A FISHY TALE

Last week my friend Nate invited me to go fishing with him on Long Island Sound. It’s been at least 15 years since I went fishing, and during those years I had forgot a few things.

I had forgotten what your stomach feels like when you’re on a 22-foot boat, drifting halfway between Connecticut and Long Island in moderately choppy seas, slowly rocking back and forth, back and forth, up and down, up and down, hour after hour. On the plus side, motion-induced queasiness is a terrific appetite suppressant.

I had forgotten what it’s like to be out in the broiling sun without any shade, hour after hour, with blinding rays reflecting off every surface directly into your face.

I had forgotten what it’s like if you miss one little spot of skin when applying the SPF-50 sunblock, which later in the evening produces the unforgettable sensation of trying to fall asleep while the top of your ear feels like someone is pressing a car cigarette lighter against it.

I had forgotten what it’s like when you realize you are nowhere near a bathroom, and even though you don’t have to go to the bathroom, the moment you think, “Hey, there’s no bathroom out here,” your intestines react to that thought by immediately shifting into the “maybe we have to go after all” mode.

I had forgotten what it feels like to accidentally plunge a fishhook into the fleshy part of your thumb—and that the simple little invention, the fishhook “barb,” works really well, REALLY well.

I had forgotten that wrestling with bluefish for five hours while standing in a rocking boat turns the muscles in your back, arms, and thighs into Jell-O.

I had forgotten that no matter how many times you wash and scrub your hands, the smell of fish guts doesn’t go away for at least three days—about the same amount of time it takes for the inner ear dizziness to subside.

I had forgotten that when fish guts get splattered all over your clothes, the most effective laundering option includes a can of gasoline and a match.

And most of all, after all those years of not going fishing, I had forgotten what it’s like to hook a ten-pound mass of pure muscle and determination, and spend five minutes (which to your aching arms feels like 50 minutes) struggling to reel the bugger in. It is this thrilling sensation that causes otherwise sane people to spend the equivalent of a Harvard education on boats, motors, trailers, fuel, licenses, rods, reels, tackle, bait, GPS, and electronic fish finders.

By the way, for the large contingent of animal rights activists who turn to my column first thing every Friday morning, please don’t worry. We didn’t kill any of the bluefish. We were doing the “catch and release” thing. And don’t complain the hooks were causing pain in the mouths of the poor fish. I’ve seen larger holes in the pierced lips of teenagers at the mall. The fish seemed to be enjoying our feisty battles.

When we cruised back to shore at dusk, with the orange glowing sky in the west and the full moon rising in the east, while the lights of the beachfront homes twinkled like a string of diamonds in the dark, I had forgotten the view is downright awe inspiring.

Finally, I had forgotten that capping off the day with an order of fried clams at Bill’s Seafood on the Post Road in Westbrook is pretty awe inspiring, too. I hope I don’t forget to do it all again really soon.