By
Robert DeWitt
Outdoors Writer
TUSCALOOSA | It hung in the
air against the bright blue sky, my fingers clutching futilely for it.
Then the slack in the line disappeared and it snapped forward, breaking
off the rod’s first eyelet. When it hit the next eyelet, the two-piece rod
came in two and it all disappeared beneath the Gulf’s calm surface.
I stood there mouth open holding the butt end of the rod that had failed
me so miserably feeling the immediate bite of permanent loss and the
disbelief that comes with it. My kids, silent, were probably looking for
the spot in the boat farthest from me.
Then the rage surfaced and a long series of heartfelt, expertly executed
expletives echoed across the water. I tossed what was left of the rod into
the water, as if the act could somehow partially avenge my loss, flopped
down on the seat and stared at where it had disappeared.
A moment before, I had put a fresh cigar minnow on my favorite spinning
reel, a Penn 8500SS, and tossed it out behind my boat. I always let the
current peel some line off before flipping the bail. I turned away and
when I looked back, the line was whipping off it like it was tied to the
back of a BMW Z4 in high gear.
Just what I was looking for, a king mackerel hit it in full stride,
chomping down on my cigar minnow and the two-hook setup I’d rigged with
45-pound wire leader.
When a king hits a rod with the bail already set, he practically sets the
hook himself. But with the bail open and free-lining, I knew I had to give
this king a good hard shot to drive the hook through his hard mouth.
I tripped the bail, the line tightened instantly, the rod bent and I
snapped it back toward me, anticipating the fight ahead. And then it all
fell apart, literally.
Ever since early June when I hooked up with a nice bull red off Dauphin
Island, I’d been having trouble with that reel coming off the rod. When it
happens, it’s kind of like stepping on a rotten board. It’s the last thing
you expect and about the worst thing that could happen at that moment.
In the past, I’d managed to keep my fingers wrapped around the handle or
recover it quickly so I could slide it back in the rod fittings. A couple
of times, I just let the fish free-line until I got the reel back on the
rod. The end result was always that I’d land the fish, take out a pair of
channel lock pliers and tighten the fittings. Then I’d completely forget
it until the next panic-stricken moment when I’d curse and fumble to get
it back on the rod.
Neglect always breeds disaster.
I don’t know if this fish was stronger or if my drag was set tighter. But
the eyelet that had stopped it before didn’t stop it this time. It was a
streaking black and gold flash and then a sickening splash.
Some thoughts of rescue flashed through my mind ever so momentarily. But
even before the thought was fully articulated, I realized that there was
no hope. I could almost see myself searching fruitlessly across the Gulf,
using the butt end of that rod as a peg leg searching for the mackerel
that had my treasure trailing behind it like Ahab’s body.
From hell’s heart I spit at thee thou damn-ed mackerel.
The reel was, indeed, a treasure, one of my prized possessions. I bought
it looking brand, spanking new out of a pawn shop for a fourth of its
value, even having the gall to haggle with the owner to lower an already
rock-bottom price.
It would hold a pile of 30-pound test line, enough to wear down a big
“smoker,” a mackerel or wahoo so big they peel off line so fast that the
reel actually smokes, if one came along.
My daughter and son had landed their biggest fish on it. I had put nice
fish in the boat. It was as smooth as silk and the drag was as slick as
the Gulf on a calm day.
But mostly it was the prestige factor. Check out just about any serious
off-shore angler’s spinning tackle and it will be Penn black and gold. It
says, “I have arrived.” And I had managed to arrive at a dirt-cheap price.
Easy come, easy go. The stupid thing is that despite losing an important
piece of equipment, I was still riled up about losing the fish, too.
I’ve got to say, it’s not my first reel to wind up on the bottom of a body
of water. Back when I first got into saltwater fishing, I picked up a rod
and reel combo that would be ideal for bottom fishing.
I found it in a country store and the owner swore he was selling it below
cost. I took the bait. Later I found out I could have bought the same
combo at Wal-Mart for $10 less, but at the time I didn’t know that.
I filled it up with 30-pound test line and let a friend use it. He was
catching sheepshead around natural gas rigs off Fort Morgan and let a
young boy use it.
The boy reeled up a sheepshead and swung it into the boat. He let the reel
dangle over the side of the boat while he unhooked the fish. When he got
the fish loose, he let go of the line. Without the weight of the fish, the
rod flipped into the Gulf and sank to the bottom.
I never got to use it.
There are plenty of ways to lose a reel. I saw a guy with a brand new rod
set the hook on a snapper. The snapper was no longer holding the bait, so
the rod jerked up with minimal resistance. It slammed into the canopy top
above him and came out of his hands, plunging into the water in front of
him.
He tried snagging it off of the bottom with a weighted treble hook to no
avail.
It’s also true that not all of my reels have wound up on the bottom by
accident. I’ve fished with spinning reels all my life. When I became the
outdoors writer for this newspaper, I decided I needed to learn how to
throw a bait caster, so I went out and bought one.
I’ve since been told that I couldn’t possibly have made a worse choice
than the one I bought. My life with it was one long bird nest of tangled
monofilament line.
Bait casters really are a better choice for heavy baits like buzz baits.
And if there’s a moment more exciting than when a bass blows up on a buzz
bait, I don’t know what it is.
Fishing on a Hale County pond with the light fading, I wanted my son to
experience the excitement, so I tied a buzz bait on the bilious piece of
garbage that had tortured me so regularly.
I’d seen a fish working a spot on the bank and when I threw the lure past
it, the fish hit and missed, sucking the skirt off my bait. I had to
re-tie and, handicapped with aging eyes in the fading light, it took me a
while.
I finally got the bait on and threw at the fish several times. He didn’t
hit this buzz bait and I decided to make one more cast before moving on.
The buzz bait looped over a power line and when I tried to pull it back,
it wrapped. Not only did I have to cut off my buzz bait but my reel had a
first rate backlash.
With the light almost gone, it took forever to untangle my line and tie on
another buzz bait. But once done, my son and I hustled down to the water’s
edge. I pushed the free spool button with my thumb on the spool and
whipped the bait out to the middle of the pond.
All I heard was a little “ping” and, after a very long pause, a splash as
the buzz bait hit the water out of my vision. Unbeknownst to me, I hadn’t
completely untangled the backlash and the bait simply broke off the line.
I stood on the water’s edge and started to toss the rod in. I checked my
swing and started to head to the truck.
Then the thought occurred to me, “How many more times will this
backlashing sorry excuse for fishing tackle ruin your fun?”
The rod and reel left my hand and spun round and round until they hit the
water. In the quiet evening, it sounded like a 10-pounder hitting a
top-water plug. Instantly, I realized I could have accomplished the same
thing by taking the reel off the rod and throwing it, thus saving a pretty
fair rod.
But it wouldn’t have been as spontaneous and it wouldn’t have felt as
good. I got almost the exact opposite feeling watching it disappear that I
had when my Penn hurtled into the Gulf. Instead of deep regret and pain, I
felt deep satisfaction and relief that I would never have to deal with it
again.
Perhaps there is some symmetry to life.
Reach Robert DeWitt at robert.dewitt@tuscaloosanews.com or at 205-722-0203
or 866-400-8477, ext. 203.
