Restoring a Penn 704Z

The reel had lived on the mantel in our summer cottage for as long as I can remember, nestled between a pile of scallop shells and a roofing nail that someone dug out of the garden. I had always assumed it came with the house—no different than the floorboards or the bricks in the chimney. The truth is that my dad bought it in 1985 at a tackle shop in Framingham. He was 25 and had just purchased his first boat, a 21-foot Boston Whaler, and this Penn 704Z was his way of christening the vessel. Since then, the reel moved around a great deal. It spent the first half of its life attached to my grandfather’s ancient Fenwick, getting broken out only during the occasional cocktail cruise where it sat unused in a starboard rod holder. After that, it mingled with bucktails and rubber bloodworms at the bottom of an antique tacklebox that doubled as a side table. At some point after I was born, it joined other trinkets above our fireplace, quietly transforming into another tchotchke gathering dust and sunlight as the seasons poured through the windows of our living room. In all that time, it never caught a fish.

For too long, the 704Z rested on the mantel, collecting dust among a collection of tchotchkes.

My parents moved a few years ago, and in the shuffle, our mantel menagerie was split up. Some items found their way to a rummage sale, while others were granted clemency. The reel was one of the luckier items. Occasionally, I catch my dad toying with it the same way I did when I was younger—spinning the handle while on calls, opening and closing the bail. It made me sad knowing that in 40 years, he never had a chance to put the reel to the test. I decided this had to change.

Let’s be Reel-istic

I don’t know the first thing about refurbishing fishing equipment. I started this project with the objective of cleaning the reel and surprising dad with it for his 65th birthday. Nothing more. I wanted to perform this service myself rather than send it away to some tackle shop, and more importantly, I thought it would be a fun way to keep my hands busy during the winter hiatus. Pretty straightforward, right?

It turns out fishing reels are a bit more complicated than I had envisioned, and upon opening it, I got my first glimpse of what I was up against.

The first thing I noticed was the grease. It was plastered into every corner of the reel’s interior and had taken on a dark molasses hue, a far cry from the cream or blue I had seen in reference photos. To make matters worse, between each gear there was a thin film of sand and salt that had accumulated over decades of neglect. This grit was the reason for the audible crunch I heard when turning the handle. It was so finely dispersed that the grease had taken on the consistency of an exfoliating lotion, and fine grooves were carved into the teeth of the pinion gear.

The grease inside the 40-year-old reel looked like molasses.

The next thing I noticed was how many parts there were. In my mind, the interior of a reel should look like a Lego set: two big gears spinning happily against one another, the only small parts being a few screws for the housing plate. Nope.

Sign up for Weekly Fishing Reports from On The Water!

With over sixty different parts listed on the Penn 704Z schematic, a reel’s gear system resembles a miniature engine.

With 56 different parts listed on the Penn 704Z schematic, a reel’s gear system is more akin to a miniature engine than anything else. That meant if I lost, broke, or misplaced even one measly spring, this project would get a lot more frustrating and a lot more expensive.

Lastly, I noticed how ill-equipped my “workspace” was. The first reel autopsy took place on a bed of paper towels atop my dining room table in Brooklyn, the only tool at my disposal being a screwdriver from a discarded IKEA couch. Beyond that, all this tinkering had piqued the curiosity of my cat, and I was worried that if he managed to get grease on himself and then, say, on our couch, I’d have to research divorce lawyers along with reel parts. I decided that If I wanted to do this right, I needed to be in a place where I had more room, better tools, and less interruptions from You-Know-Who. Time for a trip.

Finding an appropriate work space free of distraction is the first step in a reel renovation.

Change, of Course

Pulling into the driveway of my parent’s summer cottage, it dawned on me how silly I was being. I had driven a hundred miles and taken a 45-minute ferry ride to clean a fishing reel, but I wanted to complete this project in the place where it all started. As I unpacked, I placed the reel, which lay dismembered in a Tupperware container, on the mantel in the living room and stepped out into the backyard. It was a bright day in mid-April, and a west wind had kicked up across the island. Sitting in the cottage’s lee with my back against the warmed shingles, I craned my face toward the sun and pondered my next steps. My original plan of surprising my dad with a cleaned fishing reel for his birthday started to feel flimsy. I knew he’d appreciate the gesture, but I wanted to do something more—something bigger. I just wasn’t sure what that bigger gesture was. Thankfully, inspiration struck later that night.

It all started, as many bad ideas do, after a few drinks and a Google search. I was researching methods on how to clean grease out of the reel body when I stumbled upon a thread from StripersOnline.com. A group of guys were arguing about the best way to strip a reel of its paint, and there were suggestions ranging from sandblasting to leaving it overnight in vinegar (or even whisky). Yet, the one point they agreed on was that in order to make any reel look brand new, all you needed was spray paint and some sandpaper. That caught my attention. Another thread mentioned the best places to buy deadstock parts for reels like the 704Z, and before I knew it, I was knee-deep in catalogs for everything from drag washers to bail springs. Then I had an idea: What if instead of just cleaning the reel, I restored it entirely? We’re talking new parts, fresh paint, and even decals. Fueled by ego and Narragansets, I made up my mind. I had some shopping to do.

