The bass fishing club I belonged to will not have its real name revealed here. And most of the other names in this story are made up although some of these folks, if they were to read this story, might recognize themselves or other people they know. The events described are almost all real in one way or another, although they happened many years ago. And of course I’m not real proud of some of the things I’m about to relate to you. But I’ve never been particularly proud anyway.
Back in the mid 1980’s I belonged to a bass fishing club down in lower Delaware. The club (we’ll call it the LSMFT or Lower State Master Fishermen Troop) was an old and venerable institution with high standards for membership. First a man (it was a men only club) needed to be invited to attend a meeting by a current member. Then he had to attend three monthly meetings and three weekly fishing events in a row. At the third monthly meeting he would be asked to leave the room whereupon the membership would either vote him in or send him packing. There were about twenty five members of the club at the time I went through the screening process. The guys were from a wide variety of backgrounds and professions. At the time I was being considered I was selling cars and the member that sponsored me, which he may have regretted pretty quickly, was my sales manager.
I was a novice bass fisherman. I didn’t own a boat and I only had two fishing poles. I had never cast with an open faced bait casting reel and I didn’t know much about all the various types of artificial lures. Most of my experience had been with a closed face Zebco reel and a can of worms. But I wanted to learn and I had money to spend so I was invited to a meeting. Meetings were held at one or another of the club officers’ homes. The meeting agenda usually consisted of making plans for fishing events, reviewing new equipment and baits, boat tips and refreshments. Some of the club members were strictly religious people and they would serve meat, cheese, crackers and soda pop, usually Mountain Dew and Dr. Pepper. Other members were not known for their religiosity and they served meat, cheese, crackers and beer, usually Busch or Milwaukee’s Best. But the first meeting I attended was at the home of one of the richest guys in the club and he was not only non-religious he was a bit of a gourmet. He served little meatballs, little wieners, some fancy cheeses, crackers and beer. His beers were Budweiser and Rolling Rock which were considered very upscale by the membership.
So I sat through my first meeting listening intently, sipping my Bud and trying to absorb some of the arcane information that was being thrown around. I was truly lost during the discussion comparing the attributes of a “Pig and Jig” with real pork versus the same lure with an artificial pork substitute. In all honesty I had never considered going after fish with my favorite meat product, bacon. Since I wasn’t yet a boat owner I didn’t have to listen too closely to that part of the discussion. But when they talked about the next fishing event I was very interested because they were going to one of my favorite spots and I felt that I could offer some advice. I told them some of the best places along the shore of the pond to find nice perch, bluegills and a few bass. They informed me rather haughtily that we would be in boats and we would be away from the shore fishing the deeper channels that weren’t reachable while standing on the ground. I kept my mouth shut for while after that.
The following Saturday morning I arrived at the launch area at the break of day. The other guys were all arriving and getting their boats into the water. Non-boat owners were assigned to ride with one of the other members and some of the guys who had boats left theirs behind and doubled up with someone, so that there were two guys per boat. I learned that people would switch off putting their boats in the water. But non-owners always seemed to have a boat to ride in, even though they always got the worst fishing position and did a lot of the dirty work without ever getting a chance to drive. I promised myself that it wouldn’t be too long before I got a nice bass boat. On that first Saturday I was paired with one of the most aggressive fishermen in the club, Calvin the warrior fisherman. Now you might think of fishing as a nice leisurely pastime made up of pleasant hours sitting back with a beer and watching for some movement on the little bobber down near the end of your line. Bass clubs aren’t like that. Every fishing event with a bass club is a tournament. Records are kept and prizes are awarded. There are some bass club members who have a little more relaxed attitude but in the LSMFT there weren’t many like that. These guys wanted fish, big fish, and fast.
My partner fired up his engines and when the go signal was given he put the power to his motors so abruptly that I almost went out of the boat backwards. His boat was a big shiny fiberglass deal with twin seventy five horsepower Yamaha motors on the back. The pond was about five miles long and we were at the far end in about seven seconds. He cut the motors, jumped up and began casting furiously. He kept looking at a little TV looking device down near the foot controls of the trolling motor. When I asked him what he was watching he rather testily asked me if I had never seen a fish finder before. I said no I hadn’t so he took a couple of minutes to show me the device. It was very cool but it really only showed the fish that were up towards the front of the boat. He went back to his hot and heavy casting. He had six poles each rigged up with a different type of artificial bait and he switched poles frequently. Artificial baits were the only kind used by the club and all fishing was done with a “catch and release” policy. So even if you caught a nice five pound bass it would never make it to your dinner table. I stood in the back of the boat with my cheap equipment and tried to emulate my host. The night before I had stopped in at Kmart and picked up a few fancy artificial lures and a nice little tackle box. The guy driving my boat had three boxes that looked like big old mechanics tool chests. All his stuff was organized in a precise and easy to find cross referenced way. I believe he had more stuff with him than Kmart had in the whole fishing department. On about my fifth cast with a lure that looked like a little fish with a clown face painted on it I had a strike. After much struggling I was able to get the big old bass up onto the boat. My partner took a look and with a little portable scale weighed this lunker. It was a shade under five pounds and easily the biggest bass I had ever caught. He put the thing in the storage area, which I learned later was called a live well, and went back to his frenzied fishing style.
