"The Best $3.49 I Ever Spent"
When my son was two, I got him a children’s rod-and-reel combo emblazoned with characters from one of his favorite animated movies. It came equipped with a push-button baitcasting reel and a goofy rubber fish tied to the end of the line, intended to aid his learning to cast without impaling himself and those standing behind him. The hard rubber lure, a caricature of a clown fish, was the manufacturer’s indication to fathers everywhere who might purchase the fishing pole that the angling wouldn’t be all that serious just yet.
Firmly convinced that my son was well advanced of other kids who may be perfectly content slinging around and retrieving a rubber clown fish, I removed it and replaced it with a shiny minnow lure from which I’d detached the hooks. If my son was going to fire blanks unwittingly, they could at least look like the real thing.
Not long after he got that cartoonish fishing pole, the reel broke. The rig became little more than something for him to carry when he accompanied me fishing, excursions that usually didn’t last very long. The only entertainment my son got out of that silly little fishing pole was when he tomahawked it and slapped the surface of the water with the lure. I didn’t catch a whole lot of fish any time that pole was around.
About a year later, I decided my son really needed to know how to cast a line, so I upgraded and got him a basic graphite rod with a Zebco baitcaster. Turns out, I’d overestimated his readiness and bought him too much fishing pole. Despite numerous lessons in the front yard, he never got the hang of casting that thing.
Like a father is wont to do, I acquired an irrational fear that my son would never gain an appreciation for fishing, and instead would wind up joining an interpretive dance troupe in San Francisco. With each warm day that passed when I knew we should have our lines in the water but didn’t, I felt more and more like I was failing him as a father.
Not that I’m a big fisher; I’m not. In fact, I don’t have a whole lot to offer him by way of angling expertise. But, darn it, a boy should know how to bait a hook and cast a line and I felt like it was my duty as his dad to teach him.
Last Christmas I tried again. I downsized somewhat from rig number two, and got him a Shakespeare Ugli-Stik Kids’ fishing pole with a little Zebco 10-20 push-button reel with twelve pound test line. I tied a red bow around it and hid it behind the Christmas tree. When I brought it out and gave it to my son, he was satisfyingly appreciative, but seemed sort of, well, like a kid who didn’t know how to cast a line who’d just been given another fishing pole. I vowed to make it stick this time.
Every so often, the boy and I would practice his casting. He had the devil’s time getting down the timing on releasing the push-button at first, but eventually got the hang of it, and showed a renewed interest in fishing. We were ready to fish for real.
After turkey season, we fished at least one day most weekends off a dock that juts out into the shallow waters of Wolf Bay’s southern shore. The boy had become adroit at casting his D.O.A. lure into the Bay, but had yet to catch a fish. Finally one day, he got frustrated and gruffed, “Daddy, we’re NEVER gonna catch a fish!”
The heck you say.
The next morning, we drove to a tackle shop and bought a dozen live shrimp. After we returned, I rigged up his line, hooked on one of the shrimp, and watched him cast it farther than he ever had, thanks to the split-shot weights I’d added to the line. Moments later he retrieved an empty hook. “Daddy! They stole my shrimp!” A couple shrimp later and success was his; he and his little rod hauled in a small catfish.
You’d have thought Captain Ahab finally landed Moby Dick! We spent the next few hours going through our shrimp. By the time we ran out, the boy had caught a couple more catfish, a pinfish, a ground mullet, two croakers and a stingray.
My son’s excitement and fascination with fishing were supercharged that day. Now he thinks and talks of little else. You can’t get a whole lot for three-and-a-half bucks these days. A gallon of gas; a kids’ meal at a fast-food restaurant; a small water at the movie theatre. But those live shrimp were the best $3.49 I ever spent, and I cannot imagine a better return on my meager investment than the smile on his face, and his sense of accomplishment at hauling in his catch.
(c) Roger Guilian 2009
Firmly convinced that my son was well advanced of other kids who may be perfectly content slinging around and retrieving a rubber clown fish, I removed it and replaced it with a shiny minnow lure from which I’d detached the hooks. If my son was going to fire blanks unwittingly, they could at least look like the real thing.
Not long after he got that cartoonish fishing pole, the reel broke. The rig became little more than something for him to carry when he accompanied me fishing, excursions that usually didn’t last very long. The only entertainment my son got out of that silly little fishing pole was when he tomahawked it and slapped the surface of the water with the lure. I didn’t catch a whole lot of fish any time that pole was around.
About a year later, I decided my son really needed to know how to cast a line, so I upgraded and got him a basic graphite rod with a Zebco baitcaster. Turns out, I’d overestimated his readiness and bought him too much fishing pole. Despite numerous lessons in the front yard, he never got the hang of casting that thing.
Like a father is wont to do, I acquired an irrational fear that my son would never gain an appreciation for fishing, and instead would wind up joining an interpretive dance troupe in San Francisco. With each warm day that passed when I knew we should have our lines in the water but didn’t, I felt more and more like I was failing him as a father.
Not that I’m a big fisher; I’m not. In fact, I don’t have a whole lot to offer him by way of angling expertise. But, darn it, a boy should know how to bait a hook and cast a line and I felt like it was my duty as his dad to teach him.
Last Christmas I tried again. I downsized somewhat from rig number two, and got him a Shakespeare Ugli-Stik Kids’ fishing pole with a little Zebco 10-20 push-button reel with twelve pound test line. I tied a red bow around it and hid it behind the Christmas tree. When I brought it out and gave it to my son, he was satisfyingly appreciative, but seemed sort of, well, like a kid who didn’t know how to cast a line who’d just been given another fishing pole. I vowed to make it stick this time.
Every so often, the boy and I would practice his casting. He had the devil’s time getting down the timing on releasing the push-button at first, but eventually got the hang of it, and showed a renewed interest in fishing. We were ready to fish for real.
After turkey season, we fished at least one day most weekends off a dock that juts out into the shallow waters of Wolf Bay’s southern shore. The boy had become adroit at casting his D.O.A. lure into the Bay, but had yet to catch a fish. Finally one day, he got frustrated and gruffed, “Daddy, we’re NEVER gonna catch a fish!”
The heck you say.
The next morning, we drove to a tackle shop and bought a dozen live shrimp. After we returned, I rigged up his line, hooked on one of the shrimp, and watched him cast it farther than he ever had, thanks to the split-shot weights I’d added to the line. Moments later he retrieved an empty hook. “Daddy! They stole my shrimp!” A couple shrimp later and success was his; he and his little rod hauled in a small catfish.
You’d have thought Captain Ahab finally landed Moby Dick! We spent the next few hours going through our shrimp. By the time we ran out, the boy had caught a couple more catfish, a pinfish, a ground mullet, two croakers and a stingray.
My son’s excitement and fascination with fishing were supercharged that day. Now he thinks and talks of little else. You can’t get a whole lot for three-and-a-half bucks these days. A gallon of gas; a kids’ meal at a fast-food restaurant; a small water at the movie theatre. But those live shrimp were the best $3.49 I ever spent, and I cannot imagine a better return on my meager investment than the smile on his face, and his sense of accomplishment at hauling in his catch.
(c) Roger Guilian 2009
posted by Days Afield Host | 5:31 PM
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