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LEFT: My dingbat that I caught big bass on. MIDDLE: Jeff's jig that he lost underwater in the crappie hole and which later I dove down and saw and recovered. RIGHT: Bill Underhill's super beetle.

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The Canadian Jigfly above is the first lure I ever caught a fish on.
The jaws of that very fish are in the picture too!


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Took it home from Mexico in Nov of 2019


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MIDDLE: Perch-colored Lazy Ike, a walleye killer!
RIGHT AND BELOW THE LAZY IKE: Steve's Yellow Jitterbug. Destroyer of bass!
TOP RIGHT:

The Deep-divin' Jesus, the lure Steve tricked a Jesus freak into giving him free. We caught these fish with it.
SMALL GREEN RUBBER POPPER: Steve's popper from first trip to Itasca.
OTHER LURES: jointed Mirror Lure, White Creek Chub Lure, spotted super sonic-like lure. Bottom left: large-sized Lazy Ike.

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TOP: My Meadow Mouse, which I never caught a fish on and whose tail is missing.
LEFT MIDDLE: The lazy ike-like lure that Bill Underhill gave me. It is a rattler.
Assorted poppers that are spread about; some are obviously homemade.
MIDDLE: Red-headed Basareeno. It's the ORIGINAL folks.
RIGHT: Giant sized Lazy Ike. I remember losing a bass on it out by the bog across the lake near Schoolcraft Island.

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Sonny with Bass he caught on my jitterbug Douglas Lodge Itasca year 2000.jpg


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And Jeff's jasper-like rock from the East Verde? It's Jeff's anyhow.

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STEVE'S FISHING KNIFE BELOW

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Tom Hascall's fly Rod A.JPG



Here's a Lure I almost got hooked on so when Jeff came I borrowed his wine cork to make it safer.
It's big; you could catch ME with it EASY.
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ALSO HOME NOVEMBER 2019:
TACKLE BOX CONTENTS


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From my Book Gone Are the Days



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Stephen Cole               The Castmasters

