The Perfect Spot

[onejacker]

You should go set that new net of yours, Wade” George told Dad as he pulled a pencil from his shirt pocket.” I know the perfect spot…”

Earlier that summer, George taught Dad how to hang a gill net. Dad bought cork and lead lines, a couple of pounds of 1 5/8 inch marsh gill netting, and leads and floats. George brought the knowledge. That was how is usually worked with them. Dad provided the finances, and George provided the local knowledge, and sometimes the imagination. Like every great team, they needed each other.

Every morning during that summer trip, Dad would sip black coffee while waiting for George to drive up in his trusty old Pinto. Once George arrived, they would stretch the brown nylon lines between the two big pine trees in our camps front yard, and begin the days work. For a week, they pulled net, leads, and corks along the lines, tying each part in its correct place with white nylon twine. “Hanging” a gill net is trickier than it looks. It’s not too physically demanding, but care has to be taken to get just the right slack in the netting between the cork and lead lines. “Hang it too tight, and the fish will bounce off when they hit it. Too loose, and it’s a mess to deal with getting it in and out of the boat, prodigy”, George explained to me. The correct tension is a bit of an art, and George was an artist. He would never tell you that, though. By the end of our last summer trip that year, Dad and George had finished the net. I was allowed to load it into the brand new galvanized #2 washtub, bought at the Ace Hardware in Bayboro just for the net, carefully picking out any pine cones and straw as I did. Once in the tub, it was stored under the house until the following Thanksgiving trip. We had barely pulled up into the yard the Wednesday before Thanksgiving before George’s Pinto appeared in the driveway.

“…set it just inside the mouth of the creek, over near Tony Hill Point. Wind has been blowing out of the northeast for a couple of days, and the waters up. Should be some nice grey trout moving around in that little slough over there”, George continued. While he was telling Dad this, he was sketching out the spot with the pencil on a napkin, while sitting at our counter bar. I was still lugging gear and clothes into the cabin, but Dad and George had already settled in at the bar. He would draw a little, sip his bourbon and water, adjust his glasses, and draw a little more. George typically sketched a map of the places he suggested to fish, oyster, or hunt. I wish I had a dollar for every spot George sketched out for Dad over the years. I really wish I still had the maps.

About an hour before dark, Dad and I loaded up the bateau with the new net, and two old net stakes Dad pulled out from under the cottage. After making sure we had a couple of empty Clorox jugs to mark both ends of the net, we left the dock. Dad knew where the spot was, and after a short boat ride he had me pull the bow up next to the marsh near Tony Hill point. Without a word, Dad worked a stake into the soft creek bottom, as I helped hold the boat in place with the outboard. Once he was satisfied the stake was secure, he dropped the net rings over the stake, and tied one of the Clorox bottles to the cork line to mark the end. With a simple motion from his hand, he had me start backing the boat down, as he played the net out over the gunnel. I shifted the motor in and out of reverse, watching carefully as Dad fed the net over the side without a hitch. One of the subtle qualities of a Matthews bateau is the lack of pointed parts of the boat. They were made to set nets and pull trawls from, and the only thing a net would hang on is something the owner added after the boat left the Matthews’ boat yard in New Bern. At the other end of the net, the staking procedure was repeated. After the net was set, I backed off a few yards, and turned off the motor. Dad liked to sit for a few minutes and look at the net, while he enjoyed a sip or two of his bourbon and water. All of this was done without a word spoken between us. There was no need to talk. We both knew our part in the ritual. I never understood this part back then, but now I realize Dad was letting go of the stress of work. Dad and George taught me how to set a gill net, but only time has taught me how to deal with stress. Dad had it figured out decades ago.

On the way back to the camp, we flushed a small flock of bluebills in the creek, just out in front of the boat. I glanced at Dad, and he nodded yes, which meant I could open the throttle on the Johnson 70, hot in pursuit of the nearest blackhead. I chased a bunch of birds with that boat over the years, but never caught one, and this evening would prove no different. Didn’t matter to me, I just wanted to go fast. When you are just a kid, there is nothing like tears from the cold air streaming down your face, as you scream along at 40 miles an hour in an open boat, chasing a damn duck you know you will never catch. I’m sure we never caught one because Dad was probably pulling for the duck every time. Looking back now, I know that boat would run 40 miles an hour, but I never thought about how every duck, gull, and tern on the Lower Broad Creek could fly at least 41 miles an hour.

The next morning dawned cold and breezy. A pair of fighter jets from Cherry Point, practicing their attacks on the targets in Rattan Bay, screamed overhead as we made our way to the net. Oh no, I thought as we closed in on the outside stake. It appeared a boat had run over the net the night before, and cut the cork line in several places. Only half of the corks were showing above the chilly November water. As we drew near, Dad muttered under his breath. “Jesus Wept, the son of a ***** is sunk with fish.” Silver forms flashed in the early light, the live fish struggling to pull free, and the dead fish being pulled along like teasers beside them. Dad had me join him in the bow, and we pulled the net in, without fishing it, net, trout, croakers, spots, and all. Back at the camp, we drug the net out into the front yard, and tied it up between the same two pine trees where the net was created a few months before. Brown jersey gloves were put on, and Dad and I pulled fish out by the five gallon bucketfuls for half of Thanksgiving Day.

Dad gave fish to everyone around Paradise Shores that Thanksgiving, with George getting the select trout fillets. George deserved that, I figured. After all, he knew the Perfect Spot.

[gottaflylee]

Wow, what a great story, felt as if ai was with you. I was at Ace Hardware in Bayboro today and fished that same area in lower Board Creek last week...it's a very small world...

[Capt. Lyndon]

Great story. Thanks for the glimpse into your childhood.

[Tenacious]

I really enjoyed the read!!! Thanks for sharing

[seapower]

Alot a folk's complain about gill net's, until they get one that's "tagged". Not tryin to be political here, it's just an amazing feeling to have happen at least once in your life. Great story, Thank's, Frank

[SeaBiscuit]

What a wonderful story! Thanks onejacker.
Please write more.
SeaBiscuit

[Captain Michael Buffington]

I'd love to hear more too!

Mike

[Agitated88]

That one took me back to a happier place...thanks for sharing.

[onejacker]

Thank you all for the kind remarks. One of my Doctors tells me its good therapy for my a person in my condition to re-live happy childhood memories. Of course, I pay him nicely to tell me whatever he thinks I want to hear.

A life-long friend of mine read this post today, and called me on the telephone soon afterwards."Pat, you realize most everyone that reads post like that one don't put much faith in them. They figure it's just some poor freak locked up in a county jail that chooses to spend his 30 minutes a week on the internet making up bullshit stories like yours to satisfy some weird internal craving".

"Mom, I asked you to stop calling me at work unless it was an emergency" I replied and slammed down the phone.

After that conversation, I dug around in the vault at the compound, and came up with the following photographs. I can honestly say this is the first time my Dad's picture has ever been on the internet. The pictures were taken by a friend, with Dad's company Polaroid. Thanks to Nationwide Insurance for the evidence.

Dad and me coming into the dock heavy



Young Hotshot with a couple of trout




Thanks again for ya'lls hospitality at Sportfishermen.com



Pat