I was born to fish. Really. Fishing has always been in my blood. One of my earliest memories, before I had once wet a line, was sitting in Mama Ida’s lap as she read me the Sunday comics. One of those strips was “Henry”, a bald-headed kid who also loved to fish. Henry would often be depicted walking down the street with a rod in his hand and a stringer of fish over his shoulder. Those fish fascinated me. Many of my aunts and uncles were fishermen and when they noted my keen interest, they took me. Usually, they would hook a fish and hand me the rod to pull it in, but that didn’t cut it. I wanted to catch one by myself.
My first fish came from a North Carolina farm pond beside a tobacco field. I was probably four. In those days there was no such thing as a spinning rod and reel nor one of those Mickey Mouse children’s outfit. You either fished with a stiff, steel rod and a Pflueger bait casting reel with cat gut line or a cane pole. I had a cane pole with a cork bobber, and a worm which I had somehow wrapped around a hook. I went on the other side of the pond, away from the adults and managed to coax the hook and bobber a few feet offshore. The bobber twitched, I lifted the rod high in the air and out popped a small sunfish – maybe three inches, no more than three and a half. Excited adults came to help me get the fish off the hook, for which I was thankful. It was my first fish, but I was disappointed. My tiny fish was certainly no match for those big ones like Henry caught.
My disappointment that day led to a determination that someday I would catch fish as large as Henry, my cartoon idol. And ultimately, I would. Next week: More in the series of The Fish of My Life.