It was in June 1963 that my father somehow got his hands on an old Mexican panga equipped with a 25-horse Evinrude outboard and took my brother and me fishing near the Moruan Estuary on Mexico’s Sea of Cortez.  I was twelve years old. We’d fished plently from the shore but we were about to discover that a boat makes a hell of a difference. 
Before our fishing trip, my father  gave us a little lecture about the boat.  He told us what trim ship meant and baited us into using unnautical terms in order that he might humiliate us.  First he tricked Tom into referring to the stern as the back of the boat and gleefully admonished him.  “Stern!” he hollered, feigning disbelief.
“Stern,” Tom repeated, ashamed.
Next, he led me toward the bow and deceived me into calling it the front.   “Bow!” he hollered, rolling his eyes.
“Bow,” I said.
Dad was in high spirits.  As he was maneuvering the boat into the gentle waves, he succeeded with various deliberate misdirections to solicit the words right and left.  “Starboard!” he cried.  “Port!” he cried.  He was having a good time.  The objects of this indignity were not.  
Fortunately, these four words comprised the sum total of my father’s nautical vocabulary and he was unable to perpetrate any more of this fraud.  Sensing this, my brother and I  proceeded to get even.  My father was not only about to reap what he so richly deserved, he was also about to learn how dangerous a little knowledge can be, particularly when it is used to someone else’s disadvantage.
Casually, and in all innocence, we asked him to translate other items to nautical terms.  Both of us were eager to learn we said.  The old man was in trouble.  Perhaps he felt an abstract sense of danger that he couldn’t quite name, something dark and primitive.  Tom and I circled like wolves.  I pointed to the transom.  “What’s this part of the boat called?” I asked.
 We were not kind.  When we had finished our survey of the panga, we dredged from our memories the curious features of other vessels: punts, dories, tugboats, fishing smacks, sloops, mine sweepers, submarines and bathyspheres, and asked for translations.  By the time the inquisition was finished, my father had been forced to reveal that in addition to the word transom, he was unposted of the following terms as well:  thwart; stem; cleats; sheer line; chine; beam; luff; reef cringle; clew; leech; bowsprit; forefoot; rutter skeg; taffrail; spar; halyard; davits; rub rail; hawsehole; pudding fender; capstan; scupper; and towing howser. He was hoarse from saying, “I don’t know,” and didn’t bother us any more. 
Feeling well-avenged, Tom and I now got down to business.  Between us on the floor (deck) of the boat were two opened tackle boxes and in the unfolded trays of these intricate cases, glinting in their little rectangular compartments, were objects we handled with reverence, beautiful things made of brass and steel, feathers, plastic, and enameled wood.  Some had metal blades that glittered like gems and others caught the light and swirled it in tiny iridescent pools so that the shelves of the tackle boxes might have been lined with black felt.  They were living fetishes with real glass eyes, and Christian names, things upon which had been lavished such craft that they seemed like small sentient creatures bestowed by the gods of fishing with tiny souls.
“I guess I’ll try the Little Cleo to start,” I said.  “We can troll out to where Dad thinks the reef is and then anchor and bait fish on the bottom.”  I clipped the silver spoon onto my line.
“Lemme see your swivel clip,” Tom said. 
I held up the line and the little Cleo turned slowly in the bright sun and the water and the sky whirled in its mirrored surface.  Each turn  revealed a little bare-breasted dancing girl drop-forged on the concave metal.
“That’s  a pretty small clip.” he said. 
“I know,” I said, “but I figure a big clip affects the action.”
“Me too.  A big swivel clip might be easier to fasten and it might even be stronger, but it’ll not only mess up the action, but the fish can see it.  That’s my theory anyway.”
“I guess most people come to that conclusion eventually,” I said. “Of course for those big groupers you can use the biggest clip you have.”
“Absolutely,” Tom agreed.  “Not to mention a steel leader.  You got any?”
“Sure have.”
“What brand?”
“Tournament.  Got them at Yellowfront.”
