8 July 2017

Fly Fishing Gear

by Andrew

I've been meaning to write of this. I was reminded of it again yesterday. Some lady walked-out of her apartment in her work-out gear, jumped into her car, and drove-off to the gym. I assumed anyway, that she was going to the gym. Regardless, her costume is what it was that reminded me.

In Europe I joked about how Europeans are. That everything must fit into its particular cupboard, so to speak. When I was looking for a tarp—um toldo, un auvent—with my big backpack, it was clear that I was camping. So when I stopt into a boating store, which in the United States certainly may have a tarp, and in Europe too there may even be a tarp, the employees told me when I asked, that there certainly was no tarp in the store. Check the camping store down the way, they said. And I could swear I saw a tarp down one of the aisles on the shelf. But I was camping, not boating, so I couldn't buy a tarp from a boat store.

And bikers have their biking suits. And runners have their running suits. And fishermen, too, they even have their costumes.

I was on the beach when I noticed this about fishermen, their costumes. All day and all night someone somewhere on the beach is fishing. And they all wear the same thing for the most part I noticed—their bibs and galoshes and bright orange or yellow vests or rain jackets. And they all have the same gear—a carbon-fiber fiberglass pole, double-decker tackle box, LED headlamp, cooler full of food and drink, foldable recliner, bucket.

And fishing, catching fish to eat, living off of the land, you would think, that fishermen would appreciate nature and such. But no one litters the beach more than fishermen. They leave behind them cans of beer, bottles of water, old bait boxes,—with worms remaining of course—sandwiches, tins of tuna, & etc., & etc.

And honestly, I've never seen these fishermen catch anything. An entire ocean is right there. And every minute of the day there is a fisherman somewhere. But I have no idea what kind of fish there even are in that ocean. Because I never saw one of these fishermen catch anything.

But there was one fisherman I saw one of the last days I was there on the beach. He wore old, holed pants, some old, ragged shirt, and a dirty hat. He was barefoot. He had a bucket and a cheap, collapsable pole. And that's it—compared the costumed fishmen who came waddling down the beach laden with gear. He pulled his bait out his bucket, this ragged fisherman, strung his pole, and cast it. Then he flipped the bucket and sat. And 10 minutes later he was pulling a fish out the water. He pulled-off the fish, pulled from his pocket a crumbled plastic bag, and threw the fish in that. Then 10 minutes later another. Then another. He was the only fisherman I ever saw catch anything.

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