The Christmas Goose

As long as I have been with my beloved wife Dawn, we have had a customary Christmas Eve dinner. As a rule, we have roasted a domestic goose for this ritual. There is nothing like the taste of this bird. The closest thing I can compare in the flavor it to is RoastBeef- Chicken (everything tastes like chicken!). We would buy our bird fresh killed from the Iacono Poultry Farm on Long Lane in East Hampton. It has been a regular traditional journey for me on this glorious Christmas Eve morning, to pick up the goose and finish up my shopping with stocking stuffers, and candy for the girls

As I reminisce, I recall that I once was given a wild goose that was taken by a co-worker. We prepared this bird with all the trimmings and I found it delicious! My wife, on the other hand, did not enjoy it because someone (that bastard, as she called him) shot the poor thing. I will never understand this twisted form of feminine logic. In my mind, it would seem to be more humane to be killed in the wild as a free spirit, as apposed to being penned up for six months and then have your head whacked off!

God loves all the women of the world. I know that I would have been dead many years ago without my darling’s even keel to keep me on course, no matter how rough the sea. She is my converse, an opposite opinion in almost every situation. I am sure this has kept me from diving head first, into the shallow end of the pool many times. But for her form of pretzel logic, I don’t think that my life could be finer. We have been together for 34 years. I must have been thirteen when we married, (It seems so…) she had robbed me from my cradle…

Before my children were issued forth, wet and screaming into the world (this was another one of her swell ideas) my wife and I would take long walks on the beach, each Christmas Eve to enjoy nature and combing for flotsam, jetsam and believe it or not, coal.

Coal on the beach you say? Well, it seems that some time in the early sixties, a coal barge had sunk off the shore at Ditch Plains. On a regular basis, usually after a storm, chunks of coal would wash up in the surf. These hunks of carbon would range from an inch to ten inches in diameter. As most young couples, we had a tough time making ends meet for these early years. We could pinch every penny dry. I don’t need to tell all you old timers how expensive oil was back in the seventies, after “That Carter Regime” screwed up Iran and consequentially, the entire Middle East.

With inflation, in comparison with the cost of living of today, the equivalent price in ’07 dollars would be about $4.25 a gallon for gasoline. There were lines of cars around the block to buy the stuff! So, to supplement our fuel expenses, we picked these smooth black gems from the sand to burn in our wood stove. They would sparkle in the afternoon sun. We would gather these oblong treasures, weathered in the surf in buckets as the dog romped in search of dead things to roll in. A good haul could be a garbage can full. On a good day, we could pick this peck within a half mile of the car. This coal would burn like uranium and could heat our home for a week!

On one cold winter solstice day, we found ourselves particularly wanting on the income scale of life. We were so poor during this particular Christmas that we were supplementing our goose with a big chicken. So wanting, were we that we had to go into the woods and cut our own Christmas tree. You might think that I would feel self conscious about this event, but I truly enjoy this memory. It was a scrub white pine which we chose and dragged from the depths of Hither Woods. The smell of that fresh pinewood will always lead me to reminisce. The mid morning sun beamed through the pines causing shimmering light to form broad patches between the low and twisted pines, illuminating the sandy soil. We swept a path of dark brown pine needles as our tree-broom was dragged along the wooded trail. I can remember the clouds of vapor that our breath sent streaming that cold morning, but we were kept quite warm from the task. Our hearts were warmed too. But I digress…

That afternoon, after trimming the little tree (bush?) we went to the beach to take a nativity constitutional and hunt for coal. At the time we were childless except for my surrogate son, Quill, our 165 pound black Great Dane. Quill would adore running the beach! He would bolt from one rock or log to another, leaping about on his long legs and depositing as much scat as his metabolism could muster. His bowels were bottomless. Dawn and I walked hand in hand, daydreaming as young lovers will do. We were bundled up like Eskimos. The thermometer had dropped well to below zero. Quill, being of short hair, wore one of my sweatshirts to keep him from the cold. You know, he looked better than I did in it, with a rope tide around his waist to act as a sash.

There was no wind on this frigid afternoon. Any breeze would have made it impossible to walk through the arctic blast that had sat on the East End for days. The air was so cold that the ocean was steaming, like a stew pot, with long tendrils of wispy white vapor. It gave the impression that the sea was on fire… There was actually a layer of slush rolling in the surf which collected at the tide-line.