Parts Unknown

With this new deviation, the main thing I wanted to avoid was a Ship of Theseus situation (Google it). It would hardly count as restoration if I replaced everything that betrayed evidence of general wear and tear. At that point, I would be better off just purchasing a new reel. Instead, I started slowly, buying replacements only for things that were severely corroded, such as the bearing collar or the bail screws. I also replaced the more aesthetic pieces, such as the housing plate emblem, as well as the line-gauge decals for the rotor cup. For fun, I also decided to throw in a new handle from the recent model of the Penn 704Z, which, conveniently, is a perfect 1:1 fit for the former handle.

While I waited for these replacements to arrive, I had to address the grease. From what I read online, my best approach was to attack it with a rag, so I spent an afternoon hunched over the reel with a clump of paper towels in one hand and Q-tips from my wife’s makeup bag in the other. While tedious, this part of the process was overwhelmingly satisfying. Beneath all of the gunk, the reel itself was in fantastic shape. It displayed the characteristic robustness that is evident in all Penn products, and everything came apart with relative ease.

The only part that gave me serious trouble was the screw above the bail-release arm on the rotor cup. It had grown so soft with age that my attempts to muscle it free had left it completely stripped, and I had to resort to soaking the entire rotor cup in a concoction of warm water, dish soap, and WD40 for two days before I was finally able to loosen the screw with a pair of pliers.

Mystic Reel Parts was my preferred spot to find deadstock parts like this bail screw for the 704Z.

With everything disassembled and degreased, I could now focus on the task I was least confident about: painting.

Spray and Pray

The last time I painted anything was in middle school. How can someone get a C in 8^th grade art class? I knew I wanted to paint the reel black to match its factory color, but what I didn’t know was how long this process would take. I started by sanding down the spool, the reel body, and the rotor cup to get the more stubborn bits of paint and corrosion off before placing each piece in a cardboard box. After that, I liberally applied a paint remover.

After sanding down the spool, the reel body, and the rotor cup, the parts were then placed in a box and soaked with a liberal amount of paint remover.

After about an hour, the paint had softened and I removed it with a rag, then washed each piece in the sink before applying two coats of sandable primer.

While the primer cured, I started to prep my paint station. Most people prefer using automotive paint when repainting reels, and while nervous on my first pass, I was pleasantly surprised at how easily it applied. The only issue I ran into was with clumping on the spool. Given its uneven surface, streaks of paint formed on the backside of any area I was coating, so I had to re-sand, strip, prime, and paint the spool twice until I was able to get a clean look, which I achieved by placing the spool on a wooden dowling and spinning it as I sprayed.

The primer, auto paint, and paint stripper were purchased through AutoZone, and the clear coat was a last minute purchase from the island hardware store.

Once everything was covered in at least three coats, I let them air-dry overnight before applying a final layer of glossy clear-coat the next morning. The clear-coat was essential to protect against chipping and general wear, and the polished finish helped achieve that out-of-the-box look. All in, this part of the process took nearly 48 hours.

After letting the paint dry for 48 hours, a layer of clear-coat was added to protect against chipping and general wear.

Some Assembly Required

In my head, putting the reel back together was going to be straightforward and enjoyable. Unfortunately, it was exactly the opposite. I decided to move the project off the picnic table and rolled out an old beach towel in the living room to tinker away on. I didn’t anticipate that the spray paint and clear-coat would throw off the tolerances for pieces like the pinion bearing, which was supposed to sit snugly in the collar of the reel body. Upon realizing this, I spent 20 panicked minutes hammering things into place while trying to avoid chipping the freshly applied paint. The bail-wire arm caused me the most strife, as I had to screw it in under tension of the newly purchased springs. Thankfully, everything ended up sitting perfectly, and I greased down the internal components before completing the reassembly.

The reel being reassembled after being treated with fresh grease.

My dad and the rest of my family arrived on the island later that afternoon, so I had to finish the reassembly in secret. That night, with the wine flowing and a meal on the table, I waited for a break in the conversation to give him my present. Of all the moments during this project that made me nervous, this one took the cake, and I made a point of explaining that I was sorry for not buying him something new for his birthday. When he opened the box, I saw that it didn’t matter. I won’t go into details about his reaction, I just hope that the photos serve it justice.

When I started this project six months ago, I never imagined that it would take so much time and effort, but I am glad that it did. Watching my dad open that box reminded me that sometimes the best gestures involve effort and forethought. The reel may have been sidelined for most of its life, but on that night, it got to shine.

The finished product back on the mantel.