I grew up, bike riding distance, from the ocean and loved salt water
fishing. I fished for blues, bass and fluke from jetties and boats.
I never fresh water fished, never needed to.
My
fishing days stopped shortly after I got married. I convinced myself
that I didn't have the time. A few months after my divorce I found
my old tackle box and lures in my mother's basement and decided to go
fishing. I went to the store and picked up reel, rod, a bunch of
new tackle and a cool Leatherman fishing tool.
Arriving at the once thriving fishing access, I discovered it was no longer open and the stairs to the jetty had long since crumbled. I climbed down broken up bricks to the beach and arriving at the jetty realized, it had been a victim of time. What was once a beautiful tight formation of rocks to fish from had become a scattered testament to the disastrous consequence of letting our Army Corp Of Engineers do, well, anything.
I climbed the treacherous rocks and struggled out to where the water break was. I pulled out my trusty old tackle box, now filled with an insane amount of lures, bobbers, tackle and my shiny new leatherman tool. I rigged the new rod and reel and was ready to start.
First cast, I knew I was in trouble. I spent 10 mins. fighting the, now hidden, portion of black rocks. After my third cast, a large wave came up the jetty and decided to envelop me in salt and sea. The chill of the air quickly grabbed the water from my skin leaving my clothes heavy and damp. I wasn't getting any action on my lure. There could have been a thousand fish in front of me but the only thing biting was the cold and wet of my jacket. On my sixth cast, a large white wall of water materialized at the end of the jetty and the loose rocks surrendered completely to it's awesome power. As it came closer, I wedged my feet into the only holds the slippery rock allowed and braced for impact. As the remnants of the attack reached the shore, my proud drenched form stood up straight, mocking the waves. I am man. I had survived the momentous hit. I would continue fishing. I would... wait... where the hell was my tackle box?
Looking
off the side of the jetty, in the loose rocks, I saw the lid of the
tackle box surface like the shell of a turtle. It was only about
five feet from me but I could not reach it. My ape brain screamed
dive in the water and grab it! How cold could the water be at the
end of October? How hard could the sharp rocks be? What are the
odds of another huge wave coming? Then the adrenaline subsided and my
mathy brain jumped in (Reed – Tackle Box) + (Deadly Waves + Huge
Sharp Rocks) = X. Unfortunately
the value of X wasn't
Reed getting his tackle box.
As my mind began calculating the Certain Horrifying Death
of Reed that X
represented, the ocean decided it was time to F@#$ with me.
No
Tidal Wave was reported on the Jersey shore that day but I can assure
you, the weight and power of the water that hit me was enough to
rattle my ape and mathy brain in one loud sneak attack of a crash.
My eyes hadn't left the tackle box until my slip proof soled sandals
didn't live up to their name and I found myself confused, on my side,
wedged between two large rocks. Visions of the newspaper reporting
that a fisherman's body had washed up on the shore broken to pieces
crossed my mind. Then I laughed... Pfft...me a fisherman? Stupid
news reporters.
No
pride in surviving the last foamy blast, I struggled to my feet. The
tackle box appeared to be slowly sinking. I looked surprised at my
right hand, as if I willed it, my fishing pole was somehow still
there. I positioned myself so that the waves could not surprise me
again. I envisioned using the pole to get the tackle box out of the
water. I was awesome. I got the pole to slide under the handle of
the tackle box. It was in my grasp! The weight of the tackle box
was too great for the pole and I cursed myself for the slow progress.
Why had I collected and bought so much tackle? I started taking
mental inventory of the packed box. Inventory canceled!
A white
mist rose high in the air at the end of the jetty. In one of the
most bizarre moments of my life, I awkwardly braced as the large wave
arrived; towered over me; paused just long enough to see my
expression; CRASHED!!! The box barely floating, I made one last
ditch attempt to snag the handle with the pole. I was just about
there when I saw the mist form and another wave pounded me. The
tackle box kindly waited for me to watch, before it made it's final
journey to the icy depths, in bubbles and swirls it disappeared.
I
slowly climbed off the rocks and made my way up the beach. My body
was sore, I had lost my tackle box, my favorite lures from childhood
and my new leatherman tool. I collapsed to the beach. I watched the
waves that had seemed to shrink, now that I was off the jetty. Over
the sounds of the ocean an echo of a memory screamed out of the back
of my mind.
A
warm day, myself and two older friends walking down the cement steps of the fishing access. I was no more than ten and didn't even have a
fishing pole. We stood on the well kept jetty enjoying the day. No
fish were biting and one of my friends handed me his pole. I cast it
to the 'unlucky' side of the jetty and then it happened. POW! I had
a blue on the line and it didn't want to be there. I used all my
strength to awkwardly reel it in. My friend pulled it out of the
water.
Unbeknownst to me, I had hit a run. The blues had trapped the bait fish between two jetties. We moved to the beach and every cast produced a catch. We walked into the water and feeling the large fish bouncing off my legs imprinted a memory that could not be silenced thirty plus years later. After catching a couple more blues and dragging them onto the beach, I was exhausted and gave my friend his pole back. I watched as my friends proceeded to pull one large fish after another onto the shore. The 'unlucky' side of the jetty was no longer avoided and had lost it's stigma... until today.
Unbeknownst to me, I had hit a run. The blues had trapped the bait fish between two jetties. We moved to the beach and every cast produced a catch. We walked into the water and feeling the large fish bouncing off my legs imprinted a memory that could not be silenced thirty plus years later. After catching a couple more blues and dragging them onto the beach, I was exhausted and gave my friend his pole back. I watched as my friends proceeded to pull one large fish after another onto the shore. The 'unlucky' side of the jetty was no longer avoided and had lost it's stigma... until today.
Even though the splash of the waves brought me back, I'd
be lying if I said it was the mist from the ocean in the corner of my
eye. It was a smile; a memory; a youthful adventure; the first time
a young boy caught a fish; it was magic.
As the jetty aged before my eyes and the access steps disappeared I had a feeling creep in, that I didn't normally allow myself to have, it was regret. Lizzy and Emily had not been fishing and they were older than I was that day. Luckily, sometimes it's not too late for regrets to be satisfied.
