1. HOOK, LINE & SINK HER
No B-Word on the Boat
I was minding my own business at the Baraga County Lake Trout Festival which, me being a reporter, means I was minding everyone else's business when I was suddenly cast into darkness.
It was Ed Fugenschuh. He'd stepped between me and the sun, and the planet didn't stand a chance. Ed looked down at me, big as a mountain and rough as Lake Superior in a stiff northeast wind, and rumbled, "I want you to research somethin'."
My first thought was, controversy! I am not a huge fan of controversy. My personal motto is, "Got a problem? Call a cop." And I was just about to suggest Officer Pat Butler, who is great with kids and probably fishermen too and even gives out stickers, when Ed said, "Bananas on a boat."
I was still in the dark but now I was beaming, because this was just the type of story I was born to write.
Putting pen to notepad, I took down the facts. Ed's team was enjoying a great start in the festival's Keweenaw Classic Fishing Tournament. They'd boated a nine-pound salmon, then a five pounder. Then someone ate a banana and the fish quit biting.
"What is it with bananas on boats?" Ed asked.
He'd also heard that when another fisherman in the tournament brought out a piece of banana bread, he was forced to throw it overboard.
If there is one thing that sets this reporter's pen on fire, it is the shameful waste of baked goods, especially if they are buttered. Snapping my notepad closed, I promised Ed I would get to the bottom of this, using every available resource known to mankind.
That's right. I Googled it.
After having spent several hours on the computer, I am confident in reporting there's not much new on Facebook. Also, there is some substance to the popular belief that bananas have no place on fishing boats.
The theory dates all the way back to Caribbean trade in the 1700s. Sailboats had to hurry to deliver bananas before their expiration date. Sailors liked to troll during deliveries, and banana boats moved too fast for the fish to catch up to the bait.
Another theory holds that tropical spiders and snakes sometimes boarded with the bananas, which made it tough for the sailors to focus on their fishing. Still another notes that when boats carrying bananas sunk, all that was left behind was floating fruit, which was very incriminating to bananas in general.
Fish apparently don't like the smell of bananas, which can transfer from hand to lure. On an interesting side note, I used to have a licorice-scented rubber frog in my tackle box when I was a kid. As an attractant it ranked right up there with bananas, but it made my box smell better.
Finally, there are charter boat captains who absolutely prohibit the use of Banana Boat sunscreen products on their boats, just because they include the b-word. One won't even allow Fruit of the Loom underwear on his boat because of the bananas on the labels, and gives great big wedgies to offenders.
Ed, I hope this answers your question. Next time, how about a piece on licorice-scented frogs?
Living with SAD
I huddled in a corner of the doctor's office, thumbing a copy of In-Fisherman while jigging my tea bag in my cup. When the receptionist called my name, I tied off the string to the handle, handed it to her, and said, "Watch this-I think I felt a tap!"
I followed the nurse to an exam room, stumbling a bit when my ice grips snagged on the carpeting. Frowning down at my feet, she advised me to lose the hardware before stepping onto her scale.
"You're up a few pounds," she noted.
"It's the propane for my heater," I explained, opening my coat to reveal a spare tank tucked into a pocket. "I'm also wearing a few extra layers. Traps the warmth, you know."
She eyed my streaked coat sleeves, nudged a box of tissues in my direction, and said we'd forego the blood pressure check this time. Then turning to the laptop on her desk, she flipped it open and got busy typing.
"Marking anything?" I asked, nodding at the screen.
"Just the facts," she sighed. "Now, what can we do for you today?"
"I've got the SAD," I said.
"Seasonal Affective Disorder?" she asked.
"No, Seasonal Angling Disorder!"
It happens every year around this time, if I'm lucky, that is. Winter sets in, Lake Superior's Keweenaw Bay ices over, and I can't summon the energy to do anything but fish.
On cleaning days, the house gets a lick and a promise I have no intention of keeping. The dishes still get done, but only because I need the sink to clean my fish. I have a chronic case of hat head, and can't sleep at night thinking of the ones that got away.
