Spanked by a Feather -Great Read

[Littoral]

Spanked by a Feather

- A Plugger gets Plumed

by Mike McBride

Sometimes things just happen, and sometimes we accidentally stumble ahead of where we were. A raffle item that started off as a joke had me challenging the rear end of a fly rod of all things. Personally, the initial thought of messing around with a dainty toy wasn't only absurd, it was just flat contrary to a pluggers code of machismo. When I eventually found a fish protesting on the other end however, the joke was on me. It wasn't anything like what I'd expected, and despite politically incorrect and pre-conceived notions, fly fishing is actually a spank in the butt for even the would be discriminating plugger.

A winning CCA ticket last year sent me to the truck with a cutesy little fly fishing package. Great, thanks! Now what am I supposed to do with this limp wristed Wanda wand? It was complete with thick crayon colored line, and even had a fuzzy little box full of fairy feathers to go with it. However, it could throw neither Super Spook nor Corky, so therefore it had no value. If I'm going to hunt Trout, it's going to be with something that looks like a mullet and not an insect. Besides being impractical, I've always envisioned fly fishing enthusiasts as a tad on the loopy side. I pictured these pretentious little nymphs, flogging the air with wasted energy, using something akin to a gay rod loaded with silly string, and being happy catching 12" rainbow colored fish that matched their river queen outfits. Enter Bill Gammel, rope flipper extraordinaire, the guy who actually designed the rod. He is best known for co-authoring the Federation of Fly Fishers instructional booklet with his father, the Essentials of Fly Casting. He came with a mission.

Bill was determined to entice me out of the level wind closet. To him, I was the one fishing with a club and needed 'alternative' enlightenment. I wasn't even bi-curious, so I was on full alert and defensive. It seemed both regressive and ridiculous to consider anything besides hard won and proven baitcaster tactics. His job was to convince me that there was merit to this primitive Tarzan method of angling. Or would that be Jane. Strange, he didn't seem effeminate, and the first time I saw the master at work, he commanded the line to explode thru the guides like a weed eater possessed. That display of power perked an ear, but rather than delicately hold my hand and show me the 'rope', he gave me his material on paper & video tape to teach myself instead. That's what his stuff does, it's designed to give you the tools you need to become functional on your own. I submitted, and worked on it until it felt good.

The front yard practice stories deserve a comic strip series of their own. At one point, while learning 'line management', I thought of Gulliver being tied up by the Lilliputians. It wasn't pretty. Also, how many cars can stop in one day and belch irritation out of a rolled down window? "Hey bud, got a limit yet? I think I saw some reds tailing over there by the fire hydrant. BAAHAAAAA!" I eventually became pretty good, at casting back barbed one liners that is.

I keep working on Bills lessons, and after watching Capt. Soule pop ants off of yonder curb, I was a little more encouraged. Jon Fails awarded me a yellow belt, but after calling me a typical back yard techno-bumbler; he marched me into to a hay field for some mock-up "real" fishing experience. "No, it's over there! Pick it up slowly and shoot it 10 O'clock. Hit that redfish next to the palm tree!" There, now you're fishing! I promised Bill my first fish, so I call and tell him I thought I was ready to get silly.

Off we go to Port O'Connor to parley with Everett Johnson. An accomplished feather fruit himself, he seems amused. To prepare for an entertaining next day, he put fire to some of the most awesome slabs of beef ever to kiss a grill. Fears that fly fishermen were also vegetarians were eased after watching Bill play carnivore. Perhaps there IS hope for this. The next morning had us stepping on EJ's home built step-on boat. You step on it, not in it, and with the prop sucked up into the hull, it's a no impact machine than leaves Redfish few places to hide. Off we go, three men in a boat, silly sticks bungee corded high on the grab rail. There's no other place to put these blunderbusses anyway.

EJ & I couldn't resist a little quickie with conventional tackle at a recent honey hole. It was only for 'research' purposes of course, and just while waiting for the higher arc of a sight casting sun. Bill eyeballed me when I first chose the shorter rod. While he did, I eye-balled what he was wearing. It was a high brow over the shoulder nylon jacket ensemble, resembling a parachute with dual frontal reserve packs. I assumed it was packed with feathers, a fruitcake, and some vanilla flavored granola bars. I dropped that thought when I again saw him cast like a gorilla wearing ballerina shoes. It was a remarkable mixture of power and grace that cleaved a 15kt wind like a vertical swipe from a machete. Ok William...I'll get the long rod.

