When the fish jump directly into the boat, it must take quite a bit of the fun out of fishing.
That’s what happens in Florida’s Suwannee River. You might be floating calmly about your business, feeding out a bit of line, when schlapp! A sturgeon lands in your lap.
The experience isn’t pleasant, even for avid fishers, according to reports in the New York Times. The large, prehistoric-looking fish have injured at least three people, all of them badly enough to be hospitalized.
Scientists believe the sturgeon jump to tell other fish about a good location.
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Nature lovers contend that the fish jump for joy.
Fish stories catch my attention during these beautiful summer days. We spent many an afternoon, when we were kids, fishing the creeks that flowed through the ranch. We didn’t have a boat, much less a flying sturgeon. No, the operation was far more rudimentary.
It began and ended with worms.
A shovel, a tin can and a spotter were needed, as well as a recently watered place in the garden. About a dozen worms would be deemed sufficient bait.
The fishing poles consisted of small fiberglass rods with a decent length of thin filament tied on the end. The line was punctuated with a tiny hook. Anything more would be too complex and too heavy to carry to the fishing hole.
After all, we weren’t fishing for sturgeon. Our quarry consisted of suckers, shiners and small rainbow trout.
Summer visitors were always invited to go fishing. Kids without fishing experience were always squeamish about the grisly business of winding worms on a hook. They were even more squeamish about the catch.
Summer visitors with fishing experience – and the fancy reels and tackle that go with it – would sneer at our elementary approach. Until we started catching fish.
We were rarely skunked on these excursions. Which was good, because we were always followed by a herd of barn cats that were expecting fish entrails for supper. Now that I think of it, those fishing forays may be one of the few known examples of successfully herding cats.
Standing with bare toes in the creek mud, we would watch the water tickle the line. We’d listen to crickets and birds while the west wind restively rustled the pasture grass. When the tiny vibrations of a fish nibble travelled up the line, down the rod and into our muddy hands, a sharp tug would produce a flopping little fish.
Some fish were eaten; some were returned to the creek and some became catfood. Weeks later, a putrid can of rotting worms would be turned back into the garden and it would be time to fish again.