“A lot of good those’ll do you when they break,” he said.
“What kind have you got?”
“Eagle Claw.  Twenty-five cents a throw.  Three to a package.”
I whistled to show I was impressed.  “You were probably right to pop for those,” I admitted.  “If you’ve got any extra maybe you’ll lend me one.”
“Sure.  I got plenty.”
“Thanks.  Say, what are you going to troll with?”
Tom looked thoughtfully into the tackle box.  “Well, I’m not sure,” he said.  “These River Runts and Lazy Ikes are pretty useless in the ocean I guess.”
“You never can tell,” I said.  “How about that Bomber Waterdog or maybe the Cisco Kid?”
“Naw. I’ think I”ll use a spoon.  Besides, I’m afraid I might lose the Cisco Kid.”
“Don’t you ever fish it?”
“Nope.  I sent away for it special.  It put me back  plenty.  I’d be a fool to risk losing it.” 
“What about that Paladin?  It looks deadly.”
“It looks deadly all right but the fish don’t like it.  I’ve never gotten a strike on it.”
“I’m surprised, Tom.  Look at how that blue metal flake glitters, and that chrome lip.   Not to mention the eyes.  Godamn, but the thing just looks alive.  The pupils even swivel around.”
“I know.  It’s a quality plug.  The plastic doesn’t even have a seam.  It’s all I can do to keep from biting it myself.  But the fish think different.”
I thought a moment and then said philosophically, “I suppose fish just don’t appreciate the art of it-- just don’t have the head for that sort of thing.”  I picked up the heavy lure and turned it in my hand and the sun gleamed on the chrome fittings.  The white plastic was like ivory and the blue glitter design in the finish seemed to sparkle in the air around it.  The little black pupils clicked like tiny dominoes.  “It’s just plain over-built .”  I pondered this a moment.  Then I looked into my tackle box. “Funny... all these lures are.“
Tom clipped on  a half-ounce Castmaster and lobbed it out behind the boat.  It skipped on the surface in the wake.
I yelled aft.  “Slow her down, Dad.  We’re going to troll now.”
 Dad cut the speed until the boat was just barely chugging along.
“Just a touch faster.”
“A touch faster,” he said, and the engine picked up a little.
I cast the Little Cleo far behind the boat.  Then I let the line run out even farther as the boat moved ahead.  When I figured I had enough line out, I set the reel and leaned back.  Through the line I could feel the lively wobble of the Little Cleo and knew the bait was running smoothly, not tangled up.  The casting of the lure had been done well and I was satisfied.  For part of me believed, or half-believed, that I was not just casting a line, but a charm over the waters, a spell that would enchant the fish, and the magic I was working could be broken if the ritual of it were done poorly or gracelessly. 
“We’ve got about a half mile to where I think the reef is,” Dad said.
“Wham.  Something hit the Little Cleo.  It was hooked and running.  “Cut the power!” I yelled.  Dad throttled down to nothing.
  Despite my age, I already had developed the instincts of a good angler and the sensations that came through the line told me that this was a leatherjacket.  No other fish in the estuary fought like it.  It was easy to tell the difference.  A leatherjacket was snappier, and fought in tighter angles than say a Corvina that fought hard but with a blunter edge.  A leatherjacket always sent through the monofilament a feral electricity that I could recognize as one might a particular person’s voice.  Leatherjackets  always fought up on top of the water too, whipping around near the surface. 
I worked the fish carefully toward the boat.  Twenty feet out it jumped and flashed brightly in the sun and I kept the line tight as not to let the fish shake off the lure. 
I took my time.  It was always a good idea to try to wear out a leatherjacket.  Brought in too green a little leatherjacket could wreck havoc in a boat, bouncing up in your face and slapping tackle around.  In addition to this, the little fish had cruel spines which left painful punctures.  It was difficult to handle even a dead one without getting stuck.
I got the fish aboard and removed the hook.  Tom and I admired the fish where it lay on the boat bottom.  It was the whitest of silver and it was a good size for a leatherjacket, well over a foot long. 
