Gone Fishing - Parts I and II

Part I

When I was a little girl, growing up in the urban populace of Union City, NJ, our summer weekends, when not spent down the shore in Seaside, was still a watery fun filled destination: we went to the lake. In those days, a popular weekend recreational spot was Cook's Pond in Denville, NJ. So early on Saturday morning, with my poor dad running on only about 2 hours worth of sleep (he worked the lobster shift at Typographical Union #6 in Manhattan so he only got home at about 6:00 am), we packed up our monster Ford station wagon with our Coleman ice chest, bags full of groceries, Koolaid, a case of Schaefer beer in cans, sand chairs, portable radio, towels, sunscreen, bathing suits and last, but not least, a half dozen or so assorted length fishing poles and tackle boxes. Yep, we were going fishing. The lake was chock-a-block full of sunnies and we were gonna get 'em... all of 'em. the five of us kids were ready -- we even woke up early to make a whole loaf of Wonder Bread worth of bread balls for our hooks.

My Dad, at least when it came to fishing, had the patience of a saint... most of the time. Or at least for the first 3 hours or any combination of two dozen instances of tangled lines, lost bait or the removal of the dreaded sunnie (or even worse, the errant lake eel EEWWW!!!!) from the hook, whichever came first. After that, we were on our own.

I'd like to think that besides my height, the bump on my nose, my great love of books, and weirdly shaped toes, that Dad passed on something else. Maybe fishing is in my blood. So, given that legacy, on Sunday, off we went to Aylos Bay. As you may recall from previous blogs of mine, Aylos Bay is right along the Volta River, and because we planned on spending the night we had a little cabin attached to a floating barge in the river. Primo fishing, we figured.

The river was choppy and dark, but we could spot little fish swimming in the shallows along the shoreline, not many but enough to whet our appetite. Good ol' mom (me, of course), set up the hooks and lines, bobbers for some, sinkers for others, and the worms of course. Now, my kids are not all that squeamish, but they don't really like squeezing the worm into halves or quarter pieces and then see both pieces wriggling. But, alas, our worm supply was limited so there is little choice for them.

Bingo! Within minutes, Mike has snagged the first fish.



A cute little tilapia only about 2 inches long, but still a keeper... no catch and release for us, no sir, there's a frying pan with cooking oil awaiting us and this little dude has got his name on the list. Sly does his part of the job in the fishing gig, he takes the fish off the hook. Mike's re-baited, and away he goes. Bingo! Mike gets fish #2, only minutes later. Process repeated. Many, many, many times with a little variation to break up the monotony: "Mommy, can you give me a bobber? Mommy, can you take my bobber off? Mommy, I want more [less] weight on this. Mommy, my hook is snagged. Mommy the line is all tangled. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy...." By the end of the day, I had a new appreciation for my Dad.

Even a heavy rain storm didn't stop the fishing. I mean the fish are already wet, so what do they care about a little rain. But by the time darkness fell, Mike had caught 5 fish, Sean caught 2 and Sly caught 1. Apparently, the fish could smell the testosterone and completely ignored Alex and me. We'd been keeping them alive in a bucket, but now they were destined for the fridge.


Our cabin had electricity, fortunately, and (cold) running water, a fridge and floor fan, but no television. Knowing Ghana as I do, I quickly brought out the emergency board game and a deck of cards, so the kids were good for a few hours before exhaustion caught up with them.

By 5:30 am, we were "up an' at-em." Within minutes (again), Mike caught another fish. And then another. By the time we were ready to leave at 11:30 to head home, Mike had caught another 4, Sean another 1, and I finally caught one. All told, we had 16 nice little fish to take home and eat, and eat them we did.

End of Part I.

Part II

A mere two days later, we were off again to Aylos, this time with a friend from NYC and his 13 year old son. Kofi had his own gear, which he told me proudly cost him $50 from a yard sale in White Plains. Hmmm. "So, Kofi, I didn't know you liked fishing," says me. "Oh, this is my first time!," he responds. Okay, now I know what the deal is: I've got 2 more rods and reels and lines and hooks to take care of.

We're lucky enough to snag 2 cabins side-by-side, so we claim the fishing dock.


Try as I might, I cannot convince Sean or Evan that they should use drop lines. No, for them, it's got to be the spinning reels. My work is cut out for me. Alex and Mike want the simple drop lines, so I tie some line to the last eye on a little pole, bait their hooks and off they go. Mike drops the line and a fish jumps on. No kidding. I hadn't even started on the other poles, and there's a fish for the frying pan. It went like that both days. Mike dropped his line in the water and a fish came out. Almost always.


After I explained the basic concept of casting to Evan a couple of times, he promptly went and tangled his line. He never could get the hang of tightening and loosening the drag to release the line. But to give him his due, Evan did eventually catch a good sized fish, and the smile he broadcast, braces and all, was well worth my trouble.

Poor Sean. The fish avoided him like the plague. They weren't even going after his worms, but if Mike stuck his line in the water right next to him... BINGO. And wherever Mike had been when he caught a fish, whether it was this part of the pier or that part of the dock, Sean claim jumped the spot. but it didn't matter. Then, finally, after about 3 hours, Sean snagged his first fish of the day. And Sly promptly fumbled it and dropped him back into the water. If it weren't for bad luck, Sean had wouldn't have had any that day or the next.

And Kofi, well, he was absolutely certain that there was a H-U-G-E fish out there, with his name on it, right in the middle of the river. So, despite my subtle warning ("Kofi, you are never going to catch a fish with that plastic worm," he insisted on using the 6" purple glittery plastic worm ("but it looks real!"). I can sense you are rolling your eyes at this point. I did, too.

As for me, I took a couple of yards of line and attached a little hook to it and threaded on my worm. Then I hung them from the nails jutting out of the planks of the dock. Who knows. Night falls, we pack up and head up to the cabins for the dinner and bed.

When we awoke at 5:30, we found Kofi quietly waiting on the dock for us. Apparently, we had his cigarettes. The poor guy was having a nicotine craving to beat the band, and he'd been up for a full hour before we even opened our eyes. However, the fishing lines were dropped into the water almost before Kofi could take his first drag.

The day started much like it ended yesterday, with Mike catching one fish after another. By the time we were ready to leave, Mike's tally was at 7. And Mommy, well, Mommy did good. Remember the drop lines I left, well one of them had a whopper on it! I pulled that baby up nice and slow, so he wouldn't be the one to get away.



Maybe it was all just luck, but I'd like to think it was my guardian angel. Thanks Dad.