We rounded the bend with our bucket of coal and there saw the dog barking and hopping around a peculiar downy lump huddled next to the bluff. As we moved in to investigate I saw that it was a wild goose! It was an enormous beast which was flapping its wings and hissing at the dog. As I neared to it I noticed that the creature could not move on its feet.

“Look Dawn! A goose!”

“Oh Paul, don’t let the dog hurt the poor thing!”

Poor thing? I was waiting for Quill to snap it’s neck! By god, this would be our Christmas dinner!

“Paul, the poor thing is sick! What do yah think we should do?”

“Do? Why, we’re gonna eat it! Good dog, Quill, Good Dog!”

“Don’t you dare! Quill get away from that bird!” The dog moved away from my dinner, more attuned to my wife’s commands than mine, traitor that he was…

“Oh Paul, we have to do something about the poor beast… You go and grab it. We’ll take it home and I’ll call the Vet…”

Take it home? Yeah! It is sure to die on the way! I was that much closer to my roast…

Have you ever tried to grab a goose? The creature, even though it was lame, was biting and snapping at me like a cornered Lobster! It grabbed a hold of my glove and I thought my finger was in a mousetrap!

“Gimme the shirt off the dog. I’ll cover it’s head with it.”, sure enough, that did the trick and I had the beastie covered up and docile. I swear, that goose had blue feet, ice-cold and clammy. We got back to the car and I sat with the goose on my lap. Quill sniffed at it from between the seats and moaned like a lost child.

“Shut up you bad dog.”

Traitor….

The goose perched on my legs with it’s frozen tootsies chilling my thighs but they seened to warm up a bit by the time we took it into the house.

There are no Veterinarians open at 5pm on Christmas Eve. There would be no Vet till December 26th. The bird went into the shower stall with a dish of water and an open can of corn. We ate that Dad blamed stupid chicken for dinner, although I have got to agree that it was good with the yams, cheese stuffing, and gravy. Not as good as that goose would have been…

The goose was silent all the Eve. I got up to look at the poor thing a couple of times during the night. When I would open the shower door, it would flap it’s wings at me. It’s feet were now a nice shade of black and it was hopping around.

Along with the a meager pile of gifts under the decorated scrub pine, Christmas morning brought with it a vast change in the weather, The temperature had risen to a balmy 30 degrees in the night. The sky had opened with rain. We had a happy time.

You know, that goose seemed to have recovered during the night. I swear it had eaten some of the corn. It was now honking and prancing around in the stall. I began to like the stupid thing, Good Samaritan that I am. We named it the “Honker”. That was that. Have you ever put name to a farm animal? There would definitely not be a goose dinner now. By noon I was thinking...

“Dawn, let’s put him outside and see what happens.”

“Ya think?”

Yeah, I think. You ever hear the expression “Like shit through a goose”? Well you should have seen the shower. The goosie’s feet were now green! I took the goose out the door, wrapped in a towel. Dawn followed. I put the goose on the ground and removed the towel. The goose took off in a run and hit the air like a B-52. It circled the house once and made for due south, making that low honk that geese will do as they fly.

“Oh Paul, how wonderful! This is a Christmas we’ll never forget…” I got a big kiss.

You know, it was a wonderful Christmas after all, even without the goose dinner…

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The Montauk Sea Turkey…

I have always had good luck during the Thanksgiving Holiday. It is just a thing for me. I have even won the locals Tourney [OK.. second place..] on Thanksgiving Weekend. Billy Addeo caught two fifties one turkey day. There is no doubt about it, the kickoff to the holiday season is a winner.

There is one particular Thanksgiving that I will never forget though…

I arrived at the Point in the dark, with a perfect dropping tide. Maybe it was five a.m.? This was my day to win the Local’s Tournament and I was psyched. The lead fish was a puny thirty six pounder. Not a real contender in this contest of sharpies…

I was dressed in my waders and Dricore top when I jumped down to the five flat rocks at the water line. My favorite perch. There was whitewater all over the place with a Nor’east wind at 15-20. Conditions- perfect! Best of all… I was absolutely alone… I put on a darter and immediately caught a rat. The waves were hitting me pretty hard but I didn’t care… Every cast brought another bass! They were there…

As I was reeling in a teen fish, I looked up to see a guy strolling along the jetty. I swear to God, the fellow was dressed in yellow foul weather gear, with white boots. He was also carrying a cute little tackle box… No Korkers… He stopped right above me and began to cast.