We both thought the fish was beaten but we were in for a surprise.   Without prelude it bolted into the air like a jackrabbit and disappeared over the side.  It happened so unexpectedly that we were surprised into laughter. We were glad he got away.
Then the motor rose up to trolling speed and it was Tom’s turn.   His line, which had been lying on the bottom, took up its slack.  The Castmaster rose out of the sand and perhaps flashed only once before it was hit hard.  Tom was startled by the power of the strike.
“Holy cow!  Now I’ve got one.” he yelled.
Again the motor was cut and the fish played.
“What do you think you’ve got?” I asked.
“Hard to tell.  Hooked him down on the bottom so it can’t be another leatherjacket.  Besides, he isn’t fighting like one.  He’s clunking his head around.”
“Sounds like a puffer.”
“Maybe.  But look at the long runs he’s making.  Besides, since when’s a puffer hit a spoon?  My bet is a sargo, or maybe a porgie.
Tom’s first guess was right.  As he brought the fish in we could see the characteristic lightning stroke marking of a sargo.  Careful not to horse him, Tom brought the fish to the side and flipped him in.  He was a little disappointed.
“These sargos always seem huge until you get them out of the water,” I said.
We trolled on to the reef without any strikes for a while.  Then, just as our attention spans were reaching their limits, the boat crossed a mass of Corvina, what we called sea trout, moving into the estero.  Neither of us would have called it a school.  The word was somehow inaccurate in describing a sea trout run.   It did not capture the largesse of the event.  These fish moved in herds like wilderbeasts and when they appeared in the estuary the alarm would go up.  People would holler, “The sea trout are running!”  and this would cause a frantic dash to the beach.  For an hour there would be a madhouse of fishing with people lugging around buckets stuffed with fish, falling over each other and spilling them, and anglers slinging fish up on the beach and running back down to catch more.  And for that magic hour the world was transformed.  Gone was all envy or avarice and no fisherman begrudged  a fish or harvested any of the sea’s luck at the expense of another.  All secrets disappeared and the most avaricious of fishermen, without even being asked might shout to anyone and everyone, “They’re really hitting on Spin Rites!” 
Tom and I hauled in corvinas until our arms ached and then the herd moved on and the sea was quiet around us.  We kept two of the biggest hung over the side on a clip stringer. 
“Well, that was sport, all right,” I said, “but you can have that kind of fun from the shore.  We shouldn’t be wasting our time with sea trout when we’ve got a boat.  How far to the reef, Dad?”
My father looked toward the shore and then out across the bay.
“I figure we’re just about on top of it now.  Why don’t one of you guys look over and see if you can spot it.”
Tom leaned over the side and squinted into the water.
“Well?”
“Nothing, I don’t think.  It looks dark down there but I can’t tell whether it’s rocks or just deep.”
I leaned over and took a look.  “I say it’s rocks.  Throw over the anchor.”
The anchor line reached down thirty feet before it touched bottom.  Tom secured it to the bow but it wasn’t long before we realized it wasn’t holding.  The current of the rising tide was moving the boat in toward the opening of the estuary and the anchor, a big paint can full of hardened cement with the round end of an eye bolt sticking out, was dragging across the sand. 
“We should have a plow anchor, “ Tom said.  It’d dig into the sand and hold us.”
I was exasperated.
“Sand? We don’t want any sand, dumbbell.   What’s the matter with you?  We’re suppose to be over rock, a reef with groupers swimming all over it.  We’ve got to get that motor fired up and keep looking...”
There was a little jerk.  The anchor had  caught on something.  The line was now taut with little drops of water jumping off it and the current now seemed to flow around the boat.
“I think we just hit the reef,” Tom said. 
“We couldn’t have done anything else.   We’ve stopped dead still.  That anchor is hung up on rocks down there.”
Tom and I looked at each other for a moment and then dove for the bait bucket.  In less than a minute our lines were slip-rigged with egg sinkers, steel leaders and size four-0 hooks baited with big squid heads dripping purple ink.

