You did the right thing. She'll reward you and all of us with thousands of progeny.
Well done Jake.
Senior Member
You did the right thing. She'll reward you and all of us with thousands of progeny.
Well done Jake.
Senior Member
The Googan
This is for all the elite guys with noses in the air out there who were born with a VS in their hands and don't want to admit that we all had to start somewhere...
From Melnyk's blog, good reading.
8/30/09
The Googan
The ends of the earth are known to be particularly susceptible to attracting the fools, drunks, and eccentrics of the world. If you doubt the validity of this statement, just take a quick look at the Florida Keys, the Outer Banks, or the state of Alaska. You are sure to find more then your fair share of strange folk situated in those places. Montauk being the furthest point east in the great state of New York may also be considered to fall within these parameters. Take my word for it we also have our share of oddballs who visit our shores as well as those who inhabit them.
We "locals" will tell of the strange goings on that occur with regularity in our little town. There are quite a few establishments whose reputation may be considered notorious. Take for example, the tale of the love-addled Buck that jumped through the window of Salivar's Bar and Grill a few years ago. Even our wildlife is afflicted. Within the surfcasting community there can be no more conspicuous place than Johnny's Tackle Shop. Don't get me wrong, Johnny's shop is renown for having the latest and the best fishin' apparatus on all of Long Island. You could say that if he hasn't got it, you don't want it, or need it! (John will have no problem telling you this himself!) In addition to all the miscellaneous racks and exhibits of fishing equipment and supplies, the most coveted of spaces in his shop are those above the displays, on the walls, bordering his ceiling. Any caster, worth his salt would tell of how he prizes that location up there. This is where the photo montage of honored fishermen is arrayed.
At the shop, anyone whose catch is weighed-in and photographed by John is eligible for a posting up there on that wall. The only prerequisite is that John has with his patrons is, of course, that the fish must weigh over forty pounds. I know many a caster, myself included, who has devoted great portions of his life in an attempt to be lauded in this way. These photos range from the most recent to the near antique black and whites with dog eared corners and sun faded smiles. They are the withered memories of the most remarkable catches. Row after row of smiling faces and enormous striped bass are revealed in such a way; there is no doubt about the prestige and honor one feels when viewing his likeness up there. And out of all the photos on those walls there is one whose story is particularly noteworthy. Enter "The Goog".
The story begins one fine fall afternoon quite a few years ago with a rowdy throng of surf fishermen who visit us fairly regularly in Montauk. They seem to think it is great fun to circle their wagons on the beach and have a surfcastin' convention each fall relishing in the vast quantity of migrating linesiders. The stretch of shoreline known as Murder's Row is the location for their jamboree. This spot is half a mile from the Montauk Lighthouse, close to the False Bar. This group would make a busman's holiday of fishin', boozin' and fartin'-around out there in their camper Chevy's and Winabagoes. Some in their lot swear that these guys are not just your run of the mill every day surfcasters. These fellows are the real deal, the sharpies, with an abundance of tournament "weight points" and the egos to go along with them.
The previous night they had quite a time. Each to a man it seemed had, "banged the bloody bass till dawn!".
But for all the action and the hard work of hauling one striper after another to the beach, not a decently sized lunker was taken by the group.
"Things just ain't the way they used to be," would be a constant refrain.
"Them damned gillnetters and draggers have swallowed up the best of the schools and this is all that's left!" was an oft' heard phrase.
As pure chance would have it, into this orgy of booze and ********, strode the most unforeseen of men."Hey Rocco! Get a load of this guy, will ya?"
From down the back trail walked a chap of about forty. He was kind of short in stature and dressed in a cap, jacket and boots. With a huge toothy grin, he had the audacity to wander into "Surf-land" bearing, (of all things!) a seven-foot boat rod with what must have been an ancient conventional 2.0 bait fisher reel fastened to the seat. That was it. No other equipment could be discerned. No waders, tackle bag, or any of the required accouterments were visible.
These deficiencies were not left unnoticed by our illustrious group. The crew turns a curious eye toward this stranger.
"Can you believe this guy?" they mumbled under their collective breath.
"What a Googan!" was a sharp retort.
