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Bluegill sunfish
A cormorant lifted off the dark lake this morning. Empty of gullet and unsated as it slid across the grey horizon. Whether it was the presence of an ever-sniffing poodle—fully preoccupied in identifying which of her animal brethren had moved bowels or emptied bladders by this tree or that rock—or it was the prospect of a fishy breakfast elsewhere, the cormorant abandoned this patch of Lake Ontario. The surface was left empty to the horizon. Quiet. Peaceful. Dead.
It got me thinking about fish finders. I’m not a fisher. As part of my paternal duties, I occasionally took my kids down to the dock when they were small. I would hand Chris Bowles of the Reel Thing a wad of cash—and come away with a rod, a packet of hooks, a bobber and a Styrofoam container of worms—big, juicy, slippery night crawlers. So big and luscious one couldn’t help but ponder tasting one (I didn’t. But I thought about it. Of all the worms one comes across in gardening zone 5, the writhing ball of night crawlers presented in a cool, moist bed of mulch is easily the most potentially palatable.)
Fishing off the dock was, in our case, a futile exercise. The bluegill sunfish is either so hungry or stupid it will lunge at an empty hook—eager to be snagged by the face and jerked up onto the dock. It was my job, then, to pry this palmsized fish off the hook and throw it back. No sooner was the hook back in the water and another—or perhaps the same—bluegill sunfish was tugging at the line seeking equal treatment. We repeated this pattern five or six times and went home. Ritual complete.
Now, I know there is vast insight, knowledge and technology that will enhance your chance of landing more than a bluegill sunfish. But I am a skeptical sort. Moreover, fishing for sport never seemed a fair fight. The fish were, it seems to me, just minding their own business when one spotted a shiny bauble—maybe a Dipsy Diver, a Wonderbread spoon, or the always reliable Torpedo Lunker—when it made the fateful decision to ingest it. It was hungry. Bored. Or a predator.
In any event, the unlucky swimmer is suddenly wrestled from the water in perhaps the most violent and unpleasant manner imaginable. Then comes the cruel moment when the fish is eye-to-eye with its assailant. The only thing I feel at that moment is profound regret. It echoes still.
Don’t get me wrong; I like fish. Perch. Salmon. Pickerel. Halibut. But I have never had fish so tasty to warrant the sorrow I feel for my role in the brutal intervention in this particular fish’s daily routine. (Nor have I tasted a fish so yummy that I considered treading out onto a frozen bay, drilling a hole through the ice at my feet and waiting for deliciousness to tug at my cold, shivering hands.)
At Bass Pro Shops, you can buy fish finders ranging in price from a couple of hundred dollars to $7,100 for the Humminbird® APEX 19 MSI+ (misspelling the wee bird warrants a registered trademark?)
Here is the thing, either these devices work, and as I’ve said, I am skeptical, or they don’t, and they prey on human frailty. If the technology can accurately detect a school of barracudas lurking 20 feet below your boat—it seems to me the element of sport evaporates. You are literally shooting fish in a sonar-shaped barrel.
If you put something delicious (or shiny) on my table—chances are that I am going to eat it. Then when you violently pierce my face with a barbed hook and pull me onto the sidewalk and watch me flop around—at no point am I thinking this is a fair fight. Or reasonable.
My lingering but untested suspicion is that fish finders are like Ouija boards or Tarot cards—proficient at conjuring vague, undefined impressions that can mean anything. Or nothing at all. For $7,100, I expect the finder to tell you much more than the location of a rainbow trout. It should land the fish, fillet it, fry it in butter and lemon and serve it on a plate.
Several times when out on the water with Chris, he would point to some pixelated noise on his fish finder screen. He was confident the digital apparition was a gaggle of large-mouthed bass waiting to be snagged from the reeds. But neither the Slow Back Jig, Savage Gear bony runner, nor the X-Way Slowcito managed to persuade the bass to bite. Wrong technique? Wrong lure? Or were the fish ever there?
To be abundantly clear, angling brings joy and produces thrills for many. Moreover, this community has a long and storied tradition built on sport fishing. I have no wish nor ambition to diminish a muchbeloved pastime. These ramblings are presented only to convey a personal queasiness and acknowledge the hypocrisy that defines my conflicted place in the food chain.
On this grey morning, I am more the bluegill sunfish, hungry and stupid.
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