The Christmas Bucktail

by Gary Hall (revised 11/99)

The lonely vigil of fishing well into the cold and dark days of December in search of a nice bass to put the finishing touches on a great or on a dismal season may well put the finishing touches on a man. I found myself in such a situation not too long ago and in order to encourage my comrades with weary arms I must get it down on paper. I believe the surf fisherman needs extra fortitude because of the enormous odds against succeeding in the surf. A little help from friends, and a great well of hope may be part of the necessary blocks which build fortitude. Those seeking a moral here will have all their monofilament and fly lines coiled by the little "Kink Fairies" when next they enter the surf.

I feel the many nights of fishless trips are taking their toll on me. I realize a few of you cannot relate to this because getting skunked fishing is as bizarre to you as fibbing, but the majority may glean some support. So please, just endure my tale as a surfman gone mad. Where was I?

Ah! Yes, I remember--It was in the bleak December--and the cold north winds were chilling me to the bone and the temperatures of twenty-five degrees coupled with the darkness like cobwebs were affecting my mind. I wound up doing a lot of thinking as though there were two of me. You know; talking to yourself and then answering yourself as if you didn't know the question. Occasionally, I thought I saw someone else out there in the suds. I asked myself, "What is he doing out on a night like this?" I questioned his sanity while wiping my nose on my already snotty wool gloves that looked like the kind the homeless wear with cut off fingers. I thought, "I do have a home- Thank God the neoprene gloves weren't on with the Velcro that grabs your nose like a Brillo pad when you rub them across your face; Maybe I should switch to the needlefish plug? Some of you may recall the needlefish era. I reminisced over a 42 lber that committed hara-kiri on a needlefish..."

A wave broke and the dreaming stopped as my mind had gone blank dead in la-la land. My rod was suddenly bent over and I heard myself, "Bass! then Awh! No!" It was my bucktail that was caught and this time it was for good. I had been losing more than the regular amounts due to my lack of concentration and now there were none left in the side pouch.

"Fishing sucks when you go this long without a hit."

"My sentiments exactly I replied," the other guy in the dark with me agreed. A strange feeling came over me cloud like...

"Why not just throw all this junk in the drink and go be normal?

"Ya! Go be normal," came the reverb. I could have heat, be dry and...

"I hope you fixed all the leaks in my waders..." I was surprised: I'd thought about my gear and all because there hadn't been any fish to catch for awhile now.

The other self was getting sarcastic, "I'd trade my dry waders for a nice bass right now."

My feet, even with the double thermals, were freezing to the rocks. It was a low point where all the scum and muck from too many fishless low tide cranialisms had become anal, and I surmised that fishermen need hope in more than just a swimming fish. "The truly wise fishermen look for signs to feed their hope." I hoped of catching a nice bass especially because it was at the end of the season and this was a bitter end when all of the other memories of glorious cows had faded in the frozen blankness of the lonely Montauk night, but I realized if you hope in the wrong thing or person you would be dismally dejected when the end came. This was a sort of end; a temporary end. Just like those who followed the Star that first Christmas morn: they too were at the end of a long journey. Hope may take on a shape. I gave in and in a languid frigidity of soul and mind wished for a sign. A sign was needed. A sign of hope for some other fishermen might be a recent report, a story of a cow bass, a visual like bait skittering, or a charm of apparent magic. These are all signs and these manifestations can cause hope to grow and help us endure the hardships we throw ourselves into. Sometimes, that is just enough to keep you alive on the rocks out here frosted with verdant tinsel seaweed. I needed much more than that as I thought about the Christmas Message. Mankind was in a hopeless condition- cut off from God and a savior was there only hope of being one again with God. I heard my alter ego state.

From the prophet Isaiah, "His name will be called Emanuel meaning God with us." It was dark and the hellish dark swirling black waters looked cold. Maybe those without hope thought just like that on the very first Christmas, a sign from above- just a sign. God born among men named Jesus and people could see the living hope of the World. I still needed my own sign like some huge herring banging into my cold extremities.

The reports of who caught what, where, and on which tide were the fuel I had used more than once to cast my feeble little lures repeatedly into the abysmal vast sea. If you are a surfman who is bound to a small point, hoping a fish would cross your path then you understand. The outsiders are amazed. They think the odds of winning the lottery are better than hooking up with a fish. They watch T.V. and look for a commercial to steer them to the right product. Millions were home starring and following the star of Hollywood instead the star of David and they were toasty warm and...

Sometimes, countless casts and days go by waiting for a sign, a strike, a tight line and then all will be well. Then I could boast, "I slaughtered em," or at least one, or as Donnie would say, "We pulled a few." but alas I heard my alter ego spew,

"We hasn't heard any recent reports now has we?" Sheesh! He didn't sound like anyone I knew. If only daylight would come and I could rid myself of this sarcastic shadow.

The birds are a daytime sign; high over the schools of bass they flock with their songs calling out to fisherman. The big pure white gannets cold as the snows that follow dive bomb out of the gray, and crash into the suds sending up a white flume. These are the friends of bass fisherman and the harbingers of hope. If you find them you have renewed hope.

