How It All Began

Coming from a fairly large family of eight kids, money was tight, so we were not able to take vacations very often. The summer that I turned nine years old, was my turn to stay at my maternal grandparents' cottage in Algonac, Michigan. I knew it was going to be fun, as it was the first time that I could visit by myself. Grandma Cray had a surprise for me- she said we were going to go fishing. I really didn't know much about fishing other than that you needed a pole, line, and a hook with bait - and of course, fish.

We spent the afternoon before the big day looking for worms in grandma's garden. I dug holes, turned dirt, overturned rocks and other stuff until we had a couple dozen or so real nice night crawlers. I placed them safely in my tin can.

In the morning, grandpa hooked up the old boat – a wooden 12-footer. It was on an old trailer that had the biggest tires you ever did see! White walls to boot - how cool is that? To get to the boat launch, we traveled down the main highway for five minutes or so. During this time, grandma lectured me on remaining quiet so as not to spook the fish because they can hear everything. No talking- no singing- no movement whatsoever is allowed in the boat.

Thinking back to a time not too long ago, I was out in my boat on Whitmore Lake where I found an underwater island. The water depth decreased from 30 feet to 7 feet, where the top of the island was about the size of a large car. I was catching bass by throwing my plastics to the top and pulling them until they slid off and the fish would hit on the way down. The time per catch was approximately one per 20 to 30 minutes of casting. I had been there for about an hour and a half and had my stereo on listening to Celtic music. Then to my surprise, two girls on jet skis flew by and started circling my boat. Anger raged within me, however, when I was about to holler, my pole dipped to where I could set the hook on a fish. My anger turned into exhilaration as I landed a nice three pounder. Upon casting back to the island, the bait no sooner hit bottom and I had another nice fish on. The girls continued to circle my boat and run over the island. With every cast I caught another nice fish. This went on for ten minutes or so to the point that I caught fish cast after cast as they circled. Then they left and so did the bites. To this day, I believe the Jet Skis created such a turbulence in the water, that the oxygen level increased and caused the Bass to go into a feeding frenzy. Thinking back, I now realize grandma may have been over cautious in her way of thinking!

Now back to my story. Once we pulled into the launch ramp, grandpa Amos unloaded the boat then rowed it over to the dock. Grandma and I stood watching the action around the area while he parked the car and trailer. People were working on their boats, sailboats, powerboats, kayaks, and pontoon boats. The birds were flying above our heads appearing to hunt for their breakfast. Once we climbed aboard, grandpa rowed us out towards a marshy area that had some lily pads and tall weeds close by. He dropped the anchor and began baiting our poles. The sun was rising on the horizon, painting the sky with beautiful rays of sunshine in various colors of orange and yellow. After a few lessons on how to cast with a bait caster, I promptly created my first birds' nest (backlash). Grandpa, as patient as ever, picked it out with his fingers and cast my line out for me.

Handing the pole back, he said, "Don't worry, you'll do it again, plenty of times."

Truer words have never been spoken and I think about them to this day whenever I have a backlash.

Grandma said "No Talking."

Watching my bobber floating near a patch of weeds, I relaxed, feeling a calm come over me that I had never felt before. All of a sudden, I saw a couple of rings under my bobber and my senses became sharp. I knew something was there! As I turned to grandpa for advice, the bobber went under. Grandma hollered, "Set the hook!"

I pulled up the pole and the bobber popped back to the surface and just floated there. With that, they both instructed me on the art of setting the hook at just the right moment to catch the crafty old fish.

"Now I know why they traveled in schools", I thought. "They teach each other how to stay away from hooks."

Grandma caught a couple of small bluegills and threw them back as she explained they had "No meat on them." She then told me to wind in my line and check my bait. Sure enough, I had been cleaned out. Grandpa gave me a worm and watched as I tried to get the slimy thing on the hook. With much trepidation, I weaved the hook in and out until it was full of worm. Proud of my accomplishment, I ask him to cast it out for me again. It hit with a "plop" then he handed me the pole. I no sooner had it in my hands on it when the bobber went under. I yanked straight up as instructed and could feel the pull on the other end as the rod bent. The fish gave me a nice fight and I reeled him into the net grandma already held over the side of the boat. Now I knew why people like to fish- it is very exciting and fun!

"It's a nice Perch and he has some meat on him" she said as she unhooked him and threw him on the floor of the boat. He flopped around a little bit and then grandpa put him on a stringer and hung him over the side. The rest of the afternoon I was in fish mode-setting the hook every time my bobber moved. Too bad there were not many real bites or I would not have lost a lot of worms by jerking so hard. After grandma caught a half dozen more perch, we ran out of bait, so we called it a day. Grandpa never did catch a fish, in fact, I don't recall him ever try to set his hook. As he wound in his line, I could see why – he had no bait or hook, just a bobber.

He rowed us back to the ramp, tied the boat to the dock, and then we all got out. Standing there waiting for him to put the boat on the trailer, we heard a commotion at the next dock. A boat had pulled up and they had a large fish tied to the side of it. At first, I couldn't see it; people were standing on the dock and in front of the boat talking about the fish. No one knew what it was. One guy thought it was a shark, another guy thought it was a big catfish without whiskers, and yet, others had names I never heard before.

Grandpa walked over, looked, and said calmly, "it's a sturgeon. This guy is probably over a hundred years old. They are prehistoric fish and are known in Russia for their caviar."

I asked him "What's Caviar?"

He replied, "A fancy name for fish eggs for La-tie-da people."

One of the guys from the boat went and got his 55' Ford Station Wagon. It took about eight to ten men to pick up that fish. They carried it to his car and put it on top. The tail rested on the tailgate with the body over the top and the head on the hood. After judging by the length of the car, that fish had to be a minimum of ten to twelve feet long.

I claimed, "Grandma, someday when I grow up, I'm going to catch a fish like that!"

I know now that Grandpa Amos really didn't care to go fishing and that the only reason he went to all of the trouble of taking the boat out was because he knew Grandma loved fishing and she was teaching me.