Fishing...

I haven't been fishing in years. Ever since it became illegal for me to fish without a license (we were ghetto, lol). I remember striper season coming around and being excited about it. We would always make sure that our poles were ready to go. Full of 75 lb. string just in case “the big one” was also a fighter. At the end of the string was a 6 oz. weight big enough to hit the center of the lake if you threw it hard enough. And if you did you were a real man, admired and complimented by the other guys with a simple yet meaningful, “ahi esta bueno.”

Size 4-5 hooks were perfect for catching big fish with anchovies as our bait, making sure that they were cut in half (as to release the scent of blood) and tied securely to the hook with string. We tested our poles all the time to make sure that they were up to par and ready for battle. Because it was a battleground out there, and any true fisher knows it.

I can recall wearing dirty old clothes almost as a uniform, no preoccupation with smelling or looking good because we weren’t there to get ladies; we were there to fish. We held on to whatever we could as we slid down the steep banks of the Sacramento River to arrive at our usual fishing spot. The rendezvous point was 5 miles outside of the city. Only the most skilled fisherman knew about that spot and that was my team. In my eyes, they were unstoppable.

As we prepared our poles, we raced to see who would be first to cast and who would be last. As a child I was always last, armed with my half-size Mickey Mouse fishing pole, but in adolescence, I learned to be one of the fastest and certainly one of the furthest to cast. Then it was a waiting game. All remained ritualistically quiet after the first cast. All questions were concise and answers could be one or two syllables at most. All was quiet until we all came to the humbling conclusion that we had to recast our lines in order to find a better spot.

Upon the second cast, talk became permitted; jokes began to spawn as our bonding time officially began. I can recall those fishing times used to be great bonding times for my dad and me. We used to talk a lot, now we hardly do. All the men would start joking about issues in their lives as well as asking advice in serious issues. All men would talk until the conversation was interrupted by the impressionable silent noise of movement, slight but noticeable. The Salvadorian phrase of “Perate, vos” would fill the air with a cautious silence and the concentration of one man would therapeutically be shifted from his problems, to the matter at hand, a fish bite. The first was almost always a double take. The second however would cause the mans body to be filled with adrenaline, so to the point of shooting up from his chair and grabbing the pole in a matter of microseconds.

The pole was picked up but not yanked until the second bite tugged on the string. At times the man would hesitate and wait for the third bite in which case it could have possibly been too late. If lucky the fish would continue to bite a fourth time but it was important to tug on the line with split-second timing as soon as the second bite was in process.
It was there that the battle began, especially if the fish was large. The man would begin to reel in the fish, as fast as possible. At times this was done slowly and if done so, it was evident that the person was dealing with a big one. If the fish was large, the job of the closest man would be to abandon his line, grab the net and stand as close to the edge as possible as to capture the fish in the net at sight. As the man would continue to reel the monster in, every inch of his being was filled with excitement and curiosity as to what was waiting on the other end of the line. Also there was always the possibility that the line would break, causing a silent fear in the man that kept him on edge.

Then, out of the murky waters came the silhouette of a beast seen only by the trained eye. It was majestic and beautiful, a trophy for the hard work that the man had spent in reeling it in. All the guys would continue to encourage the fisherman until the man with the net would enviously yet excitedly hold up the net containing a 21-35 inch striper, gleaming in the sun light, fighting for his life and injured from battle. The others would congratulate the fisherman and if it was you yourself that was holding up your prize catch then you were seen as king for the day. Many others felt pride as they often caught the first fish of the day, the most fish in a day, or the biggest fish in the day. We returned home with a sense of victory every time and the joy that comes from escaping your everyday routine to spend a day out on the river. I miss those days.