The Meaningful Connections We Make Through Fishing – On The Water
Fishing is all about the connections, a whole lot of them. There are the obvious physical connections between fisherman and quarry—represented in their most literal forms by braided or monofilament lines. No matter which line material it is, a robust rod bend makes the connection even more palpable. There are also the metaphorical connections between humans and the natural world that can only be experienced by spending long swaths of time outdoors and being fortunate enough to catch sight of a breaching humpback, be buzzed by a bald eagle, or hear the melodic whistle of the wind passing through pine needles. Somewhere in between are the most profound connections of all—the ones made with other fishermen.
For me, it is these connections made with other humans that carry the most importance and leave the longest lasting impacts. These connections can span time and distance through the sharing of knowledge, stories, and even physical objects. What follows are three stories of exchanged objects that established meaningful connections to other anglers both past and present.
The “Timmy”
I’m presently the custodian of a beautiful black, bail-less, and almost indestructible Van Staal 150 saltwater reel. I cherish it because it can take a beating and a dunking yet keep on reeling, because it is constantly showing up in the column labeled EQUIPMENT in my numerous fishing journals, and because I’m honored and humbled to have been given it by my friend, Rick.
The reel was initially purchased by Rick’s father, John, in 2001, and later gifted to his son, Timothy. For the better part of a decade, the reel played an integral part in connecting John and Tim to a multitude of seafaring gamefish from the beaches of (and from small crafts off) the New Jersey shoreline. When John died in 2006, Tim continued to take his father along spiritually and in tactile form by using their shared rod, reels, and tackle boxes on his deep sea, surf, and freshwater fishing adventures. The trips were both close to home and abroad in exotic locales such as Baja California and Costa Rica.
Sadly, Tim passed away unexpectedly and all too early, in 2011, so Rick bestowed the reel to me with two simple requests: Get good use of the reel and think fondly of his dad and brother when doing so. Over the last decade plus, I am happy to report that his request has been fulfilled.
The reel is part of my small but treasured collection of original VS-series reels, and I am grateful for each one’s engineering and performance in the field, characteristics that have been instrumental in providing me with failsafe operation even in the most salty and sandy conditions. However, only the one Rick entrusted me with was actually worthy of being baptized with a forename of one of its former owners, “Timmy.”
Just as an ice-cold mug of pale ale accentuates a serving of grilled salmon or roasted halibut, the Timmy pairs well with the reel seat of my favorite 9-foot light power, fast-action steelhead rod when targeting fluke, and with my favorite 8-foot medium-power, moderate-action surf rod when pursuing schoolie stripers and blues.
On my way home from days fishing breaks in sandbars and troughs for bass, blues, and fluke along the New Jersey or Long Island coasts with “Timmy,” my mind often drifts to Rick and his family. This typically prompts a phone call to him (courtesy of the cell towers running alongside the Garden State Parkway or Route 27) to relay a brief fishing report and catch up on the comings and goings of our otherwise busy lives.
Most every time I tighten that VS150 into a reel seat, I reflect on John, Tim, and Rick. After an outing on the beach retrieving artificials from whence I cast them, sometimes with a fish in tow, and as I clean and stow that VS150, I again think about those fine people. And, sometimes, when I’m connected to a feisty bass or bluefish, I suspect I am feeling the same sort of excitement and exhilaration that John and Tim once felt working the same handle arm. The reel is a direct conduit between me and skilled anglers of the past.
Fred the Rebel
With the sun readying to make its first appearance of the day from behind the mountain ridge in the distance, its pre-dawn glow provides just enough light for me to make out where the river met grassy bank to my left and to my right. The water temperature was in the high 60s. Insects leveraged the water’s surface tension to dart back and forth, leaving small water ripples in their wakes. While I could not see all that clearly in the low light, my familiarity with this section of river afforded me the knowledge that, at the current water level, just inches from the grass line, were a series of deep pockets. The abrupt changes in depth, in conjunction with scattered submerged trees and several stray boulders, induced small eddies upstream from where I was standing. Seemed like the perfect conditions to break out a Fred—not only a Fred, but the Fred. I tied the 2½-inch, 20-year-old popper to the far end of a fluorocarbon leader and cast upriver toward the eddies. I could hear the cupped face of the lure gurgling as it pushed against an eddy’s counterflow as it headed back in my direction. A short moment later, the rhythmic bubbling abruptly ceased, replaced by a sudden explosion of water. It was my first cast and my first smallie of the day, a day which ended up being a very productive catch-and-release excursion along the river’s edge.
In the winter of 2017, I unexpectedly received a package postmarked from Boynton Beach, Florida. I discovered that it contained a collection of freshwater jigs, lures, and sundry bits of terminal tackle, along with a handwritten note from Rachel, a close friend from my college days. The note read, “I am sure my father would have wanted these to go to someone who would put them to good use.”
