Poisson, Part I

For the first time in my nearly forty years of existence, I have a fishing license.  I can fish with up to two poles and either on land into the water or in a boat on the ocean.

When I used to cast illegally with my brother in Santa Cruz, I continuously caught the one fish no one wanted:  starfish.  They come up the line heavy, wrap themselves stubbornly around the line, and come back for more the moment you drop the line back in the water.  Since then, when my brother would ask if I wanted a fishing license, I would shake my head and tell him that I would be happy to when they find a use for starfish other than to amuse children.  (I was definitely popular at the Santa Cruz Pier.)

My brother assures me that there are no starfish in Bristol Cove, so I accepted his offer for a fishing license this year.  My first task?  Go slow and do the kiddie fishing duty, which is bait-fishing.  Back in the States that would have meant going to a slightly sunken log in the forest, lifting it, and grabbing creepy-crawlies before they disappear into the earth, but here in Oz bait means another, smaller being in the sea (or, to tourists, sushi).  The Cove is filled with boat launches and marina hardware that are covered with mussels and crab nests, and small, silver jack smelt swim under the planks of the docks.  To obtain the mussels you simply reach under the surface of the water, yank the mussel off the pylon, and take it back to your chair and shove a knife in it and crack it apart like an oyster.  The orange organ inside is gathered up and piled on a hook or split between two hooks, and cast into the Cove.  If you select a crab from the nest, there are rules that it has to be a boy crab and not a girl crab (yeah, go ahead, go there; I’ll wait, you adolescent), and then the shell is cracked and parts of crab threaded onto hooks and cast in the Cove.

But if you are bait-fishing, you catch one of the jacksmelt (or another smelt that presents itself) by dangling a wimpy-looking smaller rod in the water with about six tiny hooks on it.  You let the line drop in the water until the sinker touched the bottom, and then pull up the line about six inches and “jig” it.  During that Saturday’s adventure I kept making lame puns, one of which was, “The jig is up, jacksmelt!”  Jigging involves gently bouncing the pole and moving it back and forth so that it looks like something shiny...jack smelt, the raccoon of the sea.  If you can’t see the bottom you are more likely to catch bait; if you can see the bottom, you are more than likely casting a shadow and are more than likely seen by the fish.  

Bait-fishing requires no casting, which is lucky for me and anyone standing around me; back in the States I used to hook the back of my own hat trying to cast.  Casting lessons will come at some point (I suggested to my brother that he be drunk when he endeavors to teach me to cast), but for the first session I just sat in a chair or paced the dock and jigged.  I caught a jacksmelt in the first twenty minutes--a fish the length of a golf pencil, flat, and wide-eyed in a dark pupil that filled the socket as though he’d been struck with a fist.

It was the only fish caught that day.  Turns out there’s a skill in the tides--you fish them when they are rising, not going out, but when you have only one weekend day, you just see what you can catch with the time you have.  My brother used the jacksmelt in hopes of getting halibut or sea bass (he usually gets sting ray with them), didn’t catch any crabs to use (yes, yes, I’ll wait while you giggle at that one), and loaded up the mussels on another pole for croaker.  After four hours of fishing his bait was as fresh and intact as when he threaded them on the hook--not even a bite stolen.  By the time we left the dock the tide was so low some boats were listing.

We had burgers for dinner.  :)