Fishing With Jimbo

There is a time of year when young men's attention turns to fishing and the robins show up to start their construction projects. Gardeners get those itchy fingers that can only be scratched by playing in the dirt. But for me it has always been the time to "wet a hook", that is to go fishing. 

I grew up in the piedmont area of South Carolina. That was before the Corps of Engineers had created with a number of dams an almost continuous large lake from the foothills to the Atlantic Ocean on the South Carolina/Georgia border. The only place to fish when I was young was either the local creeks or an occasional farm pond. As you may recall from many of my previous stories, Jimbo Dillashaw was my best friend. We did everything together. Fishing was no exception. One of our biggest, no, most memorable fishing adventures occured when we were about fifteen years old.  

It was one of those beautiful spring days. A Saturday, it was, and Jimbo had spent the night with me after getting off the school bus at my house rather than continuing on to his. He did that pretty often.  

We could not wait to get to the fishing lake. On the sign by the dirt road turn off from Highway 28 it said, "Dip A Hook at Stoney Brook". Underneath that was written: "lake 2 miles". Someone had marked through the 2 and placed a 5 over it.  Neither Jimbo nor I had ever been to Stoney Brook but had heard tales of the big fish caught there.  Bobby Maxwell, a boy at school, talked about it all the time. He said he and his daddy went every Saturday. Bobby also said they gave a prize for the biggest fish caught. Bobby's daddy had won twenty-five dollars one time. We also found out that the fish they caught were carp and weren't fittin' to eat, so everyone threw them back.  Jimbo was more excited about the trip than I was. 

It was going to be a special day. Daddy said we could use the old '47 Chevy, if I didn't show off by driving too fast. I assured him that I would not go over 45 mph. Actually, I'm not sure the old car would go any faster than that. I had been driving only about a year. Jimbo was going to take the drivers license test for the third time in about two weeks. He said they had trick questions on the written part of the test. 

We grabbed our fishing poles after a sawmill breakfast. Momma called her big breakfast a sawmill breakfast because it was what her Momma had fixed for her brothers when they worked at the sawmill. She served up white grits, (Some folks eat yellow but I believe white tastes better.)salt cured ham, scrambled eggs, milk gravy,  and, of course,big fluffy cat-head biscuits. We would eat some of those biscuits with gravy and the rest with home-made peach preserves. Daddy used to say if they didn't have Momma's peach preserves in heaven, he wasn't going. On the way out the door she told us to be careful and handed us a couple of ham biscuits in a paper sack. 

The old Chevy lit up as soon as I stepped on the starter and a puff of blue smoke came out of the exhaust pipe. Luke wanted to go but we didn't know if they allowed dogs at Stoney Brook. I figured it would take us an hour or so to get there and we would have to stop and get some fish bait somewhere. Hank's Handy Mart was on the way. Hank sold most everything including fish bait and I never heard of a fish that wouldn't bite red wigglers! 

At Hank’s I got me some red worms but Jimbo said he wasn’t going to use red wigglers, he would use something else. “Okay,” I said and we went back to the car after buying two Upper 10s to go with our biscuits.

We had only gone a few miles down Highway 25 when Jimbo said, “Turn here.” 

“Why are we goin’ this way?” I asked, "Highway 25 to 28 is the quickest way to get there.”

“I want to get some special fish bait,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Old Theo lives down this road and he sells a special kind of fish bait!”

“What you talking about?  It’ll be one o’clock before we get there!

‘Naw, it won’t.  This won’t take but a little while.”

“Aw right,  but if we don’t get a chance to catch fish it’ll be your fault,” I said in resignation.

“But, Tony, when you see me catch that prize fish, it’ll be worth the little time it took us to get to old Theo’s house. Why...I might even share the prize money!”

We were going through a wooded area and came upon a small shotgun shack with the corners painted a bright blue. It was in a grove of oak trees with a vegetable garden out back and a couple of sheds. As we pulled up in the front an old man got up from a rocking chair. I recognized him straight away.  I had seen the tall black man with white hair and beard many times with his cart and mule.  He picked cotton and did other odd jobs for local farmers. Jimbo had talked about him a lot when talking about fishing. He said Old Theo could talk to the fish.  Of course I didn’t believe any of that stuff especially when he said the fish told Theo what they liked to eat. I loved my friend Jimbo like a brother but sometimes he would stretch the truth a little bit too much. Jimbo was at doorsteps when the old man in the straw hat and bib overalls came off the porch to meet Jimbo.  They talked a bit, I couldn’t hear what was said, and then Jimbo followed him around the side of the house and out of sight.

Jimbo soon returned with what appeared to be a pint Mason jar wrapped in brown paper. I couldn't tell what was in the bag, but I sure could smell it.

“What is that smell?” I wanted to know. 

Jimbo answered with a sheepish grin, “Old Theo’s special fish bait. There’s nothing like it.  It’s made from a special recipe his grandpa told him. Guaranteed to catch the big ones!”

“H-m-m,”  I remembered when as a seven-year-old I had spent my last cent to buy a bottle of “Gypsy Fishbait Oil” that was advertised on the back of the Woodmen of the World magazine.I didn't catch a single fish with it.

Soon we were back on the highway on the way to Stoney Brook.