“Wow, you are catchin’ fish! What you usin’?” He had something crazy at the end of his line. It had a propeller on the front…

“Hey fella, yah think you could move over a bit, You’re castin’ right over my head…”

“Oh… Sorry…” He moved.

Three more casts gave me three more fish. They were getting bigger too. My new Pal was fishless and getting frantic.

“I just can’t seem to catch nothin’… What am I doin’ wrong?”

“Try usin’ another plug… That one is for Pike. No muskellunge in Montauk…” I’m a wise ass…

He opened his pretty little tackle box and took out another freshwater plug. It flew about ten feet into the wind and got lost it in the rocks.

“Darnit!”

“Look, the sun is commin’ up… It’s time for a bucktail..” Says I, not wanting to wear his next hook and giving him a little lecture, super sharpie that I am…

”Bucktail? What’sa bucktail?”

You’ve gotta be kidding… I held up a 3 ounce Jetty-Caster and showed it to the dude.

“Oh boy… I don’t have one of those… You think I can use something else?”

“You could, but you would tangle us all up. When someone under the Light is usin’ bucks, every body has to throw them, or it will be a mess…” My mood was starting to get sullen, I was not in the mood to give free fishing lessons…

“Aw hell… I came out all the way from Brooklyn to fish, This sucks…”

Now this plaintiff whine touched my cold heart and I felt sorry for the goog. What could I do? I took the most beat up bucktail out of my bag and tossed it to my new friend. On the business end it had an old, dried up pork-rind cemented to the rusty hook.

“Here! Now cast it into the wash and do what I do!”

“You sure this is gonna work?”

Please…

In unison, I casted… He casted… Our bucktails landed in the wash no more than ten feet apart... I reeled in the slack and immediately tightened up on a nice fish! I must have hit it on the head!

“Hey! I got one!” I heard over my shoulder.

Sure enough, Mr. Brooklyn had a fish on too! His rod was bent in half and his drag was singing.

“You’ve got your drag too tight! Your gonna loose ‘um!”

“Whah?”

I scurried down the face of the jetty to land my fish, twenty yards from my perch. It was a low thirty… Not big enough… I tossed her back and scrambled back to my rock. My pal was still fighting his fish. He was trying to horse it in….

“Hey! Take it easy! You’ve got a nice fish!”

“Whah?”

Putting his back into the rod, I watched his face turn red from the strain. He dragged that fish straight into the wash and it disappeared between the rocks. Now he began pulling on it, trying to drag it out of the snag. I then saw the tail and my eyes bugged. OH…MY…GOD!

“Take it easy, will yah! Your gonna cut the line! Here, grab my rod and I’ll go down and get the fish before you bust it off. Just relax and ease up on your drag a bit.”

I jumped down to the water. The fish was now deep in a hole and I couldn’t see it. A wave broke over my head as I grabbed his line. Easy!... It was twenty pound test, with no leader… I reached into the whitewater and put my hand into a big hole. It is the fishey’s maw… It was as if I had put my hand into a stewpot! I grabbed her mouth and heaved, just as his line broke.

“Holy SHIT!!” It’s a slob!

As I dragged the fish to the top of the rocks, Dennis, one of my Tournament rivals, just happened to be walking up the Jetty. He saw the slammer in my arms. He bugged.

“Holy Shit… You got a winner, Melnyk!” Obviously, he thought I caught it!

We put the fish on my scale. Dennis was sweating as I weighed the cow. The fish was Forty eight pounds. He looked so dejected that I finally told him it wasn’t really my fish. He smiled. My goog friend was right there at my heels to take this striper outa my grasp. I was sure he thought I was gonna steal it! That old buck was still swinging from an inch long hole in the fishes face.

“Wow, you know my uncle told me to go fishing today! He gave me a blessing and said he would pray for me! He is the Bishop at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, yah know… Thanks a lot pal, thanks a lot!”

Then he ran off with my forty pound fish… I stood there, rubbing my hands and stared at the retreating visage with black Gollum eyes, (My prescious…. My prescious!!!) I did not get my forty pounder that morning. I did not win the tourney. All for the luck of ten stinkin’feet and a ratty bucktail! Hell, I didn’t even get that stinkin’ bucktail back!

The rocks were crowded by six thirty. Not another slob was caught that morning. Lots of twenties though… Another day, maybe tomorrow…

This story is a true one, as theatrical as it sounds. Just ask Dennis for confirmation. But wait, Bro! The yarn ain’t over yet…..

