Beware when you go fishing…
Once again, it’s story time with Ms. Elaine.
The title of this tale could be: Never Go Fishing Unless You Can Bait Your Hook.
I must have been around ten years old. This was when we were living in Newport News.
If you went to the end of Menchville Road, you would find a small marina on the James River. It accommodated a few working fishing boats, as well as private boats, though the channel wasn’t deep enough for sailboats or yachts. It was an average marina for the average folk.
The little store at the end of the marina sold bait, ice, snacks, and fishing supplies. It was definitely not a Macy’s of the waterfront.
My Uncle Wink and Aunt Dap had a larger cabin cruiser boat, while Mom and Dad had a small ski boat. Not that anyone in our family knew how to ski—nobody ever did. The boat was equipped for skiing, but it sat there, oddly unused.
Our usual outings sometimes included meeting up with my aunt and uncle out on the river. Mama packed a picnic lunch. We all slathered on sunscreen so we looked like white snowmen, wearing swimsuits under our shorts and tops in the blazing heat.
What else could you expect from a woman who spent Saturday nights putting Shirley Temple curls in my hair with wire brush spiked rollers while I sat between her “porcupine legs”?
Of course, my dad would bring an odd assortment of bait—squid, worms, fish heads, and more—to lure the fish out of hiding. All very icky and gross for little kids, except my brother, whom I considered equally icky and gross.
Mama Eunice was deathly afraid of worms and snakes.
I remember visiting the Porters’ house, which had a pond behind it. Pa Porter would dig up about eight fat worms, put them in a can, and we’d march down to the pond to fish. The pond was overgrown, filled with weeds, and surely home to plenty of snakes ready to end my life.
When I learned to fish, we used a bamboo cane pole with a nylon fishing line, a red-and-white bobber, a small red weight, and a single hook. It was not fancy equipment, but I caught fish—fish my grandmother would fry.
When I was younger, I refused to eat fish, so I sought refuge with Big Mama for “normal” food whenever she cooked. The pond had an odd variety of fish: huge catfish, panfish, sunfish, and even frogs. Yes, frogs. Apparently, frog legs were considered a delicacy, hopping up in the pan as they cooked. The CIA operatives of my childhood tried to convince me frog legs were chicken legs. They failed spectacularly. Never trust anyone who says something disgusting “tastes like chicken”—poor chickens get a bad rap.
Back in Newport News, my father bought a top-of-the-line rod and reel from Sears Roebuck. It had buttons, handles, and looked like a space shuttle compared to the old bamboo poles, which resembled fireworks you’d light on the Fourth of July.
On this memorable day, we launched the boat with our picnic lunch and our shiny new fishing equipment—Jacques Cousteau could not have been prouder. Off we went to James River to the best fishing spot ever: the Dead Fleet.
You may wonder what the Dead Fleet was. These were World War I and World War II ships tied up together on the river, down from the Newport News shipyard, left to sit for reasons I never understood. But fish loved it there, making it a prime fishing spot.
Daddy had bought worms this time. Remember, Mama was afraid of worms. Whenever worms were involved, someone had to act as the worm handler—and for some unknown reason, I always got the honor of baiting Mama’s hook. Having had many hooks in my fingers, I was very careful with this task.
Daddy broke out the brand-new fishing equipment, while my brother and I were stuck with the old bamboo poles. It didn’t seem fair. Where was our top-of-the-line gear? I guess it was still back at Sears.
Fishing started smoothly. Fish were flying into the boat left and right. Squeals of delight filled the air. I wasn’t going to eat the fish—my peanut butter and jelly sandwich would suffice.
Then it happened. Mama Eunice let out a blood-curdling scream, probably audible all the way to Chesapeake Bay. On her brand-new fishing equipment was an eel. Eels are not snakes, but you couldn’t convince Mama of that. She saw a snake and threw the shiny new rod and reel overboard.
My father screamed, “EUNICE!” My brother and I huddled in the bow, expecting a bloodbath.
Quick-thinking Dad grabbed a fishnet and retrieved the floating fiberglass equipment. Thank the cosmos—it was saved!
That ended our fishing excursion for the day. We went back to the marina, packed up, and didn’t even eat our picnic lunch. We had it for dinner that night, still traumatized by the eel disguised as a snake.
But this did not stop Mama. She fished for years afterward, usually avoiding worms as bait.
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