While a few decades have past since my first fishing lesson, I'd like to think I gained something from it. The problem being, my memory from that period in life is a little fuzzy around the edges. And for good reason; I was three years old. I do remember holding that thin stick we picked off the bush---that piece of rope we tied on and the wiggly worm we used for bait, though. While I really don't remember anything my mentor at the time said specifically, I can safely assume how that first lesson went. Something to the effect of, '
when that bobber goes down pull like the dickens'! The truth is, I don't remember any of my first fish until I was four years old. I do remember one big---well, what seemed huge at the time Bluegill Perch I caught. Probably because it finned the crap out of me! You know, when I was giving that poor fish my first death grip? Which, of course, was followed by me screaming bloody murder and crying until it was time for a nap.
My mom loves telling the story of when she frantically called the police one day. Not to mention, had the entire neighborhood in a panic as well. So be warned if you ever come over for Thanksgiving dinner---it's a practical guarantee! To this day, I've never really inquired as to how my parents could let this happen. What exactly they were doing to lose a child of three, or how in the hell they could be so absent minded for that matter---but, the story was that Josh was missing! I hope she doesn't create a new screen-name on Big Water's Edge and feel obligated to fill in the rest of the details, but the short of the story goes something like this: After searching for a few hours in a panic, calling the police, going from door to door frantically asking if anyone had seen their only son (where homes weren't exactly a hundred yards away I might add)--- apparently, I decided at the ripe age of three that, I was going to do what I wanted to do. Perhaps a precursor of what's to come. Whether I methodically planned my sneak approach or my parents broke into the Moonshine during mid-day hours, I'll never know. As the story goes, I somehow made my way down the trail, through some brush and to the back pasture of tall grass to you guessed it---the pond! As mom tells it I was naked as can be, filthy, with a smile on my face from ear to ear. All alone and happy as a Clam---waiting for that cork to go down.
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the parents; for taking their kids fishing in the first place. Without that little stick, rope (It was rope by the way) and a worm, I probably wouldn't have had such a good time while being naked. Well, you know what I mean. While I'm sure the stock-pond loaded with Black Bass, Perch and Catfish didn't hurt my chances of latching onto this great sport---I'd like to give some credit where credit's due. So, thanks mom and dad! After all, I might have ended up as a tourist at La Jolla shores asking:
"Is that a real fish on the back of your kayak?'" And while I doubt those tourists' parents ever lost them in a poisonous snake filled region of the world---I feel that I got the better of the exchange.
While I'd secretly hoped there wouldn't be a soul at my seminar on April 23rd (this Saturday at 10:00 a.m.), apparently the word is out. I figured I might as well make it official. For those who are shooting me private messages with inquiries, yes, I'm doing a seminar. In case you didn't get a chance to watch me speak at any of the M.L.P.A. meetings, I'll apologize for my lack of stage presence in advance. After all, I'm not a rock-star by any stretch; I'm a salty fisherman.
If you'd like to know what to do when your bobber goes down, or how to make your bobber go down more frequently---check it out.