Sooo, Now it was tomorrow. Yes dear reader, the very next day. I got there early again. Would you believe it? My new best friend was there waiting for me!

“The sun is coming up! Time to use a bucktail!” he shouted down to me. He still wore “the yellow jammeys” and my piece-o’-shit buck was tied to his line. No leader.

We both casted at the same instant. Our lines crossed in the air. The two bucks landed twenty feet apart. I tighten up… on a fish. So did he. My fish was a high twenty. Once again, I had to go down to get his fish. We weighed it. It was thirty seven pounds…

“Wow! Another slammer!” [he was learning the vernacular.] “Damn, I owe you big-time buddy! What’s your address, I’m gonna send you a case of beer! What ja like?”

“Heineken…….”

…………

……

..

You know what? I’m still waiting for that case of beer………………………………
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Another new Q&A thread...

Oh BOY! Do I wanna here from y'all! RSVP below where it says "(#)comments" in blue...
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New Q's and A's...

Hey All! Q&E is getting too long for easy reading, so I have started another blog. I will try to not let it get too long.
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"Q "and "A"

Hey folks! I have been asked to present a question and answer forum to this site as a way of answering your need for picking my brain, so here it is! Just note that the site is now moderated, to keep the googans away....
Please enter your questions by clicking on the comments bar below this blurb.
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The How and Why to Be a Cool Wetsuiter-Dude!

Why does a skilled surf rat choose to desert the ease and comfort of a sandy beach to embrace the shear terror and pounding of those far rocks, donning a rubber girdle and inhaling seawater? For those of us who are obsessed with surfcasting, it is only a natural progression to flee to these rocks to achieve the piece and quiet that is prevalent within this frothing whitewater. For the wetsuiter, the fearsome prospect of pain; waiting for that seven foot wall of water to break over your head and the sensation of being blown away like a dead leaf is an adrenaline rush, pure and simple. There are however, redeeming characteristic to this lunacy. You will catch fish out there, Many big fish.

In truth, the larger variety of the species Morone Saxatilus is predominant to the crashing surf zone. Bubbles. Oxygen is like a stimulant to the cow bass, and the deeper waters of the danger zone is prone to inciting them to strike. That is not to say that a slob can not be taken while standing in a foot of water. In fact, a few overtly lucky casters have scored while casting from the sand, but the far surf has a call of its own for the demented souls who roam within the wash. A strangely deranged form of peace may be found there.

I found myself within this fraternity of crackpots while standing with the Dukes of Amateurism on the beaches of Montauk. This inauguration began during a fall rife with massive aggravation and aggression. During the aforementioned season, I had the misfortune to stand next to numerous jerks that were convinced bucktail were the proper implements for performing bodily piercings. On one occasion under the Montauk Lighthouse, I was forced to listen to a "jamope" sing the “Four Seasons” ditty “Oh What a Night” as a fanfare for each rat bass he caught, (there were many rat bass for him that night). After an hour of caterwauling I began to sing “Oh, please shut uh-uh-up!” as my own personal revision of those bad disco lyrics. A few days later I witnessed an altercation between two belligerent casters who were convinced that their fishing rods were jousting lances. This was enough to convince me to remove myself from these teaming masses of fools. It was my destiny to go into the deep.

For the fledgling rock hopper, the natural inclination is to venture out to these perches in waders. This usually is performed like a Ballerina on tipity-toes. Often the neophyte will venture a step too far and experience the sensation of chilled water filling his boots. It is important to include a tight belt or two to your garb. You should be prepared to hold your breath for a few minutes while in transit, it is assured that you will be set asunder by that rogue wave. It is not uncommon to find many loose plugs floating out there in that wash, however,those Plugs will be your plugs. Mother nature has the uncanny ability to rip your tackle bag open, spilling your gear. Everything on your person must be either tethered or you will risk having them lost. As you see, there are very few reasons to fish those far rocks in waders, unless of course you have masochistic tenancies,in which case, a wetsuit is called for.

OK, so now you want a wetsuit, right? There are many reasons for donning the neoprene. I personally like the freedom of being away from those “teaming hoards” of day trippers while swimming to the outer rocks of the South side of Montauk’s Striper Coast. I also hate the idea of getting maimed or mortified as I bounce among those rocks in an expensive set of breathable Orvis waders. It is a lot easier to swim in a wetsuit than in waders for the simple fact that a wetsuit floats. You are not going to be turned turtle in a wetsuit (although you may still have to hold your breath)and you will need grow a set of brass ones to get up the courage to fish a far rock in the dark...

