That "Other" Fish...
By Paul Melnyk
What is it about fishing' buddies, that make them so inseparable? Could it be that you've finally found someone who is willing to join you on the wildest expeditions? This guy will egg you on and follow you into the most precarious locations, all in the name of angling. The two of you become like a pair of dice who's collective luck is intertwined within a strange sort of kismet. As is often the case, the more time you spend together the more familiar you become with each other. A unique sort of irreverence seems to dominate most of your conversations.
Some of these duos develop into true battles of wills. I know of such associations that degenerate into fighting and name calling, but after seasons of fishing, you have become inseparable cohorts. This bond remains secure right through the relentless differences in opinion and verbal jousting.
Now let me tell you about Pope.... Livingstone Pope Noel III... To be exact. Yes, this is his moniker. A name like this one could not be a fabrication...
Our friendship began one cold November night in Montauk during a howling Nor-Easter. As I turned the corner towards the lighthouse, I saw a person standing at my favored fishing perch. Neither he nor I would capitulate this "choice" piece of real estate. We both could sense that big stripers would be there.
In the dark, he loomed over his rock like some mythical gargoyle, guarding the gates to the Cathedral, With his six foot four inch frame, he glared at me through the sweep of the Lighthouse beacon. The place was lonely. Just the two of us to brave the surf and wind. After what seemed endless silence we did begin to talk. At first I found it difficult to relate to this big Texan. He spoke with a Gulf coast drawl which seemed out of place under this bluff, in the dead of the night.
"What did you say your name was?......Poke?"
Louder this time...."Naw, Pope, Pope Noel." (He pronounced "Noel" like the "knoll" at the top of a hill)
"Post?"(I really thought he said Dope, but "that", I would not repeat!!)
"No.....Pope..... P-O-P-E spells Pope! ( I hear 2 "pops" as he emphasizes the "p's") You know... like the old guy in Rome......." ( implied: "you dimwit!")
(I gave it up completely, when it came to his last name.........)
As the night progressed, (and through the ensuing bull session) we discovered that while connecting with each other, we had reached some portion of our "alter egos". The fact that we bagged several jumbo stripers, made it evident that there was a positive aspect to the providence of this new association. Through this night of big fish we had become fiends. We have remained fishing brothers ever since, even through the fighting, blaming and the carrying on. Let me tell you that I myself am capable of many a pigheaded and ill conceived notion, and by God, I can be a miserable son of a bee! But this story is not about me, per say. Which brings me to the meat of this story. That other fish.
Several seasons and hundreds of fish later we found ourselves;
A turn to the winds of the North, and the departure of all but the most diehard surfcasters caught Pope and I planning one of our ritual trips to an exceptional rock on the North side of Montauk's Block Island Sound. We know that big, brawly stripers often frequent this spot during the fall run. These fish invariably pass through on their way towards the rivers and shoals of the Atlantic coast, where they will spend the winter, spawning in those deep fresh waters. This favored rock is quite large and capable of supporting two anglers, if they are somewhat accustomed to each others idiosyncracies.
"Did you remember to bring drinking water this time?" Pope looks at me with a judgmental gaze. He saunters to the rear of his pickup, displaying that proud Texas strut that is well practiced, after 55 years. "Last time you spent the night spittin' into my canteen..."
"Yes... I brought a flask... and don't you forget to bring extra hooks and leaders, cause you ain't usin' none-'o'-mine..."
"Well then, don't ask me for nothin' either... 'cause you ain't gettin' it!... 'nough said?"
"'Enough said..."
Out we went;
The sun was sitting upon the water as we headed towards the fast moving rip. The chilled October surf stung my face. Like two bull seals, we were done up in our 6mm thick Fall wetsuits. I was psyched and ready for a night of anticipated bass bliss. The water had taken on a dark green hugh, as the sun sank low on the horizon. The trip had the feel of some clandestine military "mission" in that gathering twilight. We tried to keep our approach stealthy, not to spook any nearby fish as we headed for that supine platform. It lay 100 yards from the tide line. Climbing aboard, we situate ourselves as we had done countless times before. This being an old drill... Lefty and rightly. Mutt and Jeff.
"Don't stomp your feet! The fish will hear it!"
"Aw... You're full of crap. My feet are cold...."
The wait was on;
It is a rare occupance when you get to the water in the middle of the bite. We each took turns casting a live eel into the quick rip that flowed around our roost. As the current moved the drifting bait, my confederate made his cast behind mine. Two lines in the water, waiting for the strike. This was the time to begin the required bull session. Old fish tales are retold, along with some new ideas or techniques that we share with each other. To ourselves, we concede that these facts will do little to help our buddy. All the advice in the world won't help him because I just happen to be luckier than he is. These thoughts remain just below the surface of our conversation. Never to be said.
"Fish On!!"
"Aww... You musta hit him in the head with that eel...."
One partner reels in his bait, making room for his pal to land the fish. It was a nice one, about twenty pounds.
"OK! Off you go!" I release the fish into the swell and we prepare for the next hookup.
Now we were fishing in a charged atmosphere. The ice was broken and we anticipating the bite, hoping that we were in for the "big chew". This is the moment when each cast is met with a solid hookup. Two of us is poised and ready for that big rap on the line. Sure enough, Pope hooked into a nice striper!
"Don't horse 'im!"
" Hey! You think I ain't never done this before?"
"Well, it's a good'ne, I just don't want you to drop it, 's all..."
"Shut up and lemmie fish!"
With this, Pope landed his first bass, weighing about thirty pounds. "Whowee! Look at 'er.... Mine is bigger 'en yours was, pal!"