The morning went along like that. I would catch a fish after a half dozen tries and he wouldn’t after a half a hundred casts. He was getting mightily irritated and he began jockeying the boat around like a New York City cab driver. Quitting time was at two in the afternoon and just before then he managed to catch a little one pounder. We sorted through my twelve fish and kept the allowable five biggest. Then we went in to the weigh in which is where all the fish are counted to make sure that the five fish limit isn’t exceeded and where the winners for the day are determined. I didn’t win overall but I did have the biggest fish of the day. Since I wasn’t a member of the club yet my catch did not enter the record books for the prizes. But all the guys, except for the guy I fished with, congratulated me and said they looked forward to the next weekend’s event.
The next weekend’s tournament was on one of Delaware’s many tidal rivers. I had been back to Kmart and I had a new pole with an expensive bait casting reel and several more lures, including plastic worms and little lizard looking things. So now I had three fishing rods and a pretty good assortment of stuff to present (that’s a high class angler’s term) to the fish. If you’ve ever learned how to use a bait casting reel then you know that it takes some time and learning how to use it should not be attempted during a fishing tournament. The spool that holds the line on one of those contraptions spins freely and its speed must be controlled by the fisherman’s thumb. If you put too much pressure on the reel the line won’t roll off easily and you can end up with a tangle, also known as a “bird’s nest”. If you don’t put enough thumb pressure on the reel the line flies off too quickly and gets all tangled up in a big mess also known as a “bird’s nest”. Trying to unravel one of these masses of monofilament line is like trying to find out if a politician is telling the truth; it can’t be done. So if you get a tangle like that you cut it off with your knife and re-tie the lure. It’s always important to have a lot of line on the spool to be prepared for an occasional tangle. A good fisherman can cast one of these things without tangles and with accuracy all the time. I was not a good fisherman. It only took three tries with that reel to have all the fishing line piled up in a bird’s nest of epic proportions. A family of eagles would have felt right at home on the back of that boat. My fishing partner for the day, Big Bob, glanced back at my troubled face and just shook his head and went back to casting. I squashed up all the line, stuffed it in my lunch bag and picked up the old Zebco rod and reel. On the second cast I caught a nice bass and saw that I had redeemed myself in the eyes of Big Bob. At the weigh in that afternoon I had my limit and if I was an official member of the club I would have had second place for the day. For the next week I practiced casting my newly loaded reel in the backyard and had nearly mastered the thing by my third tournament.
The Saturday of my third tournament started off poorly. We were fishing another river and I had been paired up with Calvin the warrior fisherman of my first outing. The air was hot and humid and the clouds were threatening a downpour. I knew what to expect when the “go” signal was given so I didn’t suffer any acceleration whiplash. Old Calvin drove that boat up the river so fast I couldn’t see the landmarks we were passing. He apparently had a favorite spot a few miles away and he didn’t want to lose any time getting there. Once again he killed the motors, jumped up and started casting aggressively. I was prepared too and I quickly got to work. My technique on the new reel was working pretty well and I went along for a good half hour before getting a tangle. But then I got it cut out quickly and was all set to go again in a matter of minutes. Calvin wasn’t having any luck so he said “let’s go we’re moving.” So off we went again, racing up the river at speeds just shy of Mach 1. At our new spot I wanted to cast for distance because Calvin had me aiming away from any good looking areas. So I hauled back and let the lure fly. The cast was looking pretty good until it found a tree limb hanging out over the water. In the space of a few seconds most of my fishing line and a four dollar lure were lost to nature. I picked up the Zebco and started catching some fish about the same time as the rain started soaking us to the skin. Bass fishing tournaments don’t have rain delays. Nothing short of a hurricane will send the guys back to the dock early. In my time as a club member I fished in light snow, rain, sleet, hail, heat and fog so thick we had to feel ahead with our fish poles to make sure we weren’t going to crash. When all our boats came in on that day we looked like a vision impaired flotilla, with our white canes tapping the water out in front of us. But on this day we just looked like drowned rats as we suffered through the weigh in. I had caught a nice group of fish. Calvin the warrior had caught two or three small ones. Once again, if I had been a full member of the club, I would have been in the top three for the tournament.
There was no tournament on the following weekend because it was some sort of holiday so my next club event was a meeting, my second of the required three. Before the meeting my sponsor told me that since I was doing so well they were possibly going to waive the three meeting requirement and vote on my membership that night. I was thrilled and had a check ready to pay the first year dues. We were at Royce’s house and he was one of the more religious members of the club so no beer was served and consequently the meeting moved along quite quickly. The usual items on the agenda were handled and then I was asked to leave the room. Royce’s house wasn’t all that well insulated so it was pretty easy to hear the deliberation about the three meeting waiver and my suitability for full membership. There was some discussion about the amateurish state of my fishing gear and my inability to cast a professional type reel but the overall consensus was that I should be invited in. The only dissenting vote was from good old Calvin. So I was called back in and my dues were collected and the club oath was administered. Yes there was an oath and it took elements of the Pledge of Allegiance, the Lord’s Prayer and the code of the U.S. Department of the Interior to make up its intricate and inspirational language.
As I drove home that night I resolved to get a few more pieces of good bass fishing equipment and a bass fishing boat. And I also resolved to stop at a tavern and have a burger and a beer.
End of Part 1
Have a fine day.
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