For those of you who don't know, the moniker of Googan, (Goog for short) is a particular epigram which may be attributed to our local Montaukett dialect. You can be confident that this euphemism is not one of your more distinguished forms of compliment. The designation "Goog" is often associated with the lack of coordination and experience that it takes to be an accomplished surfcaster, a true "sharpie". I have been told, under certain circumstances, that this handle must be considered a term of endearment. I have even been associated with this classification occasionally. My pals insist that I should be deeply honored by the title - but I'm not quite sure. Let's put it this way. In my opinion, by even the most liberal of interpretations, a "Goog" may be considered a "sorry sort of sod".
Back on the False Bar, this brash usurper saunters up to the nearest camper and promptly opens the conversation;
"Hi fellahs, how ya doin'?" the gentleman asks.
A series of grunts and snickers usher forth from the group. The pros give the guy the once over. Looking around, and visibly moved, this fellow begins to sense a developing air of malevolence. A thin film of sweat has broken out on his brow, despite the cool autumn air.
"Any fish around here, guys?" was all he could bring himself to say.
More snickers.
"Ya gonna fish with that piece of junk, pal?," was a remark heard in the background.
"Do you think I'll have any luck?" he asks.
Someone murmurs, "Can you believe this guy?"
Our friend turns with a nervous smile.
"Excuse me? Well . . . I've got a half hour to kill and I just thought I would come down here and give it a try."
With this statement a speechless stupor descends upon our hardy group. How dare this upstart invade the sanctity of this place? Fish? This guy's gotta be kidding! The sun is high overhead and there is not one promising ripple on the water! (Many a Budweiser was tipped in disbelief.) Out of this gathering commotion a few kind words are yet to be heard. Pushing through the throng, one good Samaritan appears.
"Let's take a look at what ya got there, buddy" Joe-so-and-so has come to the rescue. He turns with a smile and a wink for his cohorts.
Looking over the antique gear, Joe shakes his head and says,"Well, if ya put a hunk of bunker on the end of your line, ya could give it a shot." Another giggle issues from the tribe.
"Gee, ah . . . a bunker, huh? Aw . . . I thought maybe a worm or something. Do you have any? Ah . . . bunker, that is," our wayward hiker asks with a straight face.
With that, Joe scratches his head and walks to the front of his truck to his cooler rack. He opens the lid, reaches in and grabs a ragged old piece of bait that's been stuck to the bottom all weekend.
"Thanks pal, thanks a lot!" Accepting the rancid bait, off he goes to the surf.
A chorus of hoots and guffaws follows.
"Did you see that! All the Goog has is a rusty old hook on that rig!" Rocco laughs.
"And that line looks as old as that piece-o-junk reel he's got on there!" one of his buddies remarks.
"Jees, Joe, do ya gotta encourage 'em?"
Just about then, the Googan launches that stinking bunker sky-high with a mighty heave. It rockets aloft. Seventy feet it went, straight up into the chilled October air. The rig lands all of twenty feet from the edge of the dead, slack high water with a tremendous splash. A mediocre cast at best.
"Oh darn, a tangle!" the guy says in exasperation. He bends over his ancient equipment, pulling loops and knots from his backlashed spool.
This caused a hearty chuckle from the crew. In acknowledgment to this misdeed, the popping of beer lids can be heard. Our infamous group settles into a long afternoon of indolence. Truck doors are slammed . . . radios are tuned in . . . lazy eyes drift off into dreamland.
But wait! Low and behold, after several minutes of lassitude the rip of a snarling drag stirs our idle group. Zzzipp! (Rocco just about falls out of his truck as he scans the waterline for the offending fishing rod.) But this can't be! This guy, the "Googan", is loping down the beach with his rod severely bent! Someone heard him yell "Yahoo!" as he ran by.
A great exodus follows. Cab door hinges are sorely tested as frantic fishermen make way for the wash! Half cocked and drowsy, this motley crew had become aware of fish on the beach! Rods and waders get snatched from rest and sent off to battle. Twenty bodies blunder into the surf, flailing as they run, full tilt boogie, into those quiet waters. What a sight it was to see. The tumult. The jockeying for position. The pure exhilaration of it! But for all their skill and bravado, for all their technique and style, it was an exercise in futility. The "sharpies" got severely skunked. Not another sign of life was to be seen. Not another fish wascaught that day.
Minutes later, out of the distance comes our fellow (would you believe?) struggling as he drags a huge cow of a bass back toward the campers. Great furrows of sand are plowed either side of the mighty beast. The "Goog" stops short in front of Joe to catch his breath.
