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He Ain't Heavy; He's My Fishing Brother |
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Written By: Joe Breunig (http://www.bunganutlake.org) Brother Dave
He Ain't Heavy; He's My Fishing Brother
Who says that sibling rivalries can't be beneficial?
Naples, ME, early 1970s:
 I am the oldest of four sons; out of this brood, brother Dave is definitely the most gifted fisherman. Most times, we would be fishing side-by-side using identical equipment and bait. He would consistently charm the fish out the water, while I'm praying for a nibble or two to justify my time and to develop an interest in this sport. Nothing seemed to work for me; using my peripheral vision, I would watch his every move. I'd study the nuisances of his technique without being obvious. At that time, I could not understand what I was doing wrong.
My parents built and owned a chalet on Crooked River in Naples, Maine during our childhood. It was located about 3.5 miles above the Songo Locks, in the middle of nowhere. In fact, we had to drive through a sand quarry to arrive at our summer getaway. Every weekend and summer vacation - we were at the camp regardless of the weather. Such glorious times! One day, I had a rare opportunity to fish alone. For about 90 minutes without interruption, I tried nearly every lure from my limited tackle. Everything that was presented was refused; the number of bites was: Zero - Zilch - Nada. Did that deter me? No way. I continued trying to land something. I figured that I would stop torturing myself by supper.
A few days earlier, Dave had traded some tackle for a beat-up wooden fish lure with 3 treble hooks. He removed the rusted hooks and sanded the wood, restoring the piece to its former glory. He gave it a base coat of white primer and attached new trebles.
I was becoming frustrated and kept my emotions bottled up. He arrived back at the camp a few minutes before dinnertime. His newest lure was ready to be painted, but he couldn't decide as yet how he wanted it to look. So he thought he might as well give it a whirl. He joins me at the river, with only the new lure and his fishing pole. We exchange pleasantries about the day; he then tells me that he wants to test the weight of his latest prize with a couple of casts. With a gentle flick of his wrist, the wooden fish flies across the river, landing with a big splash. The lure is about a foot from the opposite shore and about two feet to the right of where I've been casting my line. Before he has a chance to reel in his line, a 21" pickerel darts out of the shadows (where my lures were being presented) and latches onto his unfinished wooden lure. Apologetically, he lands his prey with ease. Making another cast is now a moot point. He's done fishing for the day and so am I.
Who says that sibling rivalries can't be beneficial? Although he out-fished me once again, he didn't like the taste of perch and pickerel. His loss became my meals. Somehow, I could never encourage him enough to pull out his rod and reel more often.
Clockwise from upper left of photograph: John, Jim, Joe and Dave
Joe Breunig is the webmaster of Bunganut Lake Online.
Clipped and used with Permission by Joe Breunig (http://www.bunganutlake.org)
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