"Why couldn't I get some help? If only they would show themselves when the dawn approaches."

Lastly, a fisherman may seek a charm or some subtle oddity like a found lure, a lucky lure, like the white bottle plug found by one fisherman. The story was told to me by my accomplice in misery,

" He found it in the sea: A floating gift from across the way. It was someone's lost hope flung out in desperation. It was a last cast lure for the day or the season."

I have found when things go awry, hope sinks, and more magic is needed to raise it to the surface for a strike.

"Now, this plug was a good omen for the finder and later that evening it hooked a nice bass under the eternal nightlight on what would have been an otherwise very sad night. This plug now became his symbol, and memory: A warm light in the recesses where all the bass stories are stored. It can be retrieved when things are bleakest.

I have a good collection of plugs that took some big fish for me and have since been retired. They are memories stored that keep me going. Why I couldn't think of one of those plugs I had retired was a mystery. I was going nowhere here but loco. So crazy I saw a poem. I recalled the poem I had taught former student's...

"Hope" Is the Thing with Feathers"

"Hope is the thing with feathers---

That perches in the soul---

And sings the tune without the words---

And never stops---at all---

And sweetest---in the gale---is heard

And sore must be the storm---

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm---

I've heard it in the chilliest land---

And on the strangest sea---

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb--- of me.

All fishermen seek a sign even if it is unconsciously done. It's the universal yearning of; is there life out there? Like Jimmy Stewart's Prayer in the bar from the Movie, It's a Wonderful Life. "Lord, I'm not a praying man, but if you're there, show me the way." I was loosing all hope and I had might as well gone out to sea with the tide.

My balaclava was irritating my face while somewhere on the opposite side of the planet the sun was now setting. I do not know how many hours I had been there. I remember thinking, "I should switch to another bucktail even if it's only to relieve my back strain."

Feeling the small divided pockets on the front of the surf bag lead me to the head of a bucktail that apparently I had overlooked: I pushed on the leadhead forcing it up and out and there it shone as a glancing beam careened of it. Wow! Hope is a thing with feathers. It was a one and a half oncer that I had retied myself from a very ordinary old, old bucktail. My brother had referred to as "Christmas colors" and then called me St. Nick, but this was way, way back in September. It was so strange that it was hidden for so long down in the bag because I frequently check over the goodies before I let the fish taste them. It had a newly painted white head with a bright green tied collar and red feathers on top and white bucktail below and some Mylar (Tinsel) strips down the side. The two little beady black eyes were hand painted and the red smiling mouth seem to say, "Look here, I'm the Christmas good luck Bucktail."

"Oh! man," I sighed, "It's been a long vigil without even a shooting spark in the heavens."

I tipped my found gift with some red and white pork Rind and off it went; Badda-bing - my shooting star, shot with worn out rotor cups into the sky as the dawn of hope approached. I thought of what hope means to so many people waiting expectantly for Santa. Santa never does come and It's like fishing --hoping and fishing-- fishing and hoping, and no fish. N-O zero fish. I hated to think of the drive home. I felt like all the years of bad fishing had piled up like chinese boxes inside each other and in the center box was a note that read, "NO FISH STUPID!"

The one, who all the world had hoped would come and save them from death, had come and real hope had been revived. I felt different all of a sudden. I couldn't decide for others, but somehow I had made up my mind already. I felt my mind shift from my little world of experiences and now the sky looked so big and inviting. Now there was some magic in the air and I began to breathe. "Sometimes, just appreciating the life He gave makes every chore a joy," I thought. I cast again vigorously with frozen fingers.

Now the light had dawned and all the creatures were stirring from their haunts and sea lairs. The herring skip-danced on the surface and a huge seal who was slick and wet popped up in the rips to inspect a stranger throwing a little Christmas his way. His look seemed friendly. There was music too- a tug- tug- tug- on the line a tug- tug all the way into my feet. I was puzzled until I saw this wily trickster, a large silver backed loon, who was nipping-nip nip- nipping at the pork rind. He surfaced and sped off a few feet as his movements were erratic and exciting. He then surrounded some bait with a circle like movement- then quick as a flash- he speared some with his black beak. All of this festivity in the creatures and me in my imitation Santa suit, (the big heavy waders with black boots and a Grunden rain top) must be some sight. I noticed there was frost on my mustache, Ho! Ho! Ho! Just then in all of my levity and foolish mirth my rod bent over double.

"YES!"

"We know that feeling, don't we now."

Soon a nice bass lay in the wash with my star Christmas bucktail in his mouth. I stared at its colors for awhile and my cold fearful thoughts subsided into a warmth and glow like a fire that was growing inside. I thought, "maybe that feathery bucktail is Prancer's or Dancer's tail? Naw, I think it was a sign and I'll hang it as an ornament, a symbol on my Christmas tree as a reminder. A reminder of the time I left off fishing while looking forward to the new year with a lot more hope and eternal light then when I had arrived.

"...and to all a good night."

Have a good Holiday,

Gary Hall

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