The trip on the dirt road to the lake was more than 2 miles for sure and we parked in the parking lot with about twenty cars. There was a high fence around what we could see of the lake. There was a small building about the size of an outhouse beside a gate. A sign at the gate said, “Buy Tickets Here”. Jimbo says, "Hey, Tony, can you loan me a dollar. I spent all my money on the bait I got from Old Theo."

"I'm getting tired of being the bank of Jimbo,"

"You know I always pay you back," Jimbo retorted.

"Yeah you do…" I said with reservations. 

 I was glad it only cost a dollar because  I had only two dollars  left after buying the worms. There was a rather pretty girl there. I think the ticket seller was her daddy. She had dark hair and brown eyes and was a few years older than me. And she wore short shorts and a sleeveless top that buttoned down the front. A few buttons were missing.  She smiled at me. Jimbo told me later that she did not have on a bra. Jimbo knows more about girls than I do. The pudgy man in the straw hat told us to hang on to our tickets. I figured it was to show that we had paid to get in. 

It was a big pond. I reckon it was big enough to be called a lake. It seemed that there were a number of "regulars" there. They seemed to go to particular places around the lake. Jimbo and I picked out a place that wasn't very close to any one. About an hour after we had wet our hooks the place was beginning to get crowded. There was only about a car length between us and a man with five kids. If grandma was right and you had to be quiet to catch fish, we didn't have a prayer with all those kids nearby.  Never-the-less, we persevered. 

Jimbo was excited. He was already spending the prize money. He had counted the fishermen and determined that there would be a big pot. I was not that optimistic. The red wiggler fought my effort to place him on the shiny hook. I guess the will to survive is great among all creatures. But the red wiggler would survive in my memory if he delivered that big fish. I spit on him to make sure. I almost lost my Double Bubble in the process. Grandma had said you had to spit on your bait for good luck and Grandma always caught fish. 

He hung the first one before I got my hook in the water. I watched as Jimbo struggled to hold on to his fishing pole. It was bent almost double before the fish released the hook. Jimbo lost his balance and fell backwards on the  grass. 

"It had to be a waterhorse!" Jimbo exclaimed. 

"Yeah", I said without much enthusiasm. I was about to get my hook into the water.The kids next to me were testing my patience. Two came over and grabbed my small tackle box and started to take it away. It's not much of a box but it was given to me by a favorite uncle. I pried their little fingers off the box and found a place for it out of their sight. Not only that but while I was retrieving my tackle box a fish got all the bait off my hook. Jimbo is continuing to feed the fish the "mystery" bait. But he had yet to pull a fish ashore. But his enthusiasm was at an all time high. I was catching some fish but nothing approaching what you call a big fish. 

We stopped fishing long enough to eat our ham biscuits although I had to recapture mine. The kids next to me had brought their dog with them. I'm sure the kids had rescued the dog. It was the ugliest dog I have ever seen. Not much bigger than a football with grey-brown greasy fur.  And said animal stole my lunch bag. While chasing the dog, which was a poor excuse for a dog, a fish pulled my cane pole into the lake. So I get my biscuit back but lose the fishing pole. I watch my fishing pole tour the lake while I enjoy my country ham biscuit. Finally, the pole stopped moving. A little breeze moved my pole to the other side of the lake.  As I walked around the lake to get my pole I noticed that Jimbo was constantly baiting his hook. 

By the time I got back to my fishing spot, Jimbo tells me he has been using my red worms for bait. He has fed the fish all the "mystery"  bait but he is sure he will catch the big fish. Me, I have had almost all the fishing fun I can handle. The wind began to blow and the skies were darkening. I think I hear a thunder in the distance. Some of the fishermen are leaving.  Even the kids leave. The pretty girl we had seen at the ticket booth came by and told us that her father would be closing the lake in a half hour. We are almost out of red worms. I stopped fishing. Jimbo is putting anything he can find on his hook.  He even cleans out his pockets.  I gave him a well chewed plug of Double Bubble. He baits his hook one last time. We watch as his bobber sinks beneath the surface of the lake. The bamboo pole bends. Jimbo tightens his grip on the pole and  begins  walking backwards from the water. The pole is about to break as Jimbo continues to pull the fish from the lake. The pole snaps with a loud crack. I walk into the shallows and grab the fishing line and begin pulling. Jimbo drops the pole and begins helping me pull.  We struggle to get the fish ashore. Jimbo is sure he has a winner and I am bound to agree with him. 

There are about twenty fish in the big fish contest and measurement isn't necessary. Jimbo's is obviously the biggest. The man with a wad of one dollar bills approaches Jimbo. 

"You done  caught Ole Goliath! It's been awhile since somebody's caught 'im. I gotta a nice bunch of change in prize money for you today. Now lemme me see yo ticket," the man said. 

"What ticket you talkin' about?" Jimbo wanted to know.

"The ticket you got when you paid yo' dollar."

"Why do I need a ticket? I caught the biggest fish!"

"'Cause I gotta see that ticket 'cause it proves you are a paying customer and can legally win the pot!"

By now Jimbo has turned his pockets inside out and has a look of bewilderment on his face. He looks at Goliath and slowly shakes his head. Both Goliath and I know where the ticket is. I'm not telling and he's not upchucking!