I saw Pope fumbling with his stringer. He was gonna keep it. Hmmm.....
"You better not let that fish get in my way! Why don't you just bring it into the beach 'cause it's gonna be bumpin' into us all night."
"What's the matter? You jealous?" Pope could hardly contain the smirk on his face. He positively glowed through the gathering darkness.
"Of that rat? Not likely!"
OK, the gauntlet had been cast and the contest was on... We both knew the rules... The biggest fish. The most fish. The bragging rights. As luck would have it, I hooked the next two fish in a row. All of them small.
Pope found himself in the middle of the fishing' yips. He couldn't get a bite to save his life, and as I had predicted, the keeper that was lashed to his belt was now banging into our legs.
"Ouch! Son of a bee, Pope! Your fish just stabbed me in the shin! Bring that fish to the beach before I cut 'er loose!"
"Sure you will..."
He missed another strike, losing a fish and I heard him mumble something under his breath. We made several more casts. I look down and saw a big bass swimming at our feet!
"Hey! Look at that!", I said, pointing to the lunker below us.
With this, Pope reaches for his stringer..." Flog Me!!!", he shouts. "Dang-it, grab this, will yah!"
SPLASH;
I couldn't believe my eyes.... Pope had heaved his rod and reel in my general direction and made a mad dive into the surf! I watched helplessly, as his eight-hundred-dollar set of fishing paraphernalia sailed past my head, and landed in the drink. The water is eight feet deep.
"YOU MORON!!!", is all I could say, as I too dove into the rip, my rod held in a death grip. I strained to reach Pope's sinking rig and just managed to grab it with my free hand as it headed for Davey Jones' Locker. Wow, that was close! I swam back to the rock with Popes stuff. I saw him swimming towards me with his bass in tow and I gave him a boost up.
"Can you believe it? My stringer came loose from my belt.", Pope replied, sheepishly, as I helped him out of the water.
"So, since when is a stupid freaking fish worth more than your rod and reel, Dopey."
"You know, I think I'm gonna bring this fish back to the truck."
"Riiiight........."
"I'll be back"
Off he went, with his lucky catch in tow. I shook my head in disbelief.
As things were bound to go, as soon as Pope left, the fish became thick around our rock. I landed another nice fish before Pope's return. I'm sure he saw it, because I turned on my flashlight so that he could not miss it! ( I may have hollered a bit too...) He joined me soon after, and in record time. We continued to fish as though nothing had happened. Several casts later, Pope snagged one.
"Oh Yeah... I got nice fish!"
I put my light on it as he brought it to the rock. Get this, it was another good thirty pound fish... A slammer!
"Wait a minute, what do you think you're doing?";
I saw my sidekick slip this new fish onto his crummy stringer.
"Hey Pal, what about the one on the beach? What about the one fish law? You know, the rule that says you can only keep one fish per day, per person?"
"Oh.... My wife wants me to bring home somethin'..... We've got a dinner party tomorrow."
"Yah, but you already got thirty pounds of meat in the truck!"
"Well, we'll just say- this one is your fish....."
Now the gall began to rise in my throat..... "No. This one is not mine... and you are breaking the rules...."
"So now you're gonna get sanctimonious on me, huh... Who 's gonna know!"
" I will... and you will!!"
"That's a load, and besides, you ain't gonna keep one for yourself, anyway."
I had seen this sort of thing before and it always gets to me, rubes keeping small fish or more than they are allowed. The fact that this time it was my fishing buddy had a lot to due with what happened next. The fact that my largest fish was a full 16 inches shorter than his, well, this never even crossed my mind...
"What about honesty. What about integrity. What about conservation!"
"You may as well buck up, pal... You 're preachin' to an empty meetin' house..."
With this, I had enough of it. I began to ride poor Pope as if he was a twice broken mule! I must say, I remained relatively calm, but I continued on, relentlessly badgering Pope and hoping for some sign of submission. To no avail. He was gonna keep that other fish, no matter what!
"Popey", I said, with a mad look in my eye, "You are despicable! As long as we are on this rock tonight, I swear, You will not catch another fish! You here me, Pope? You are jinxed!" That was it. I turned to him, and gave him the dreaded Devil horns.... I wiggled my out-spread fingers into his smug face.....
And my prayers were answered;
The bite had turned red hot! Every cast was a hit or a hookup for the next hour. I caught and released 4 more nice stripers in the twenty pound class, as poor Pope remained fishless. Whether it was that extra fish hanging from his belt that was flopping around, or whether it was my hex, I couldn't say. All I know is that every time Pope got a bite, he would either miss it or loose it. I could feel his frustration gathering in the darkness. It was a tenable thing... Finally, old Pope had quite enough.
"Dang it..... I'm goin' in... I'll see you back at the truck, you hear? Wait a minute?.... What the heck?....... Oh!..... Oh-no!...... Oh no no no! FLOG MEEE!!!!!"
I turned to see what all the fuss was about and I saw Pope staring at the end of his stringer. His now empty stringer. That other bass had slipped past his crappy knot, just as the first had....... and swam quietly away into the night. (I figured it was not the time for any more smart-ass remarks, and rightly so.)
Indeed, truth is often hard to believe;
I swear, that to my recollection, everything I have written is true. A night to recall, like one of Aesop's fables.
OK.... so I have toned down some of the expletives, but only for the sake of my more prudent readers....
I'm also quite sure Pope remembers this yarn just a bit differently......
You know, I really didn't care that he caught two thirty pound strippers in a row that night.... Really now..... why should that bother me?
Pope and I are still good ol' fishing' buddies, but we never speak about that other fish.. But we still bicker. A lot..........