Fishing pox, and why I hate Disney’s rat

The Christmas spirit has packed up and left town before the credit card bills start arriving, and already I am itching. Fishing pox, the dreaded disease.

People will tell you it doesn’t exist. Clearly, they have never seen a sufferer wandering about the sporting goods aisles of their favorite department stores, glassy-eyed, feverish and drooling, unable to complete a sentence, much less carry on a conversation, while undressing the latest poles and lures with their eyes.
The only relief to be had is in, on or beside the water.

I don’t get to fish nearly as often as I like anymore, but there’s something about the promise of New York trout streams in April that makes the pulse quicken for the 90 or so days between New Year’s Day and April 1.
Though there is no vaccination and no cure, I personally experienced what can only be called a remission for nearly five years. The experience might also be filed under “hair of the dog that bit you.”

It was a perfect summer evening nearly 20 years ago. Perfect conditions from every facet of my life had come together to set the stage for what promised to be an exceptional angling evening.

First, my husband and I managed to secure a babysitter for the evening. Also, my father, Harry, was able to join us. Next, the weather was outstanding. It was a warm, summer evening, not hot or humid, and illuminated by a full moon and sky full of stars. Finally, there wasn’t a mosquito to be found for miles.

I graced Harry with the use of my UglyStick™ and took Backup Outfit No. 1 for myself. The guys were after “big” fish, but I headed to my secret spot and rigged my gear with my signature bullhead configuration.

Cast one didn’t suit me - it felt like something in the reel was hanging up. Cast two was as bad, and three landed about 24 humiliating inches off shore with an antagonistic splash.

Annoyed, I headed back to the car to examine the source of my aggravation under the glow of the dome light. Determining the problem to be inferior line, I chose a more acceptable spool of Stren™ and re-lined the reel.
Content, I headed back to my nook. The first cast was a beauty and my night crawler brought me a good-sized cat. The second cast resulted in a tangle of line in the reel that looked not unlike a translucent clown’s wig. I stomped back to the car to assess the mess. Seeing that it was hopeless and aware that the clock was ticking, I tossed the pole in the tailgate and resorted to Backup Outfit No. 2. Harry started laughing. I considered yanking my UglyStick™ out of his hands and beating him about the head with it. I re-lined the reel and headed back to the Promised Land.

Backup Outfit No. 2 was a disappointment to put Backup Outfit No. 1 to shame, and my third trip back to the car was punctuated with expletives that would have made a sailor blush. I opened the tailgate and heaved the rod and reel into the car before going to look for my husband.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Pole sucks,” I responded, brandishing my knowledge of the angling jargon.

“Take mine,” he offered. “I’ll reline yours.”

“Don’t you think I already thought of that?” I inquired.

Sensing he was suddenly, albeit undeservingly, on thin ice, he replied, “I’ll try the other one, then.”

“Been there; done that.”

“You re-lined both of them?” he asked cautiously.

“No. I’ve just been enjoying a two-hour block of Barry Manilow’s finest on the car radio.”

“Use my pole,” he insisted. “I’ll use Bill’s Mickey Mouse pole.

A Zebco™ kiddie rod and reel set. The Mickey Mouse pole. You would think I’d have seen it coming. Thinking my husband’s humiliation at having to use the Mickey Mouse pole might make up for the evening’s lousy start, I reluctantly accepted his generous offer and handed him back his lure.

Before I could choose a lure for myself, prime bullhead hours now lost, the commotion began. Anglers were pouring out of the dark and heading for the water’s edge. Choruses of “Oh, my God!” and “Holy cow!” abounded.

The splashing and thrashing peaked as I pushed my way through the crowd of spectators. At the center of the hubbub was my husband - pulling a lunker large mouth from the water at the end of Disney’s rat rod. It was the biggest bass I’ve ever seen pulled from New York waters without benefit of a boat. I considered throwing the rat rod into the lake.

It was like giving someone the winning lottery ticket. It was like having $4 monopoly money left when your brother swoops down on Park Place to round out his Boardwalk and instantly erects hotels, which you will land on every time around the board. (Until you are forced to mortgage everything and go bankrupt.) My poker face failed to conceal my contempt, which only fueled my husband’s mirth. Since I am normally imperturbable, he took great pleasure in my fish-envy.

“Isn’t it the biggest fish you’ve ever seen?” he gloated, waving the bass in my face.

“It’s an hors d’oeuvre to the Northern pike where I come from,” I snarled.

Desperate for a measure, my husband held the fish against the car while Harry notched the fender so they could measure it later. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I calculated the odds of successfully shoving every last angler into the water.

The fish was released, and as cries of “I’ll take it! I’ll take it!” filled the air, I thought about pushing the car into the lake so my husband could visit it in style. I chose instead to sit in the car for the remainder of the night. To this day, whenever I see a display of children’s fishing sets, I have an almost overwhelming desire to kick them into the next county.

A woman scorned hath no fury like a woman out-fished.

Reprinted courtesy Eagle Newspapers, Syracuse.