Times of Subdued Light

Anchored over the reef we had a view of everything.   Northwest was the Sierra Blanca which lay on the desert like a dead stegasaurus and behind it loomed the black Pinacates, an immense volcanic wilderness of huge cindercones and craters.  It was the rising of these volcanic mountains that had in ages past, diverted the Sonoita river and created the Moruan estuary.  To the northeast horizon lay lines and lines of jagged, sand-colored mountains.  
Jutting from the sea to the southeast were the Bird Islands.  From the estuary they looked like three pyramids on the distant horizon.  It was one of my pleasant habits to imagine I was looking across the sea to Egypt.  But this was not possible every day for the curious optics of the gulf caused the islands to change shape.  On some days they resembled not pyramids but distorted mushrooms growing out of the sea, on other days, jutting columns of rock like those at  monument valley.  Still other days when layers of cool and hot air made a particularly shaped lens, the islands seemed to defy gravity.  At such times they floated above the water, in the sky, these pyramids or mushrooms or rocky monuments.  And none of this seemed unusual.  There was magic everywhere in the gulf.
The air and the sea had merged and the day had become hazy and dreamy.  The little boat floated lightly on the water and above it white gulls swirled in the blue sky.  No one spoke.  My father leaned back against the sun-faded, pale blue Evinrude motor and dozed.  Tom and I were drowsy too, mesmerized by the wobbling sun on the waves.  Our lines, almost forgotten, drooped languidly into the deep green water. 
My eyes moved lazily to the dunes that loomed over the long sandy beach.  Lulled by the sun and water, my mind drifted pleasantly.  I closed my eyes and thought, or dreamt perhaps, about the pristine surface of the dunes and the secret traces left there by wandering coyotes. There were trails in the sand, paths that led through a desert wilderness of rock and creosote and cholla.  I had discovered them during last year’s visit and thoughts of the sand trails and where they might lead had haunted my dreams that whole week.  Now the strange, nameless feeling called up by the trails was back. 
I remembered that near the beach, on a dune, a path angled down like the stripe on a fish, faint , barely marring the silt.  I had recognized it for what it was, part of a secret highway, a network of trails that connected the dunes with the desert and the mountains--a wilderness route that led into the night, a strange geometric design, as indecipherable as cave paintings or the lines on an astronomer’s chart.  I was the only person in the world who knew this secret.
In my dreams I had hiked these roads and in the mists of my imagination had pictured what lay where the sand trails ended.  Once a huge stone face appeared half-buried in sand.  Neither Egyptian nor Olmec, the face belonged to a civilization created in my dreams, the remnants of a  lost city, a Sphinx quarried from Sonoran granite.  On another night my wanderings might lead me through sahuaro and ocotillo to a simple circle of stones.   
It was likely that the trails led to nothing more astonishing than a dusty cave, or a brackish seep in the desert, or a small pool of rain held in the fluted granite of the mountains where coyotes might drink, and I knew this.  Still their mystery was irresistible and as seductive as the voices of sirens.
I opened my eyes and these images of night gave way to spears of sunlight thrown off by the water.  I squinted and my vision, washed out by the sun, came slowly back as the green and blue of the estuary ran across my eyes like water colors.  Looking to the shore, I could now see figures moving on the beach, one clad in yellow, the other blue.  They were running in the shallows, and appeared to be throwing a ball.
All at once I was  possessed of an urgency to get to shore.  Without any warning at all, my mind had taken a hairpin turn.  Why in the world, I thought, was I floating  in a smelly boat, a bucket of purple squid between my feet when girls  frolicked in  swimsuits on the beach?  I tried to find one rational explanation for it.  I couldn’t.  It was crazy, I concluded, and I shook my head and whimpered a little at the senselessness of it. Never before had the absurdity of fishing become more apparent.  The obsessive casting of lines!  And for what?  After all the effort, the study, the expense, what did any angler ever have to show for himself other than a lousy fish?  Just what was the allure in this mystical casting of lines, I asked.  Just what was it I was searching for?  For a moment a vision of Little Cleo appeared in my mind and began to sparkle and spin and then the  rod came alive in my hands and the shallow, blasphemous thoughts disappeared forever.
It was a steady pull.  Deep near the bottom, heavy.  Instinctively I knew I had never hooked anything like it before.  Tom was already reeling in his line.  He saw by the bend in my rod that this fish would need plenty of room.  He didn’t want to be blamed if he tangled him up.  Then he remembered the stringered sea trout and slung them into the boat and out of my  way.
I raised the rod and calmly reeled in a few feet.
“He’s big, but not so big I can’t move him,” I said.  “He hardly knows he’s hooked yet.”
It was quiet in the boat.  We were almost whispering. 
Tom spoke calmly. “He’s thirty feet down, remember.  Better get some line back before he starts running,”  he advised.
Slowly, ponderously the fish moved around the stern.  I followed  carefully around the boat, my rod bowed in a half circle and in the hot sun the bluegreen monofilament as bright as neon pointed straight down into the water.
