When I was a kid some 60 years ago, my family frequently vacationed at Cumberland Lake. The company Dad worked for kept a cabin and a small fishing boat there for its employees. Dad was in charge of maintenance and scheduling. He wasn’t paid for that position, but he was able to schedule us there during the best times of the year—the first week and the last week of summer vacation, (which ran from Memorial Day to Labor Day in those days).
The boat was kept at Alligator Boat Dock II. The outboard motor, gas tank, life jackets, etc. were stored in a small shed on the dock. A barefoot boy in bib overalls hustled to assist us, loading and securing the motor and equipment. (Dad told me that the boy, and the boy’s grandpa who ran the dock, were “illiterate.” I didn’t know what that meant; Dad explained they could not read or write.) Dad rewarded the boy’s efforts with the loose change in his pocket, typically less than a dollar, I reckon. The boy always acted like he’d just received a fortune.
Cumberland Lake is a mile wide in places. One morning, while headed to a favorite fishing location, we spotted a man on a far distant shore, waving his arms as if in distress. Without hesitation, Dad steered a course toward the man and his boat.
The guy was maybe 20-something, and he stuttered badly. “I sh — sh — sh — sheared a pin,” he stammered.
His crippled outboard was the same make as ours. Dad kept a few spare shear pins in his tackle box. The stranded boater was mechanically inept, so Dad installed the new shear pin. Then we waited and watched until the man was underway.
Our good deed delayed our fishing for maybe an hour, but Dad didn’t care. “You should always help people whenever you can,” Dad told me. “Especially when you’re out here on the lake.”
Fishermen in those days were generally more friendly and helpful. Everybody waved in passing. The traditional question, “Are you having any luck?” was a polite and friendly way of seeking information. One might respond, “We’re catching catfish on nightcrawlers” or “we’re catching crappie on minnows” or “we’re catching bluegills on crickets” or whatever. Fishermen happily shared information about where fish were biting and on what.
There were seven kids in my family—plus our parents made nine mouths to feed. Dad had a good union job, but it wasn’t that good. Money was tight when I was a kid. Mom sometimes mixed powdered milk with whole milk to save a few pennies. We sometimes bought cheap bread past its freshness date at the “stale bread store,” as we called it.
Fishing was an inexpensive pastime, but it wasn’t free. Some places we rented a rowboat for $5 a day. We had a tiny 2-hp Elgin outboard that required a quart of oil per gallon of gas. I dug worms and caught nightcrawlers, but we had to pay for minnows. Gas for the car, and beer for Dad, also had to be purchased.
Mom managed the family finances. She didn’t mind these expenditures when we came home with a big mess of fish. So, we always fished for whatever was biting—usually catfish, sometimes bluegill or crappie, and very rarely, bass. We always fished for food for the table. Almost everyone fished for food in those days. Almost nobody fished for “sport,” as it’s called.
In 1968, Bill Dance’s first fishing show aired on TV. His friends Roland Martin and Jimmy Houston soon followed with TV shows of their own. Together they formed a company called Th3 to sell their signature fishing lures and products.
Also in 1968, Forrest L. Wood developed and built the very first bass boat. By 1970, Ranger Boats sold 1,200 units. Wood organized bass fishing tournaments to advertise and sell his new boats.
Bass fishing suddenly became big business. (Dance, Martin, Houston, and Wood are all multimillionaires now.) By the late 1980s, it seemed every “Bubba Jim Bob” who liked to drink beer and get away from his wife on weekends was on the lake “running and gunning” for bass. Numbers of bass fishermen ticked steadily upward throughout the ‘90s and into the new millennium. Competitive largemouth bass fishing carried over to other species. Now there are tournaments for crappie, walleye, striped bass, muskies, trout, catfish, bluegill, even carp.
As fishing became a competitive sport, a new breed of fishermen emerged. They weren’t fishing for food for the table. (Indeed, they looked down with derision and scorn on those of us who did.) They were fishing for a trophy, for prize money, for bragging rights—for that elusive and corrosive thing called glory.
This new breed of fishermen was typically less friendly and helpful. About 12 years ago, I was fishing near Red Rock on Nolin Lake. It was a sunny day in early March, and lots of folks were fishing, but nobody was catching.
I was fishing in my 15’ V-hull aluminum boat powered by an old 40-hp Johnson outboard. When I tried to go from here to there, my outboard gave up the ghost with a clatter and a cloud of bluish smoke. It would not restart; my old outboard was kaput.
I politely asked a nearby fisherman to tow me to Moutardier, where my car and boat trailer were parked. The guy looked annoyed, as if I were distracting him from his fishing, and shook his head, No.
I asked another guy, and another, and another—and everyone said No. I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe that no one would give me a tow. If the fish had been biting, I would’ve been more understanding. But the fish weren’t biting—the water was too cold—so why wouldn’t somebody give me a tow? It would’ve taken 15 minutes, tops.
Unwilling to risk further rejection and humiliation, I used my electric trolling motor to land my boat at the primitive boat ramp at Red Rock. Then I struck out on foot for Moutardier. Somewhere in Ambassador Shores, a passing motorist offered me a ride. He drove me to Moutardier, and soon I had my boat back home.
Fishing for me is not a sport. I never compete or contend with other anglers, or with fish. I consider fishing a pastime, or hobby. I enjoy the fresh air, the exercise, the scenery, and the wildlife more than the simple act of catching fish. Enticing a fish to strike a lure and pulling a sharp steel hook into its face just for fun, or to win some kind of competition, is not my idea of good sport.
I harvest fish responsibly, never taking more fish than I need. Even when crappie are biting, I usually limit myself to 12 fish. (The daily creel limit on crappie is 20.) I rarely fish more than once a week. I try to keep one or two bags of fillets in the freezer. I don’t try to fill a big freezer with fish. We eat fish maybe once or twice a month.
Be kind to your fellow fishermen, and fish responsibly, please.
March 13, 2021 at 11:33PM
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