My tackle box is a neat person’s nightmare. It is a tangle of treble hooks, rusted lures and rat’s nests of used monofilament.
My wife says that my tackle box is disgusting. Each year about this time, at least three of our fishing writers for the Northwoods Sporting Journal write an article about how important it is to use Maine’s April limbo period to oil fishing reels, mend rods and police up that old tackle box.
As these columns are edited at my laptop, my head is hung in shame. But I still don’t roll up my sleeves and put that tackle box in order. There are just too many other more interesting and productive things to do. Like go fishing for Spanish mackerel with Capt’n Neat 20 miles out in the Florida Gulf.
His real name is not Capt’n Neat. His actual identity cannot be revealed for family reasons. Let’s just say that I am very fond of him despite his neatness compulsion. He is like a son. He fits my wife’s dream prototype of “the organized man.” His boat is spotless. Everything has its place and every place has its thing.
There cannot possibly be another Florida boat captain who has it more together when it comes to his boat and gear. His tackle box, if you peek in, is headshaking perfection. For example, he has separate compartments for each of his different-sized jigs. Heck, if they were all in one place in my tackle box, I’d be ahead of the game.
He even has a special stowage compartment for used monofilament and bent hooks. His swivel collection puts Bass Pro Shop to shame. There are a few swivels in my tackle box, but you would be hard pressed to find one without a good metal detector.
Wise to my slovenly ways, my captain keeps a watchful eye on me as I hum and go about my business on his boat. A gentle man, he is nonetheless prone to directness and candor.
“Papa,” he will say, “when you stow that rod, please don’t put the hook in the eyelet. That might score the inside.” Or, when we are pulling crab traps, “Papa, you know the last time we crabbed you touched the bright work with your muddy gloves. It took me an hour to get the dried mud off the rod holders.”
Blood on the deck, whether it is the fish’s or mine, is the Mother of All Transgressions. Last time out, we really got into the Spanish Mackerel. I’m talking non-stop, adrenaline-pumping, rod-bending action. Somewhere in the catching melee, a razor-toothed mackerel sunk a front tooth into my pinky. Eeeeeeeeee.
There was blood on the deck. I bled worse than the fish. Damn those low-dose aspirin! I knew that if I didn’t staunch the bleeding that I might be swimming back to Snake Creek dockage. A daughter’s compassion saved my bacon. Capt’n Neat’s wife tied off the mackerel puncture, and I was liberated from a long swim.
There is, I have learned, an upside to being aboard his fishing vessel. It is this: His fishing methods, knowledge and organizational mind pay dividends at the fishing hole. The fishing hotspots are all way pointed in his GPS. The coordinates are classified information, and woe to the man who tries to snap a photo of his GPS screen.
He knows where he is going, how long it takes to get there, and precisely what to do when we get to the waypoint.
When he says, “We’ll put out the chum bag and wait 20 minutes for the mackerel to show,” you can take it to the bank.
Oh, yes, one other thing: Capt’n Neat doesn’t charge me to spend a day on his fishing boat. At least not so far.
The author is editor of the Northwoods Sporting Journal. He is also a Maine Guide and host of a weekly radio program “Maine Outdoors” heard Sundays at 7 p.m. on The Voice of Maine News-Talk Network. He has authored three books. Online purchase information is available at www.maineoutdoorpublications.com.
Comments are not available on this story.
Send questions/comments to the editors.
