[Critique Group 2] Leonard's submission for February.

[Tuchyner5 at aol.com]

First Catch  
By 
Leonard Tuchyner 
My cane fishing pole quivered in my hands, as it extended  just above the 
Gulf Coast inlet, off St. Petersburg Beach in 1956.  A thin wire reached from 
its tip to  dangle eighteen feet into the onrushing tidal waters, weighted 
down by its  miniature needle-sharp, three-pronged grappling hook.  
The thirty-yard channel formed between the small sandbar  and mainland was 
boiling with jumping, dashing mullet that rode in with the  land-bound 
gushing water.  They were  so thick I imagined walking on their undulating backs. 
I counted to thirty,  allowing my heavy steel line and grappling hook to 
lie still in the warm  Gulf-of-Mexico water. Then, with all my strength, I 
pulled the tip of my pole  high in the air, bracing my muscles and body weight 
against that of the giant  bamboo rod and water resistance.  My  iron hook 
slid upwards, swiftly, until it jerked almost to a stop. I struggled  to keep 
the hook moving upwards, until it breached the surface, with a  
foot-and-a-half desperate fish, pierced and held by the points and barbs.  Holding my 
prize high, I stepped backward across the gravely, sandy beach until  my 
mullet was dangling over dry land.  
I was ecstatic. This was my first snag ever. 
==== 
I had emigrated from New Jersey only two days prior.  My father had taken a 
job in Florida a few months  earlier and scouted out a place for us to 
live, until we could find more  permanent housing. It was a tiny place, a block 
away from a short causeway  connecting St. Petersburg  Beach to St. 
Petersburg.  It was the kind of place that people  might rent for a week or two for 
vacation dwelling, if they did not have much  disposable income. It had its 
problems. For example, the kitchen sink habitually  vomited up sewage. It 
housed the four of us, my younger sister, my  sixteen-year-old-self, Mom and 
my Dad. We moved there just after I finished my  junior year of high school. 
I don’t remember much more about the place, because  I hardly spent any time 
there. 
Just over  the causeway was a fishing supply shack. Fishing was something I’
d always wanted  to do but didn’t have the slightest idea of how to go 
about it.  I’d had a few float fishing experiences  when, as a small kid, I 
accompanied my uncle and cousins who occasionally went  on half-day fishing 
excursions. I was only allowed to use a drop line, and the  only fish I ever 
caught was a sea robin, which is good for almost nothing as far  as human 
dining is concerned.  But  here in that fishing shack, which I discovered the 
first day of arrival, was a  fascinating, exciting world of bubbling minnow 
vats, frozen shrimp and squid,  and all kinds of paraphernalia, the most 
impressive of which was a number of  giant  cane poles rigged with  grappling 
hooks and all.  
“How do these things work?” I asked. 
“Not much to it,” a skinny wiry man answered. “Just put  it in the water, 
and pull im up.” 
“Don’t you need bait?” 
“Nope. Just drop im in, and pull im up. Mullet don’t take  to no bait, you 
know.” 
I looked at him vacant-eyed. 
“Look here, son. Them prongs grabs the mullet underneath,  when ya drags it 
up. Bingo! Yer gots yaself a fish.” 
“They good to eat? 
“Yer damn right they’s good to eat. These is West Coast  mullet. Not like 
them off the Atlantic.” 
“How much are these fishing poles?” 
“Two bucks.” 
“Where’s a good place to fish around here?” 
“Just keep on going two blocks down the street and ya’ll  come to a 
concrete seawall. But ya best wait ‘til the tide comes in. That’s when  they 
comes in with it.” 
I thanked him and left, because I didn’t have any money  of my own, and I’
d have to get it from my parents. But that turned out not to be  a problem. 
They were glad that I found something to occupy myself with.  
Right after lunch, I was back at the Fishing Bait and  Tackle Shack buying 
my impressive big bamboo pole all rigged up. I headed right  down to the 
seawall, never mind that the tide wasn’t due for another two hours.  Never mind 
that I hadn’t actually been down to the seawall before. I was going  to get 
the feel of this baby, even if there weren’t any fish to catch. I arrived  
at the Gulf, just where the fish shack man said it would be, and there were  
three men and a woman with rods and reels, dangling their feet over the 
edge of  the concrete seawall. They were all pulling in fish.  I felt out of 
place with my ostentatious  equipment, so I just watched for a while. 
Eventually, I couldn’t hold my horses  any longer and overcame my shyness, swinging 
my grappling hook out into the  estuary. I felt foolish and awkward and didn’
t really expect to catch anything,  which I didn’t.  
Eventually, as high tide came due, two men with setups  like mine arrived 
and took their places along the wall. My spirits rose. At  least I wasn’t 
going to be the only fool. A third arrival captured my  attention.  From my 
sixteen-year-old  perspective he was an old man. In retrospect he could have 
been sixty to eighty  ears old. He was thin and sinewy, but what impressed me 
the most was the  oven-baked color and texture of his leathery skin.  It wasn
’t the dark brown or black of an  African American, but unmistakably 
Caucasian. He carried a bucket and a big rod  with an open-faced casting reel. At 
the end of his line was a grappling hook  just like mine, only it was 
one-fifth the size.  As he walked by, a few fishermen greeted  him. 
“Hi,Tolley. Is it a good day for mullet?” 
“Always good day, Sam. You ready go home yet?” 
“Pretty much. One more grunt and I’ll have enough for a  week of fish 
dinners.” 
“Then what you do, Sam? No excuse left to  fish.” 
“Shhh!  Don’t  let Ruth hear you. She’s already saying she’s getting 
tired of finding different  ways to fix fish.” 
“Never too much fish. Not for good Greek like  me.” 
The banter ended in chuckles, and the old man set out a  lawn chair and 
waited. By the time ten minutes had passed, his body perked up.  “Here they 
come, Sam.” 
I stared in the direction that the old man was watching  and noticed that 
the mouth of the inlet was becoming inundated with schools of  fish.  Old 
Tolley flicked his rod  smoothly and effortlessly. I watched the tiny grappling 
hook sail just past the  stream of rushing, jumping mullet. Almost as soon 
as it hit the water, the old  man whipped his rod shoreward, and the tip 
bent in a bow as if something had  grabbed the line and wouldn’t let go. Tolley 
played the gaffed fish, steadily  bringing it towards shore. As he pulled 
the squirming mullet out of the water,  Sam said, “Snagged that one right in 
the gills.” 
That’s when I decided I’d better get my hooks back in the  water. Three 
jerks later I got my catch. It was a kind of excitement that only a  kid can 
feel with his first catch. 
Over the next three weeks, I was at my place on the  seawall almost every 
day. I became a regular tide savant. Tolley wasn’t there  every day, but most 
of the time. He caught what he needed and then went home. I  loved seeing 
him sail his three-pronged hook deftly to just the right spot in  the school 
and make a hit. He rarely waited a cast, so he never stayed very  long.  
I was too shy to try to make his acquaintance, but even  though I didn’t 
have the words for it, I knew I was in the presence of a master.  
Eventually, I was inspired to get my own casting rod and  reel. I never 
tried snagging fish with it, but I learned to hunt with bait. One  night I 
caught so many red-mouthed grunts I could barely lift them. I hadn’t  learned to 
respect life enough to take just what I needed. Not at sixteen. If  I’d had 
the courage to try to befriend the old Greek, maybe I would  have.
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