Reeling In Time with Fish Tales. Brian E. Smith

and sharks,” responded Mr. Sullivan. I wanted to ask more about it, but he seemed to have an agenda that didn’t have anything to do with kingfish or sharks. Nevertheless, those cluster of fellows concentrating on what lay beyond the end of the pier stuck in my mind. That question I’d asked Mr. Sullivan about, the activity on the end of the pier, was the beginning, soon to become an obsession for me.

      “Boys, here’s how it works,” Mr. Sullivan said boldly, before going on to explain how to fish from the pier. All four rods and reels were identical. He picked out one, grabbed a rag from the bucket, and began to wipe the dusty grit from the rod and reel. The rod was a white, forty-two inch long, stiff, solid fiberglass stick, about the diameter of a pencil from the tip to where it joined a metal pistol-grip reel seat that ended in a short cork handle. The rod had a tip and two small metal eyes tied to the pole with red and white thread. The reel was a Penn No. 77. The body of the reel was made of dark brown plastic. Light green plastic handle knobs adorned the crank. Metal tubes spanned across the spool, fitting the two sides of the reel together. The reel foot was made of metal. The fancy part of the reel was a small, round metal button on the left side of the reel that, if pushed forward, would make a clicking sound when the spool turned forward or backwards.

      “That’s the clicker,” Mr. Sullivan pointed out, then told us never to use it. There was no lever to take the spool in or out of gear. It was direct drive. The handle spun backwards when line was played out. When you wanted to reel in, you turned the handle forward. It was as simple as it gets. It looked like a toy.

      “This is a bottom rig.” Mr. Sullivan explained, pulling one from the bucket. It was a store bought gizmo about eighteen inches long. It started with a barrel swivel and ended with a snap swivel. A thin plastic coated wire connected the two. Two light twisted wire arms, about six inches in length, dangled out from the main plastic coated wire. One was fixed with beads and crimps to stay at the top, and the other beaded and crimped to hang at the bottom. The two little arms could spin around on the main wire.

      “Where are the hooks, Mr. Sullivan?” Johnny asked.

      “I’m getting to that part, give me a minute, Johnny,” Mr. Sullivan shot back. With that said, Mr. Sullivan pulled a long plastic sleeve, which looked like a see through envelope with a piece of heavy construction paper inside from the bucket. Mr. Sullivan flipped it around showing us. A line up of leadered hooks was on the side with writing. He carefully pulled one out so as not to tangle it with the rest of the hooks. I’d seen hooks like that in stores but never bought any. Dad told me it was a lot cheaper to make our own.

      The leadered hook was medium-sized, with a long shank, and had a loop tied at the other end. Mr. Sullivan pushed that loop through the loop at the end of the little wire arm on the bottom of the rig, then slipped the hook through the fishing line loop and pulled on the hook. The leadered hook was looped to the end of the little wire arm. I called it the loop-to-loop knot for lack of anything better. He did the same thing for the top wire arm. I noticed the store bought, leadered hooks were cut to size for use on the bottom rig. They fit just right so they didn’t tangle. Next, Mr. Sullivan pulled a two-ounce triangle sinker from the bucket and linked it on the bottom snap swivel.

      “That sinker is called a pyramid sinker for obvious reasons, boys. It is made to hold bottom in some strong current,” Mr. Sullivan informed us.

      “Gilbert, get me that box of squid from the cooler.” Gilbert handed his father the box of squid. Mr. Sullivan took the frozen squid over to the fish-cleaning sink set up on the pier banister to the left of the bench.

      “I like fishing here because it is close to the sink. You can stay cleaned up a bit,” Mr. Sullivan told us. Then he said “Don’t drink it, it’s saltwater pumped up from below the pier.” There was the reason he picked here to fish. He ran water over the frozen squid to thaw out the top layer. The squid were of uniform length, approximately eight inches long, and stacked tightly in the box like cord wood.