On the bright side, the cat can't get enough of me.
The problem with Seasonal Angling Disorder is, nobody truly understands the condition unless they've lived it. That is why I gravitate at every opportunity to the colony-I mean, "ice fishing community"-on Keweenaw Bay.
I was there this past Sunday (and Thursday, Friday, and Saturday) when I ran into another SAD subject with the same symptoms. He had arrived at daylight, just slightly before me. His case was clearly more advanced.
His tent was already out on the ice, and he was holding a rusty double-bladed ax that he uses for reopening his iced-over fishing hole. Some people might have become alarmed and fled the scene. I sensed a kindred spirit and settled in for a visit.
We talked animatedly about everything, as long as it had to do with fishing: how many we've caught this season, how big, how deep, what time of day, etc. We formed a regular bond, though we didn't bother exchanging names because it just wasn't relevant.
That is how we SAD people roll, at least until spring, and then a few of us float because some people don't know when to stop. I haven't taken the plunge yet, but I did fish a half mile out on Keweenaw Bay one day, and returned the next to find waves crashing against the shore.
It's because I have a sickness. See you out on the ice! Right after I get my prescription filled at the local bait shop.
Tallest Tale of All
Around this time every year, I used to leave my writing to my readers.
Some would say it was my finest work.
It was my annual Fish Tales contest! It began on Memorial Day with a dare: write and send me a fish tale so preposterous, you hesitate to waste postage on it. Then sit back and wait to see if you win a fabulous prize and have your story printed in the Labor Day issue of your hometown newspaper.
My fabulous prizes ranged from beer can bobbers to ugly t-shirts to cool keychains shaped like a fishing reel. People did not enter the Fish Tales contest for personal profit. They did it for the glory of bragging rights as the biggest fish tale spinner in Baraga County. And maybe a cool keychain, too.
Well, Labor Day came and went and we all missed the boat. But the Fish Tales contest will return someday, and with that in mind, I'd like to bait my readers with the best tale ever told. "It's a true story told to me by Gen Van Loo that I like to call: Don't Worry, Be Happy."
Don Van Loo of Watton was bigger than life, and full of fun and trouble. His wife, Gen, had a heart as big as her husband, and was an avid collector of recipes and thrift store finds. Gen's thrill at sharing her treasures and homemade cookies made every visit sweet.
Don loved to share jokes and funny stories. One of his favorites was about a child sitting beside him in church one day, wiggling a loose tooth. Don leaned in and said, "Let me help you out there, buddy," and deftly plucked a present for the Tooth Fairy.
He was immediately rewarded with a gap-toothed smile. Then all h- (not heaven) broke loose as the parents rained down grief on their now-howling child. The child was supposed to keep his smile fully intact for family photos later in the day. So Don left church a little early.
Don also loved Fish Tales, and I could always count on him for a highly entertaining entry. Our secret panel of judges also appreciated his work, and over the years he managed to squeeze two grand prizes out of my tight fist. One, my Big Mouth Billy Bass, was a classic.
Billy was a plastic largemouth bass, and so much more. The obnoxious thing was battery-operated, and mounted on a plaque. When you pressed a red button underneath the fish, it sang "Don't Worry, Be Happy" while flapping its head and tail to the beat.
Don had a wall of fame in his house that held trophy deer mounts, a bear skin and right in the middle of it all, his goofy old Big Mouth Billy Bass. He'd press Billy's button for company. He'd press it for Gen. He'd press it for the dog. Don couldn't get enough of Big Mouth Billy Bass.
We lost a great storyteller and friend when Don died several years ago. Family and friends rallied around Gen, who was so strong, and Don might have added a little support too, based on the final performance of his Big Mouth Billy Bass.
It happened three or four months after Don had died. Gen said she was puttering around the kitchen one day when the bass suddenly burst into the song: "Don't Worry, Be...