A few miles later we counted enough fish to try what we came for. The panoramic 3-D view from atop EJ's scooter made the task of finding fish seem like cheating. Interestingly enough, a good tide had them on the front sandy beach rather than in the back lakes. It's time to meet them on their own turf...eye ball to eye ball, and with nothing but a primitive switch with one moving part.

It's amazing what you can see when you stop and take the time to look. Standing still like an egret, shadows turned into torpedic silhouettes, which then turned into Redfish milling about mullet and shady pockets. It was a whole study in fish behavior, watching them sit, then slowly glide from shadow to shadow without raising a ripple. They might have been easily missed if I didn't already know they were there. Now here comes the hard part...positioning yourself to get off a good shot. The prissy plume needs to be in front of a fish and moving away. You want him to eat it, not run from it, but the wind dictates this chess game. The stalk begins.

I picked one out, the biggest I could see of course, and we both played 'can't see me' for time untold. It was the age old arena of predator versus prey, and it was like it knew exactly what I was doing. The fish calmly stayed just ahead of the angle game I was playing, and finally having enough, it slowly vanished into a puff of nothingness before I could fire. It didn't matter though, the adrenaline pump was on and there were more. EJ is standing on the other end of a sandy stretch, giving baseball signals that 2 more brutes are sliding into a corner pocket. No contact here either, as by now my pounding blood wouldn't let me approach carefully enough. I felt like a hungry Karankawa Indian trying to spear a buck & blowing it.

Another shadow approaches in the green tinted water, bathed in a backdrop of bone colored sand. Is it a Red? I think so, and I think I can reach it. My inexperience had me make two false cast, and by then it's close. At no more than 35-40', the olive backed floating mullet imitation lands softly two feet in front of a rubberized head. A pause, a double take, a quick lunge, and the bug is down. A jerk on the line to set the hook, and the rod rises to victory, bowing to the power of a small Redfish's flee for life. I had done it, and it was more than awesome. White doves were turned loose like a Coliseum scene in the movie Gladiator. I had officially been knighted with a long sword, and it was the announcement of many new battles to come.

The Red wasn't even keeper size, but the size of the experience was quite large. Remember that feeling as a kid, that stand-up and holler reflex when your cork first imploded above an unknown pond monster? It was that silly fly rod that turned an otherwise uneventful fish into an adrenaline encounter. I was wrong and stand duly corrected.

Fly fishing is nothing short of bow hunting on the flats, a string transferring energy stored in a simple stick. Combine the elements of a single animal hunt with the practiced draw & release of an archer, add the mechanics of a mastered golf swing, mix it all in a salt water aquarium, and the idea of the game starts to unfold. Like everything else we do, it's a mastery of timing, but this endeavor encourages raw performance over simple production. "This battle seems to becomes you," I thought, and I have hereby succumbed to the sirens who wave the elongated staff. I'm now looking forward to worthy alternatives when the Trout are down, to Tripletail & Dolphin in the weedlines, and especially to some of those huge but yet uncatchable Trout we see sunning every year. And you know what? My wrist didn't go floppy and I still don't intend on using lipstick. It's actually quite cool, you can do it, and its another excuse to add depth to your level of saltwater immersion. It's all about the experience. Savor every minute of it - every minute you can.

[Reel Cowboy]

Sounds neat

[TallyFish]

Well written. There are those among us singing if we listen.

[Capt Reggie]

Welcome to the world of fly fishing, Lt! Excellent adventure. Very nice story line, too.

[Capt Reggie]

Welcome to the world of fly fishing, Lt! Excellent adventure. Very nice story line, too.

[Sir reel]

For me to say LIT you've produced a truly fine Littoralary ( ) work doesn't do your report justice. Great read...worthy of the last page of Field and Stream, Sports a Field, and the like. The imagery is superb It is deserving of a second read. As many good phrases as are there, this one really stands out to me..

It's amazing what you can see when you stop and take the time to look

Thanks for the experience.

[noleflyfisher]

Excellent read Lit. Thanks for sharing it. I still feel like a kid in a candy store every time I step on the forward platform with the long rod in hand.