Fat guys have the advantage when rock hopping. A bovine stature improves the anchorage as the corpulent caster clings onto these rocks like some obstinate sea anemone. The diminutive wetsuiter, on the other hand, can make some progress with cleated boots, but these fellows often find that they just don't have the mass to counter the force of inertia. Often these fellows will be found floating face down in the wash on the whitewater days of cows and glory. Portly surf pounders have the tendency to float better. Maintaining a layer of cushioning blubber, they can easily absorb the inevitable trauma of being launched into a boulder by the wave which creeps up on their collective butts while lookin' at that buoyant little punk. Of course there is that whole physical thing to traversing those rocks. You gotta be in good shape to fish outer shoals. Chubby Chasers are better suited to making haste, slowly (an oxymoron, no?).

This brings us into the realm of the Extreme Surfcaster, to whom the wetsuit is an indispensable tool. The flotation qualities of a 6mm Farmer John is what makes it all so doable. Another reason for the neoprene is to allow an added margin of cushion for those inevitable blows. Don’t forget that a foam suit can also act as a shock absorber If you do a prat fall into the rocks.

The wetsuit was developed in the early sixties by a guy named Loyd Bridges for his TV series called “Sea Hunt” (Jock Cousteau also had something to do with it). Seriously, the Allied forces during WWII created a rubber outfit as a means for military frogmen to infiltrate enemy territory underwater with a reasonable sense of comfort. These early suits were generally made from latex rubber and were very different than the units available today.

The wetsuit works on the principle of conservation of heat. The suit in itself does not make the wearer warm, instead, a thin layer of seawater is heated to body temperature by the transfer of warmth between the skin and this film. For extra warmth on those cold nights, it is acceptable to pee within this sheath. Also understand that no matter how well your wetsuit fits, you will not stay permanently warm if the surrounding water is frigid. Eventually, you will loose this thermal barrier and get the big chill (just like being married, no?).

I am often asked to give recommendations for wetsuits that are best for surfcasting.”
OK, to begin with, you must decide what it is that you intend to do in your wetsuit. Most often, a surfcaster dons a wetsuit so he can look cool on the beach. A wetsuit is a chick magnet and many a poser will never venture further than the high tide line. Then again, some fellows seek the wetsuit for the comfort and warmth supplied by use, to make them feel like they are, once again close to Mom.
The largest market in the wetsuit business is by far the scuba diver and this is to whom the manufacturers seek to please. Another niche is the surfer dude, who has a different set of parameters. Fishermen have adopted the wetsuit as an indispensable tool for the extreme environment of the surf. Alas, we are the bastard children in this market and little concern is made for fishing stuff (like a place to put your cigarettes). There are three main types of wetsuit that we will be looking to as far as being practical for fishing. These are the surfer dude suit, the one piece “Sea Hunt” suit and the two piece, or cold water (are you crazy?) suit. Special care must be taken to purchase the right size and style of wetsuit. I would strongly recommend that you go to a good local dive or surf shop to purchase your wetsuit. Here, you will be able to try on different styles and sizes, or if need be, have a suit custom made to your difficult configuration... Some fellows feel compelled to buy via catalog or Internet. This is only realistic if you know exactly what you want in consideration of its size/cut/manufacturer. I have on occasion taken this route, although I find the expense of returning the wrong size several times makes up for the added cost tendered by the local dive/surf shop. Be aware that you get what you pay for, and remember, chicks dig stripes...

OK. you think you want a surfers suit. Pros: They are relatively less expensive priced between $100 and $200. They are light, generally made up of 1-2-3 mm of neoprene. They look really cool. They are readily available at surf shops which are more common than dive shops. A surf suit is best when it is a full, one piece affair, with a zipper in the front. Why zip in the front you ask? Simple, unless you are female, it is hard to pee from the back. OK, it is also easier to put on if the closure is in the front.

The suits made for diving are a more practical choice for the fisherman. These tend to be thicker and often come with hard rubber pads on the knees. This is a good thing. They will float better, and will allow you bash your shins with abandon! They are warmer and will allow you to fish longer through those fall nights while your best girl waits patiently for your return. You no doubt, will find that you are less comfortable while jogging down the beach in the attempt to catch that blitz in the distance. Bring lots of fresh water to drink. You do not want to dehydrate before you get home and you also need fuel for that special “heating element”.