"Boy, what a lot of work!" He wipes his brow.
The gathering audience gives off a collective sigh. Someone hands the "Goog" a beer.
Suddenly, everyone wants to talk with this new hero.
"How did he fight?"
"What did ya get 'em on?"
Taking a long pull on his brew, our champion asks, "Gee fellahs, is this fish edible?"
A gasp runs through the crowd. It turns out that this is the first time this "man among men" has ever done any fishing from the beach. Why, he had never even seen a striped bass before!
"Gosh, this fish is heavy!" he says. (The fish bottoms out Rocco's Shatillion hand scale.)
"Hey, can one of you guys can gimme a ride to the parking lot? My wife is waiting. Boy, I hope she isn't worried."
Now Johnny is not known for his story telling. Any visitors to his shop will attest to this fact. I would think though, if you were to ask him, he might tell you about our friend. John may even smile a bit. "The Goog" - so to speak - is known to enter the store quite regularly now - with his close friends in tow. He gazes at the photo of his fish up there on "The Wall". He doesn't say a word - he just grins.
www.surfcasting.com/2009/08/ends-of-earth-are...
Senior Member
I thought to be angler of the month you had to put up your own story?
Administrator
You're correct Hookedonbass, but that Googan story by Melnyk is priceless.Originally Posted by hookedonbass
Even though it wouldn't qualify for the monthly contest, it's a great story about what happens when we judge others who we think might have less skill.
As has been said by others, none of us was born with all the knowledge and skills to consistently catch fish. It's a learning process. I try to learn something new about fishing every day. So thanks BB for posting it up.
You guys and girls can post any fishing or fishing-related stories you want here, and your own will be the ones that qualify for the plug. That sound fair enough?
OK so post em up, let's hear em!
We do have a winner for October, I'll let Pebbles chime in and spell out the details. Congrats to all who posted up their stories. Keep em comin!
Administrator
I get the wonderful job of announcing a winner for this thread every month. I'm sure you guys have lots of stories to share. They don't have to be long, just have them be truthful.
Bassbuddah, I know you put up a story but it was not your own. I appreciate your post I'd like to hear an experience that you personally had.
Jake, your story was incredible. I don't know much about skishing but you put me right there in the water with you. I was holding my breath on every word. I could feel my own heart beating waiting for the result. You're a great writer and deserve to be named Angler of the Month for October.
Please pm me your address and I will send out your plug. Congratulations!
Senior Member
Congrats Jake that was a great story. Kudos to you for being able to release that monster.
Administrator
November stories, let's hear em!!!
I'm posting this for JohnnySaxatillis. I think it was funny, creative, and will make for good reading in the dead of winter....
Well I caught somethin
Does a duck count?
I was too bored and it was too nice not to go fishing in the canal yesterday. I had nothing to do becuase I'm recently laid off, and fishing pretty much dominates my thoughts until subconciously I start driving off cape. So I find myself in a parking lot right off the canal and gear up. Even though my chances ar slim on november 18th im excited just like i always am those couple minutes before wetting a line. I walk down the steps and enjoy the brisk walk a couple hundred yards to a suitable location. but I have neighbors. about 1,000 white and black ducks, chowin on little chubs.
Well Im fishing for about an hour, no other signs of life. but the ducks are startin to get used to me and swim a little closer. Well ducks are smart so when one of them takes off to fly 20 ft down the canal ALL of the ducks near em take off too. I just made a perfect cast with a 2 oz butterbeanjig, and theres a considerable amount of 40lb braid in the air. A flock of ducks take off. I take 3 ducks down. 2 of them just get close lined and go down like a twa flight. the other one gets nice and tangled in my line for a second and then torpedo's in the whipping rip that is the canal for at least a minute.
The thing fianlly surfaces and is motionless. Im like, "jesus christ I killed a duck." as I'm reeling it in however, the duck gets its second wind and starts trying to paddle away as im dragging it through the current. I finally get a hold of the thing and struggle for 5 mintues trying to free the braid while getting soaked from splashes and nipped at by the beak. But it was a successful rescue, the little F'er. so no stripers, but i did catch something
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Senior Member
Congrats Jake, That was a great read. I wish I was a good swimmer. If I was I would try skishing, knowing me.
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