“I’m going to have to horse him a little,” I said.  “Otherwise he’ll do exactly what he pleases.  Maybe we can pull up the anchor and float with him.”
  My father, who had been staying out of it, now moved up to the bow and hand over hand, started bringing up the anchor.  I pulled back hard on the rod and then dipped the tip back to the water as I reeled in line.  I repeated this several times, always careful not to create any slack.  I had moved the big fish high off the reef before it came alive and started taking back line.  There was no stopping it.  My tackle was ridiculously light for this fish.  The reel screeched as the puny ten pound test was stripped off the spool.
“Can you stop him?” Tom asked.
“No,” I said.  “He’s a tank.  Maybe he’ll stop on his own.”
The fish was running down and away from the boat.  A hundred yards of monofilament disappeared from the reel before it stopped.  I knew I had only a few feet of line left and that I had to get it back.  If he ran out the spool it would be all over.  The line would break like dried spaghetti.
I wondered if he had enough talent to land such a fish.  I thought I might.  Even then I’d need more luck than I should expect.   But a share of good fortune started when the anchor was heaved aboard.
Up until now, I had been fighting from a solid platform.  This gave the fish an advantage.  It had only to run out my line and break it off the spool.  But now the fish was moving again and the boat seemed to follow.  It was as if the fish were pulling it into the estuary. 
This was not entirely an illusion.  While the current was doing most of the work, the fish was pulling too, and now that the boat was free, it gave a little when the fish pulled.  This added to the effect of the yielding drag and the bending rod and the fish had that much less power to tear loose or break the line.
Fish and Panga were headed slowly into the estuary.  The tide was almost at its highest but the current was still strong.  A wind picking up astern pushed the boat along too.  Again fortune seemed in my corner.  The speed of the drifting boat had begun to overtake the swimming fish.  I was finding it easier to reel in line.  In fact, it soon was necessary to pump fast to draw in the slack. 
The water was shallower here, the color lighter, more blue than green and at times we could see dark patches of seaweed glide by under the drifting boat.  It wasn’t long before we were closing in on the fish who up until now had been moving with confidence feeling in complete control of things.  Now the boat was on top of him and the line which had heretofore felt so light in his jaw was now solid and menacing.  He panicked.
The fish bolted away like a torpedo and this time it didn’t appear he would stop anytime soon.  My little black reel squawked in my hands like a crow as the line whipped out in the direction of the fleeing fish.
“He’s going crazy!” Tom yelled.
“Man oh man!  Look at him!”   I stood in the center of the boat, my legs apart, holding the bent rod helplessly.  There was only one way this could end.  And then, a miracle.  The fish seemed to stop.  Something had happened under the water.  Perhaps near the bottom a jutting sand bar, a little underwater shelf of sorts, had startled the fish.  He skirted its edge and then, confused, turned a half circle and fled back from where he’d come, trailing a widening loop of line behind him.  Whatever it was, he was coming back.
I stared vacantly for a moment at the limp line hanging from my rod tip.  I was inclined to believe the fish had broken free and was about to curse my luck when I divined what had happened. 
“He’s changed direction,” I said suddenly.
 Tom stared blankly for a moment and then guessing I was right, regained his wits.  “Start cranking!” he said.  “Get that slack in.  He’s coming back at us!”
I reeled until I felt the swimming fish.  The line was moving into the current and past the stern.  I horsed him a little and the fish turned back and made a third run with the tide.  The boat, still drifting into the big estero, followed. 
“I think he’s running out of steam,” I said.  “If I keep drifting up on him and getting back my line, he’ll eventually wear himself out.”
“Don’t sell him short, Steve.”  Tom warned.  “You haven’t got him outsmarted yet.  There’s no telling what he’ll do.”
“That’s true,” I admitted.  “But at least I’ve got a plan now.  If I can stick with it we’re going to have grouper for dinner tonight.”
Tom watched as I worked the rod and reel.  The sun shone through the green glass rod and the line was taut and hissing where it cut the water.
Dad was sitting in the bow smoking.  He hadn’t said a word the whole time.  He wasn’t butting in with unappreciated advice or ignorant suggestions or piscian nomenclature and this was wise, for the truth of the matter was that while he had more degrees than a thermometer, he didn’t know shit about fishing.  Aside from the nautical terms baloney at the beginning, the man had behaved like an angel.  That is, he behaved like he didn’t exist, and Tom and I  who had little use for adults, appreciated it.  After all, we were professionals, impatient with amateurs.
Most of our knowledge had come from experience fishing the canals and ponds in the river bottom near our home in Tempe, or during those long summers at the biology station on Lake Itasca in Minnesota.  But a lot was acquired from reading.  Tom had a book called Fishes of the World, for instance, which contained pages and pages of black and white photos of fish and essential information on each.  He also had the Gulf of California Fishwatchers Guide  We had spent hours pouring over both.

