Fish tales

All though the service for Jim Karolides was a rueful occasion, it also had its lighter moments. Seeing and talking to many people, that I had not seen in many years was uplifting.

Which brings me to a conversation I had with Jay Karolides. His slant on our conversation was that as I enter my dotage, I am losing it. And my view is that he should consider politics, as he is certainly good at revisionary history.
One beautiful summer day, I took Jay fishing to one of my favorite spots. A tiny body of water known as Round pond, which drains into Chebaco Lake   bordering on Hamilton, and Manchester, Mass. The expectation was for three or four good hours of fishing before it got dark. Jay was only in grammar school at the time. But he was good at casting. He had spent many hours practicing his casting into the river at Calvin Putnam's lumber yard before it was turned into yuppieville. So before I could even get the oars out of the water, he made what is arguably one of the worst casts of all time. The lure went about twenty feet up and landed about six inches away from the boat. As luck would have there was a huge bass lurking right there. Jay’s rod immediately bowed in half and the battle was on. It appeared as if the fish was going to win the battle as Jay was sprawled over the gunnels, and appeared as though he was trying to get a drink of water. I grabbed him by his belt loops and yanked him back into the boat. He then proceeded to boat the monster, and was hooked on bass fishing for life. Now I was psyched and started casting like crazy in hopes of catching one just as big. But the next thing out of Jay’s mouth was, I don’t feel good uncle Herm, I want to go home. I pretended that I did not hear him. But after about fifteen minutes I gave in and took him home. The reason being of course was that he could not wait to show his family and friends the big fish he had caught. So somewhere in a Karolides scrapbook there is a picture of a beaming Jay and his fish. I believe it also lurks in the achieves at the Salem News.
That’s my story and I am sticking to it. For Jay’s heroic version you will have to talk to him!
In my last blog I spoke of a practical joker and his El Producto box of rabbit droppings. Well to continue the saga of this particular, practical joker. I, Carl Eaton and he were surf fishing for striped bass on Plum Island. After fishing all night, I fell asleep on the sun warmed sand. The next thing I know, Carl is vigorously shaking me awake. He is hollering, look at your rod. My rod is bowed over and vibrating, looking like it was going to be yanked right out of the rod stake. Still half a sleep I run over and grab my rod, pull back on it violently to set the hook. Expecting to feel the surge of a big bass, all I feel is dead weight. Carl is beside me jumping up and down, hollering is it a big one? I reply there is something there, but it does not feel too lively. As I pull in a completely scaled and gutted striper, I see a cigar chomping joker about fifty yards down the beach, holding a line that he had tied to mine. So delighted with himself it’s a wonder he did not piss his pants.