Her dad, Fred, had passed away that fall. He was a former naval officer with an electrical engineering PhD and a passion for freshwater fishing. Moving from New Jersey to the east coast of Florida in retirement, he enjoyed ending many a day casting for largemouth bass in the lakes near his Palm Beach County home. The meticulous and precise nature required of his engineering profession had carried over into his hobbies because the tackle, although clearly worn, had been well taken care of and was in great condition.
Like Fred, I too had studied and put my electrical engineering education to good use. I find solace in watching the sun rise and fall with a fishing rod in hand. Like Fred did, I pride myself on losing gear and tackle only while in active use, as opposed to rust or neglect.
One evening, while cleaning my gear after a day out on the river, I found myself holding an Ole’ Bass-colored Rebel Pop-R that Fred had used back in the day. The thought of him catching a bass on that same lure made me smile. I set it aside and finished the remainder of my post-fishing cleansing rituals, after which I dug up a black Sharpie and inked his name on the side of the lure. From that day forward, it affectionately became “The Fred,” and all my remaining popping lures became simply became “Freds.”
For most of my adult life, a camera has been part of my fishing kit. Today, a standalone and often bulky camera is unnecessary, as my smartphone (which some might say I’m never without) is equipped with both rear- and front-facing high-resolution cameras. The phone serves a dual purpose. The first is documentary in nature, a means to quickly capture photographic evidence of the day’s successes and failures to learn from for future outings. The second is to placate the amateur photographer in me—particularly on slow fishing days.
While out in the woods one afternoon, after I’d given The Fred a bit of exercise, a pseudo-artistic idea sprang to mind, one I thought might result in a suitable thank-you gift for Rachel. I snapped a picture of Fred resting on a log by the side of the river. Back at home, I stripped the surrounding color from the photo so that the popper itself would really (mind the pun) pop, and then sent framed prints to Rachel and others in her family. When visiting their respective homes, I’ve caught glimpses of those photos on display, and I’m told it never fails to bring smiles to their faces. I’m sure this would make Fred happy.
Wall Art with a Side Jig
My engineer’s inquisitiveness, combined with my passion for still photographic imagery, particularly the black and white variety, furthers my basic understanding of the physics behind many aspects of angling. One intriguing aspect is the loading of energy into a fly rod during a backcast—even better and more illustrative if the action captured is performed by a seasoned expert.
In early December 2021, while out canoeing and targeting snook and jack crevalle on the fly in southwestern coastal Florida waters, I captured the essence and elegance of my buddy’s backcast. His starts from a point of zero line slack, then maximizes the tension built up at the rod tip via the line’s inherent gravitational weight and the resistance required to extract it from the water.
The picture captures Joe’s 8-weight under maximum load at the precise moment the fly is being lifted off the water. Taking a longer view, such a photo embodies his well-earned experience and muscle memory from when he was a young boy in Indiana creeks and ponds that matured over the decades and miles traveled with his fly rod. I sent Joe a framed copy of that picture, along with a few other shots and a note that read, “If you don’t like the photo I selected, there are several alternatives to choose from hidden in the back of the frame… and if you don’t like any, well, at least you got yourself a free frame.”
I received a response from Joe shortly afterward that read, “Thanks for the nice frame. I am sure I will find a use for it.” The letter accompanied something that fully diluted the sarcasm of his witty zinger; it was an ice-fishing rod he had created from the tip of an old bamboo fly rod and a handle he’d carved and meticulously painted into the form of a beautiful wooden trout.
The rod was inspired by Walter Matthau’s character, the Green Hornet, from the 1993 movie, Grumpy Old Men, a movie that both Joe and I enjoy. Along with the rod was a second handwritten note that read “CATCH A BIG ONE!” Joe later told me that ever since uprooting from the temperate zone of the Midwest to the subtropics of the Southeast, his handwork has sat idle. He thought I might enjoy jigging with it for perch, crappie, and sunfish during New Jersey winters. He thought right! When it’s not seeing action over hard water, the ice-jigging rod works a second job as a prominent piece of wall art in my home office, along with other artifacts of friendships and connections that are deeply meaningful to me.
What It’s All About
Yes, fishing is all about the connections, a whole lot of them. It’s what it’s all about. The specifics of what makes an angling connection are very individual and the significance may change over one’s lifetime. For me, at this point in my fishing journey, the most endearing and important fishing connections are those I have built with my immediate family, my buddies, and the fishing community at large. Sharing tips on the beach, making presents of lures and jigs I find most productive, sharing photos and stories of catches, places, and experiences, and, finally, exchanging fishable artifacts of sentimental value; these are just a handful of my go-to connection producers. I believe these practices are instrumental in promoting and maintaining the pastime of fishing, as well as enhancing its beauty and consequence.
Incidentally, I’m still in the process of turning my gear into cherished, well worn, yet painstakingly maintained and functional artifacts. When I’m gone, I have asked my wife and children to find suitable adopted homes (including their own) for the gear I have collected, cultivated, curated, and regularly put to use in my lifetime, so that future anglers can feel connections to the past, and a bit selfishly, to my past.
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