“You’re figuring he’s a grouper then?” Tom said.
“Why not?  That’s what we’re after, isn’t it?”
“Sure, but there’s a lot of other things it might be. All kinds of fish hang out around a reef.  Could be a big sea bass, or even an outsized pinto.”
“Naw.” I said.  “Pinto bass don’t get that big unless I’ve got a world record which is fine with me.  A big sea bass, sure.  Could be.”
“I hope it’s not a big diamond ray or bat ray,” Tom offered and right  away regretted saying it.  By the jerking of the rod alone he already knew it wasn’t.  Now his careless comment was open to criticism.”
“A ray?” I scoffed.  “I guess I know a ray when I hook one.  A ray just pulls and when he takes off he accelerates like a car.  You can feel by the way one fights that he hasn’t got a tail.   A ray won’t cut any didoes either.  No, this isn’t any ray, Tom.  I’m surprised you said it.  Hell, I can feel the shape of him right through the line.”
Tom took this rebuff without comment and then said, “Maybe it’s something we haven’t considered.”
This was an interesting thought.  I looked up from my careful reeling.  “Well, go ahead and consider.  I’m listening.  We’ve eliminated the rays of course, but aside from a big sea bass or grouper, what are you thinking?”
“I don’t know, but there’s plenty of fish in this gulf besides those. I’ve got the fishes of the gulf book in my tackle box.  Maybe it’s one of those big electric cats you claim are out here, or a  Barred Pargo.
“That’s okay with me,” I said.  “I’m not worried about the electrical cats either. Not in in this boat anyway.  It’s all wood and fiberglass.  Besides we’re wearing rubber sneakers.”
Then Tom had an another inspiration.  “The Colorado river empties into this gulf just northwest of here,” he said.   “Maybe you’ve hooked a giant sea-run river squawfish.”
This was a wonderful thought. 
“Wouldn’t that be something,” I said.
 We lapsed into silence then as I played the fish.  We were both imagining a huge river minnow drooped over the bow or trailing on a rope behind the panga like a pursuing sea serpent.  Maybe people on shore would scream out warnings as we motored in, and Tom and I would beach the boat and laugh and haul the long behemoth up on the sand while astonished tourists rushed over to take snapshots.  
Meanwhile, the plan seemed to be working.  Three times I regained my line and three times the big fish took it back.  It looked like I was winning the fight, although I was worried about the drag.  It was sticking.  On that last rush the line nearly broke before the drag let go.
  By now the panga had drifted well into the estero and it was time to either catch this fish or lose him.  My brother and I worked as a team while my father prudently kept out of the way, his big mouth shut.  Tom had the large net ready and both tackle boxes closed and latched and stowed as I moved the tired fish up toward the surface. We were about to get our first glimpse of him.  He was about four feet under when he came into view for just a moment.  Then he saw the boat, and took off flashing bright red.  The color startled us.  What kind of fish could this be?  I had no time to speculate.  The drag was stuck and the fish an inch away from breaking the line.  I pushed the button and opened the spool and then held the line against the rod with my thumb as it played out.  The drag was shot, but I was confident now.  I’d worn the fish down.  I clicked the Zebco back into gear and started pumping hard.  It was time to show who was boss.  I moved the fish up rudely, strong-armed, forced him toward the surface.  I wasn’t horsing him.  What I was doing was different, and with this thought I felt a little rush of pride. 
I could hardly remember when the fish broke the surface, huge and red and blue with big pectoral fins that spread out like wings.  The animal floated just under the green skin of the water, moments away from making a last desperate run.  But Tom was there with the big net and with one motion scooped up the fish and with both arms straining, heaved it crashing into the middle of the boat.  I fell on it and hugged it to the smelly boat bottom.  One of the gill plates slashed my hand but I held fast.  I was remembering the leatherjacket’s escape and knew I could not bear that happening now.  The fish got his wind back for a moment and kicked some, but there was not much fight left in him.  I held on until he was still and then  got up from the boat bottom and sat back on the bench.  The fish would weigh in at twenty-one and a half pounds.  I had taken him on ten pound test. 
Tom opened his tackle box and got out the fish book while the panga drifted with the tide.  He thumbed through it a while and then stopped on page 36.