      “Gather around the cutting board, I’ll show you guys how to do this.” We three kids stood around him like a litter of puppies. Mr. Sullivan explained as he went along. He first pulled the head from the body and set that aside. Next, he ran his short fillet knife inside the body cavity all the way to the pointy part of the squid’s tail and pushed the point of the knife through. In one motion, he sliced through one side of the tubular body from top to bottom and the body unfurled flat on the cutting board. He then scrapped what little guts were there away with the blade of his knife and flipped them in the ocean. A triangle piece of flesh lay before him. With the knife, he cut half-inch strips the whole length of the squid.

      He pulled twelve more squid from the box and put them on the cutting board, saying, “Put the box of squid back in the cooler, Johnny.” He laid down his knife on the cutting board with the squid.

      “Ya’ll cut these up and rig your poles and I’ll show you how to hook the bait when you’re ready,” he said, grabbing the head and one squid strip. Gilbert and Johnny started snatching the heads off and cleaning the squid. I watched Mr. Sullivan.

      He walked over to the bench and laid the squid strip on the top of the pier banister. He held the squid head in his right hand. The bottom hook was inserted in the back of the head and directed out the front in the middle. The tiny tentacles dangled down below the bend of the hook, hiding it in the bait. He punched the top hook through the end of the squid strip, turned it around, and stuck it back in the bait for a double hook up. The squid strip hung straight on the hook like a rubber worm.

      Mr. Sullivan held the rod over the banister and lowered the rig into the sea. The reel’s little green knobs back-wound for a long time. The bait must have just hit the bottom when he jerked it, commencing to spin the tiny handle round and round. In seconds, he swung two fish back over the railing. They were twelve to fourteen inches long and silver.

      “What are those, Mr. Sullivan?” I asked. He had the top fish in his left hand working the hook free

      “They are croaker. Brian, open the big cooler lid for me.” I did as told, and the first of many croakers went in the cooler. The second fish made its flight into the cooler and I went to close the lid.

      “Son, don’t worry about closing the lid.”

      That statement set me in go fish mode. I had my rod and reel wiped down and rigged up in a hurry. Gilbert and Johnny were horsing around with the squid, so I took the liberty to break into the bag of shrimp. I busted a shrimp in half and put a chunk on each of the two hooks. By the time I had all that done, Mr. Sullivan had tossed four more fish in the box. I slid the small cooler over to the railing so I could stand on it and lean over the top of the banister like Mr. Sullivan. Pole in hand, leaning over the banister, watching the waves far below, I took my thumb off the spool and let the rig plummet down to the water. When the rig hit the water a snarl of fishing line billowed out of my reel.

      “Put your thumb on it, put your thumb on it, Brian!” yelled Mr. Sullivan. I was a statue when a big thumb pressed against the spool, stopping the accident from getting any worse. I felt so stupid.

      “Reel this one up and then we’ll work out this bird’s nest” Mr. Sullivan said, gruffly. His rod had two fish on it when he handed it to me. I reeled them up but didn’t feel too good about it. I took off the two croakers and put them in the cooler before walking over to Mr. Sullivan. He was picking and pulling on the fishing line. In a few long minutes, he had the line smoothed out.

      “Remember you have to keep light pressure on the spool with your thumb so you won’t get a bird’s nest.” He warned me.

      “Thanks for the help, Mr. Sullivan,” I quietly said. I looked over at Gilbert and Johnny and they were gesturing me the silent monkey dance. I felt like a dumb monkey.

      My rig still had the shrimp on the hooks, so I stepped back up on the cooler and cautiously lowered my rig into the ocean. A salty gust of air climbed in my face as I watched the rig go in the water. As soon I felt it hit the bottom, I put my right hand on the handle. As soon as I did that, I could feel the fish popping the bait. I set the hook and speed-reeled the fish all the way to the tip of the rod and flung them over the banister onto the pier. I laid the rod down on the deck