast, and certainly would never have allowed her an advantaged cast to the “sweet spot” in any honey hole.
I never made fewer tips, but at the same time never enjoyed anything more than working surreptitiously to undermine those clown husbands by assisting their long-suffering spouses in whipping their husband’s ever-loving fannies. One of the surest ways I found to assure the desired results was to give the hubby very careful advice on exactly where to cast – of course, all advice offered had to be totally accurate.
I’m sure we all understand why my advice had to be right on the money. That’s right; go to the head of the class – it’s a well known fact that clown husbands never follow directions, which assured that by giving him directions that the “sweet spot” was available for the wife, who as we all know only got second shot at every spot.
A few clowns actually got visibly mad at their wives when they boated a big bass. I really didn’t care - in every case the wife was beaming, ecstatic at having bested their inconsiderate husband and particularly pleased to have been “in on” the secret.
Another of my favorite tricks involved the younger sisters as a part of a family trip. Hang on, this is a hoot. On family-type trips I usually suggested a contest, a bet. After asking the younger sister’s permission – “Would you like to beat your brother at fishing?” – I’d bet the older brother/boyfriend/cousin/son that his baby sister/girlfriend/cousin/mother and I could catch more fish than him, and that we’d bet him a dollar on the outcome.
Of course, those teenage/pre-teen boys were pretty savvy and just devious enough to know when they were being snookered. They weren’t just about to fall for a trick like that from an old guide like me. So, when they declined the bet then I always suggested that since he didn’t like that plan, that his sister and I would take him on, but I wouldn’t fish at all, zero. Iff he beat his sister head’s up, then I’d pay him a dollar, but if his sister won he’d have to tell her she was the best fisherman in the family and open and deliver a coke to her.
Well folks, be reasonable; every baby sister wanted to beat her older brother at anything, and no older brother could bear to pass up a deal like that. Now for the fun part…
I asked Sis if she’d like to come up front with me, or if she’d rather stay on the comfortable seat at the back of the boat. Think about it - every little sister wanted to beat their brother, but just as predictably not at the price of coming up front with an old geezer like me. So, I’d make everyone give Sis and me a little privacy while we worked out our strategy. I would quietly whisper to Sis that she could and would win, but that she had to follow my instructions exactly.
“Just hold your rod tip above the water with the cute little chartreuse grub thingie dangling; don’t drop it in the water. Then, when I turn around and wink at you from the front of the boat just press this button here on the reel which will let the little plastic grub fall into the water. (For this duty it was always a ¼-ounce sliding sinker above a swivel and a two-foot dropper to a #6 Yamamoto Split-shot hook, nose-hooked to a five-inch single tail grub.)”
“Now Sis, when the line stops going out of the reel, turn the handle one turn, raise and drop the rod tip twice, real slowly, and then reel in your fish. Trust me Sis, the fish will be there.”
Sis and I murdered the boys, every time.
Picture the fact that it was post-spawn summertime, and the smallmouth were holding within a few feet of the 25-foot breakline, right at the thermocline, usually some 50 to 100 yards from shore in most of the areas where I chose to pull this trick.
Here’s how it worked…
Of course Bud (the teenage or pre-teen brother) was always amped up, making cast after cast and reeling like a bandit, in spite of my urging to slow down his retrieve. The result, of course, was that Bud’s bait never got anywhere near the bottom where the smallmouth were. On the other hand, as I moved the boat along the chosen breakline (slow on the trolling motor, of course), whenever I saw a good grouping of bass:
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I’d wink at Sis
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She’d press the line release
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The bait would drop
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The bait hit the bass on the head, or close enough
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Sis would fiddle around a little with the rod tip
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And then she’d simply reel in her fish.
Like I said, Sis and I murdered the boys…and it was awesome.
The look on the face of those girls was totally priceless, and that was way before the “priceless” advertisements or Internet gags had been invented. In fairness I can’t really say that this trick will always work, but it did on Lake Powell, at least it did on my pet smallmouth. Of course I only tried it about a hundred times with a 100% success rate, so you’ll have to be the judge. Maybe God was just giving it up for little Sis, one time.
After about 20 minutes of getting pounded by his little Sis I always let the poor big brother in on the trick so he could catch fish, also - but never before Bud had made good on his bet by opening a coke for his Sis. I found there was nothing like getting beat by Sis to make Bud pay attention and slow his retrieve down, way down.
Now that’s an effective lesson in motivation for a young lad to employ the correct technique, as well as some of the most fun I ever had in a boat. Take my advice; don’t ever overlook an opportunity to take the kids along, even if you have to go down the street and borrow a few. (Editor’s note – For best results always inform the parents prior to borrowing their kids.)
And, if you find yourself in the midst of a bunch of stacked up, one-pound or pound-and-a-half, firecracker-hot smallmouth you might try your hand at helping Sis put the britches on her big bro – you’ll love it, and so will she.
Good fishin’
Jerry Puckett