In the later part of the season, you may need to wear a hood, gloves and booties so you can look like a gangsta for Halloween. Gloves and booties are easy. You buy your regular glove/shoe size. A hood is a different story. A hood must fit snugly, but not so tight as to restrict the flow of blood within your carotid arteries! You could pass out, or worse, have a stroke, if you have a big fat head and a teeny-weeny hood. You will find that you can tie Korkers right on a sneaker foot booties so you can claw your way onto that rock during a Nor-Easter. Some of the more affluent among us use cleated guide boots to look really cool.

Now you are a big-time, sharpie, wetsuiter. All the googs will gawk as you stroll by in your nifty digs. You will never get a hook in your ear again. The girls will all swoon as they see you leaving large ruts in the sand while you drag your bum leg (you know, the leg that was jammed in the rocks the night before?).

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Review-The Van Staal VS-200

Van Staal is known throughout the east coast as a manufacturer of some of the best surf fishing tackle in the world. This review is a compilation of many fishing trips which have culminated over the last 10 years. You can bet I know this product rather well...

The first thing you will notice about the VS-200 is the absence of bells, whistles, and other extraneous paraphernalia, that is often found on the competition's product. This reel is manufactured using the tried and true adage of K.I.S.S. (Keep-It-Simple-Stupid) and is an engineering masterpiece. Inspection of the reel reveals all the attention to detail that Van Staal is known for. The reels come in three differing finishes, black (the most popular), silver and gold. These finishes are flawless. The rotor cup is machined aluminum with diagonal lightening holes, as is the spool. This reel is so smooth, it feels as though the parts are frictionless. The anti-reverse feature on the crank is superior. There was little tendency of the rotor cup to back-up, making the anti-reverse positive and precise. This reel is bailess, and the roller guide is of fine quality. A version with a bail is available on special order. The spool fits perfectly to the rotor shaft, without a bit of play, up or down, or side to side. The drag is sealed and contains bearings to make adjustment very precise. The drag-knob is situated on the front of the spool a-la Penn or Krack, and has low profile finger wings that won't pick up line by mistake.

I use about 300 yds. of 20 lb. Berkley Big Game Mono as a backing, filling the spool to just below the outer edge of the lightening holes on the front. To this I added 200 yds. of Power Pro braid. This reel is meant for a 10-11 ft. rod and has a perfect feel and balance on with this setup.

The first cast will reveal that the VS-200 is a true beach machine! I could throw a 1 1/2 oz bucktail 100 turns (90 yds) consistently. The retrieve is effortless and silky. Throwing plugs brought the same results. A Musso Darter would do about 100-110 turns with no headwind. The lack of a bail takes a little getting used too, but this feature is more of an asset than a liability. There is less to go wrong, such as a faulty bail to break off that expensive Beachmaster plug. With the anti-reverse feature, hook-ups are instantaneous and sharp. Fighting large fish is a pleasure with the VS-200. The gears move smoothly under load, and reeling is effortless.

Those of you who know me, know just how hard I fish. I am an "extremist". I will often be found submerged up to my neck in the water (swim-fishing, rock climbing, surf pounding, etc...). In this respect, the VS-200 is a winner! The watertight system is a big plus for those of you who pursue trophy bass beyond the beach. I have often fought fish with the reel fully immersed, and I have had no problems with corrosion.

I found that all I need to do to maintain the reel is a wash-down with fresh water, and then give it a good squirt of Teflon spray lube, when I get home. The black finished reels do show scratches rather easily. I would suggest the silver or gold finish for those of you who are concerned with this. I would also highly recommend that you return your VS to the factory for service at the end of each season. This is required to keep the warranty valid. Van Staal will clean and service the reel, and exchange any broken or worn parts. I have compared the reel to other high end machines of equal workmanship and found the Van Staal to be the most trustworthy. Servicing is performed in a timely and professional manner by sending the reel to an authorized service dealer. Replacement parts are readily available.

The VS-200 is one of the most durable and reliable reels on the market today. I have been using my reel for 10 years now and I love it. There is no other reel on the market today that would stand up to the abuse that I have put my VS-200 through... The $700.00+ price tag does remove it from the average man's pocketbook, but dollar for dollar, this is a good buy. For those of you who require the best, I would say you are truly getting your money's worth.
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