Fishing Stories and Tall Tales

[Gavin H]

This is for Old Timer, since he asked so nice.

Enjoy

Stanley 2 – condensed
By Gavin Houston

It was a spectacular day, perfect for the last fish fry of the year. It was the beginning of fall and the leaves were starting to turn, the air was warm, not hot, the bugs were knocked back, and the air was still. The sun was shining and the sky was bright blue with a few fluffy clouds looking more like an artist’s rendition than something natural. In other words, it was picture perfect.
I had arrived at the harbour early with the intent of checking on the smoker Ted and I had fired up the evening before. Inside the converted fridge was three racks of marinated trout, salmon and silver bass, the latter being something I had never tried before. I caught a whiff of smoke in the air as I walked down the lane and my stomach growled in anticipation, that and the fact that I had skipped breakfast knowing that a veritable feast was at hand. Though tempted, I didn’t open the door of the fridge so as to not let the heat escape, but pulled out the little steel box that was underneath that contained the smouldering sawdust and wood chips that provided the smoke for the curing fish. I added some hickory chips to the box and slid it back underneath the fridge. Soon, I knew smoke was rising through the hole in the bottom of the fridge and curing the fish, as some of the fragrant cloud seeped out of the seams at the top of the door. The fish would remain in the smoky interior for a few more hours, until the rest of the food was ready, as to sample freshly smoked fish, still warm from the process, is truly a gastronomic delight. I had just completed my task when Ted pulled up in his truck, a folded wooden table sticking out the back of the box with some folded chairs stacked on top. As Ted opened up the bait shop and put on coffee, I took out the chairs and set up the table that would hold the food. By this time, Ted emerged and together we moved three heavy picnic tables and arranged them end to end. This was where the guests would sit with heaped plates containing smoked fish, fried fish, canned fish, and homemade bread, beets and pickles. The fish-fries were wonderful events enjoyed by all. The good company, friendly conversation and ample, hearty food always made for a memorable occasion. On this particular day, the event was set to be a little extra memorable. Today was the day we would give Stanley his gift.

Stanley was our resident elf – a short, roly-poly garden gnome who exuded good humor and an overabundance of character. He was an integral part of our fraternity of fishermen and outdoor enthusiasts, but he was a terrible fisherman. Many was the day that I would find him fishing with an unconventional lure, completely wrong for the species he was after, while others fishing nearby would be having success with a standard presentation. One of his favorite tricks was to put a worm, minnow, colored mini-marshmallow and kernel of corn on a single hook, “…how can they resist a gourmet meal!” he would quip. But one day Stanley caught a beautiful rainbow trout, under the most extreme of conditions, and stunned us all. It was the height of summer, the water was as warm as pea soup and nearly the same color. Stanley hadn’t intended on actually fishing but was in the process of demonstrating a “new” lure he had discovered, a yellow Mister Twister. He had dangled his lure a few inches below the surface to show us the lures action when the defective trout shot out of the gloom and detonated on Stanley’s jig. With a surprised jerk the poor fish was sent sailing through the air to land on the grass behind us and, to the best of my knowledge, became the one and only fish Stanley had ever caught, other than a few tiny perch. From that day forward Stanley could not resist the telling and re-telling of the story of his magnificent trout. A perfect stranger could be walking by and he would pipe up “Excuse me, but have you heard about the beautiful trout I landed?” Stanley would ask. The stranger would look at him with an appraising eye, especially if he had his bait visible, forevermore a yellow Mister Twister with a worm, minnow, colored mini-marshmallow, and a piece of corn. We had all heard the story many times over and we never tired of it. So comical and animated was he in the telling, with a few additions and modifications each time, it was like we hadn’t been witness to the same event. But of course we had and it was because of this that we decided to give Stanley a memento, a trophy, to commemorate the special event.
By lunch time most of the regulars had arrived and the tables were covered in an assortment of food stuffs while Ted and his wife, Ma, cooked the fried fish over a pair of Coleman stoves. The smoked fish was arranged on a large platter and covered with foil but not before I had sampled the smoked silver bass. It was tasty, but oily, not what I had been expecting, but there was enough fish and food for the most discriminate of guests, something I was not. Soon there wasn’t a seat left as we all heaped our plates with food and filled our glasses from the pitchers of Cool-Aide and water. At the end of one table was a chair reserved for Stanley, and a wrapped package on the table was his gift to commemorate his amazing fish. But Stanley wasn’t there. We all ate and talked but glanced nervously down the lane in hopes of catching a glimpse of his old, red car. It may have just been me, but overall, it seemed the party was a little subdued as the anticipation of Stanley’s presence distracted everyone’s thoughts. Then, just as things were winding down and I had started to clear plates, there was a sudden silence as everyone cocked an ear. It was the rumble of his ancient Duster we could hear as it crested the hill a quarter mile away. Stanley had arrived. As the majority had finished eating, even more attention than usual was bestowed upon our special guest and he was taken aback at first, but pleased with all the fuss. He plopped into his chair and accepted a drink and small plate of fish and relished the attention. It was a few minutes before he noticed the package and seemed truly surprised by the fact that it was for him. With effort, he pulled himself up from his chair and turned to the group that had crowded around him. His reaction was rather odd, a surprise to me, as he seemed on the verge of tears. With the unopened package clutched in his left hand, he shook the rest of our hands with his right, his usual strong voice with its crisp English accent sounding rather shaky:
“Thank ya, I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m not really deserving of this ya know.”
“You’re a good friend to be thinking of me.”
“Never been treated like this before.”
“I feel like a king.”
He had a humble comment for each of us as he shook our hands one by one.
Once he had thanked everyone in turn, we expected him to open the gift as we watched in anticipation, but he didn’t. With a tear hanging from each of his apple cheeks, our emotional elf shuffled off to the safety of an old elm tree where the trunk afforded him a little privacy from our watchful eyes. We stood on the lane, a knotted group of his friends, and watched his back as he began to open the package, but instead of the reaction we were expecting, he suddenly bent over and clutched at the bark of the tree with his left hand, the package tumbling to the ground. Stanley was in distress. As a group we rushed forward and I had to kneel down to look into his face. He was almost purple, with tears streaming down his face. His mouth was wide open. He wasn’t breathing.
He was bent almost perpendicular to the ground and I reached out and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and said “Stanley, are you ok?” His red, watering eyes glanced sideways and locked on my anxious face. Then his eyes relaxed and I saw something strange. Humor. At that moment he inhaled with a mighty gasp and erupted in a barking, strangled laugh, the likes of which I had never heard before. He stood in that position for quite a while, the tears streaming as he struggled for breath, clutching the tree for support. The rest of us stood transfixed. After a few minutes poor Stanley straightened up and we helped the exhausted elf back to his chair of honor. Doug picked up the present, that he himself had made, and set it on the table in front of him. Stanley erupted in laughter again, only a more reasonable laugh, and the rest of us, recovering from our shock, laughed along with him. After a few more minutes, calm was restored and Stanley uttered his first words:
“You bloody Buggers” was all he said. And we all burst out laughing again.
What was it you ask? Well it was the perfect gift for our special friend- our faithful companion who endured many a taunt at his less-than-stellar fishing techniques but who shamed us all with his one, miracle trout.
It was a toilet seat and lid that had been sawn neatly in two so that the hinge was at the top. On the lid, Doug’s wife had meticulously hand painted a fish and in beautiful scrolled letters - To Stanley and when you lifted the lid, along the curve of the seat it said - The half -assed fisherman.