DOG SNAPPER, Pargo prieto, Boca fuerte
Lutjanis novemfasciatus
Body reddish, darker on back and fins with about nine bars on sides. Two large canine teeth on upper and lower jaws.  Blue streak under the eye.  Feeds on fishes crabs and shrimp at times of subdued light and at night. Largest Gulf snapper:  Common throughout the gulf south to Panama.
To 85 pounds

I looked at the drawing and read the description.  That was him all right--  all except the part about subdued light.  I had no idea why the fish was feeding in such bright sunshine.  But the rest of the description was right, or factually right, anyway.  For as I read it a second time, I found that there was something amiss, a subtlety the book could not capture.  I looked down at the big fish where it lay dead on the boat bottom.  It was the greatest fish in the world.  



Dear Steve,
Fishing in the Salt river is a joke.  Nine days out of ten a guy could piss a bigger river than what that Salt is and the fish have developed lungs, fur some of them because there just plain isn’t enough water to go around.   No, don’t argue it because that just happens to be a fact.  The only way to get any sport out of fish like that is with .22 hollow points and a good dog to flush them out of the brush.”
 But the sea doesn’t contain any such kind of fishes as that dumb river.  It’s there damn near 365 days a year and the fish get fat and sassy.   Channel catfish!  Phssft!  Do you know that sea cats can direct their spines?  Yeah, they can, like a stingray.  And I’ll tell you something else also.  They’re electrical, some of them.  You hook one of them and you better have the sense to cut your line or you’ll just flat wind up fried to a crackling crunch.  There’re documented cases-- and I said documented cases-- of anglers-- good strong men some of them too--- who’ve reel-pumped those big electric cats and let them slap against their metal boats.  The current was so strong it oxidized those boats.  Turned them all into aluminum oxide-- silver onyx-- and they sank like bolo ties.  Broke up before they ever reached shore.  Not a one of them ever came back, and nobody ever found out what happened to them.”
A real fisherman goes for the lunkers.  Well, let me tell you something then.  The big fish are out in the ocean and you don’t catch them by wading in the surf and developing  acherry toe and salt water pickle combo.  You get a boat with a live well, a spitoon and an ice chest full of beer and you head for deep water where the groupers are so big they eat skipjacks like peanuts.”

                        Yours, Tom
Dear Steve,
    A fisherman knows his skills and he knows that with two feet of kite string and a bent nail, he can haul in anything that swims.  It’s a gift.  He’s always had it.  He falls in a mud puddle and comes up with a king mackerel.  But he usually heads for deep water.  A Good panga and a twenty-five horse Evinrude’ll usually do fine.  He throws a line over the side and tells his buddy to out with the .45 auto because a real fisherman expects trouble any time he wets a line.  He doesn’t let it catch him unsuspecting.  He doesn’t let a fish make a clown of him.  He doesn’t believe in God or miracles and he doesn’t let a friend use a rifle because the kind of fish he wants to catch would grab it by the barrel and beat both of them over the head with it.  There’s been cases, documented ones, where this has happened.  That’s a fishing trip, mister.

                        Yours, Tom

Stephen West Cole

Then of course there was Field and Stream which contained the usual articles which have scarcely changed to this day.  The stories in that magazine so dazzled us with their description of a world of men and the out-of-doors that despite our perhaps average intelligence, we were close to believing in its existence.   The articles went something like this:

I’ve known a lot of guides.  Take that Bill Furson.  Tough as nails and dusty as old tennis shoes.  Or Jake Randleman.  Well, a man might have lived who could out trap him, but there never was a more earnest salmon-gigger born and that’s a fact. Why, I remember him stalking them big bull moose at a waterhole and just cruising under the surface like an alligator.  Didn’t sog up his rifle none either.  Old Bell Clay might have out- guided the both of them if it weren’t for that pin leg.  Still, you don’t find the likes of them anymore.  Not nowadays anyway.   But Koot Too, genuine Brachiopod Indian, could outdo even the best of these fellers.  Why, I once saw that feller take on a birch tree with a Bowie knife and with just two strokes, slice a canoe off the side...