First, as a clarification, when I say “gone fishing.” “Gone fishing” in this meaning is not to indicate having WENT fishing or my being away on a fishing trip. No. It means that fishing is gone – no longer in existence – another casualty of the covid war.
Nowadays, my only encounter with the pastime/sport/hobby is viewing a daily fishing show on TV. On occasion, my friend Salim Muwakkil will post a Facebook teaser of him “catch-and-release” angling at a local stream near the “Chittlin’ Harbor” in Jackson Park on Chicago’s South Side. Otherwise, there’s nothing.
Fishing for me began as a kid growing up on the South Side of Chicago on 33rd and Giles. Back then I would stop at Meyers Hardware on 35th Street to buy a hook, line, and sinker combination on my way to catch perch at Lake Michigan. A tree branch would suffice as a fishing pole.
Fast-forward a few decades, and in Corporate America one can easily encounter like-minded individuals with the same urge to rekindle their boyhood experiences. As one story leads to another, eventually a group trip for Kentucky Lake Crappie fishing becomes an annual event lasting many years.
A rented cabin that sleeps six to eight people, with a large kitchen, and living space for sitting around and “chewing the fat” or watching the NBA playoffs was always a requirement. Depending on group size, a second unit might also be in demand for our three-day, four-night stay. I recall we once rented an extra cabin because our friend, Akim Gursel (RIP), snored so loud that it shook our beds. So, we evicted him.
We would rent a pontoon boat that allowed six people to comfortably move about and fish from around eight in the morning until four in the afternoon. We would arrive Sunday afternoon and depart before ten in the morning on the following Thursday.
That was the early years, somewhere between the 1970’s and the 1990’s. It was in the early nineties and the final day of my Ramadan observance that I discovered Jamaica. That first trip in ’91 was a birthday gift from a friend. Therefore, it was more of a tourist attitude that surrounded me. However, tourists do eat. And after tasting some of that fried Red Snapper from the menu, which was no doubt caught at one of those farm ponds up in the mountains, I was hooked.
The next time I went to Jamaica, some fishing buddies were also part of the entourage. Three were attorneys whom I had done some angling with before. That may sound strange — attorney and fishing – sort of oxymoronic, because fish can’t argue. One had come with a load of gear to fish for Marlin in the deep sea, not for Snapper in the farm ponds. He did neither. Instead, he allowed himself to be overwhelmed by the rum and the reggae.
The last time I visited Jamaica was not on an excursion with the desire to pull fish out of the water. The dozen or so folk I traveled with on that trip were mostly active or retired telephone company people, either IBT or AT&T. Most were also members of one or both of the black ski clubs, The Sno Gophers or The Gang. Although I was not a skier, I became a member of The Gang one year because its club meeting was a party.
Arthur Clay was The Gang leader, the president. He also loved to travel. Arthur started as a person hosting an annual Jamaican trip with upwards of a hundred people. However, he grew into an individual whose African and Brazilian passports have dozens of stamps imprinted upon them. So, that last trip that I mentioned above was with people, like Arthur, steeped in the knowledge of the Jamaican fingerprint.
Those fellow travelers were not fisherpersons, but they fished. They knew where to fish in Jamaica. I had more fun fishing with them than with the so-called experts. We caught Red Snapper by the bucketsful at a farm pond where they would either cook it or bag it for you.
So much for Jamaica fishing.
It was just about the turn of the century that I began fishing with The Bait Masters. This was serious fishing. This fishing would get you up early Sunday morning to drive five to seven hours to a fishing lodge with narrow twin beds and a snoring and farting roommate who might keep you awake until the alarm sounds. Since I’m a snorer, so as not to be offensive, I would always opt for the convertible sofa in the day room that opens to a full-size bed, which also meant having a better sleeping space.
Our Chicago contingency consisted of one core group of five guys traveling together as one unit, sharing expenses for usually a rented van, fuel costs, and three days of boat rental. Ernie Rose, our designated driver and boat “captain,” steered us wherever we would go. The trip began with Ernie driving from Chicago’s Morgan Park community to South Shore to load me and my gear., Then, we would drive a few blocks further to board Jackie Williams. After that, we would head south to the village of Richton Park where “Dollar Bill” Miller resides and load him and his belongings. From there it was eastbound to Steger to bring Jay Blackman on board. From there, it’s “anywhere that fishing’s fair.”
Also, part of the Chicago connection, but traveling separately was Russell Blackburn. Russell enjoyed the road in his converted van. On some occasions, he would bring along Alex Conley and Eli as his cabin mates. James Weddington also rode solo as he put the pedal-to-the-metal of his sleek Corvette. “J.W.” — how we address him — is as much our master chef as he is an avid fisherman, but greater as the former than the latter. He could probably make a rotted skunk taste like filet mignon. Another soloist from the Chicago area is Jimmy Few, always returning from somewhere out-of-town to join in with us.
I saved a special paragraph for the most important person of our group who is no longer with us: Bill Perry, who now fishes with the angels. Bill left us three years ago and we haven’t fished since. It was Bill Perry who booked the resort, coordinated with the marina for the number of boats to reserve, and made all the necessary deposits. This was not just a Chicago thing. Bill’s brother, Emory, would join us from Atlanta and, on occasion, others would come from as far as California. Our number could reach as high as twenty-five anglers.
So, a combination of losing Bill and the ensuing COVID pandemic has rendered fishing now just a memory. Whether it will ever again be crappie fishing at Kentucky Lake, Mark Twain Lake in Missouri, or Reelfoot Lake in Tennessee; Walleye fishing in Port Clinton, Ohio, or in-state fishing at Rend Lake, it remains to be seen. No new leader has surfaced since Bill departed and the virus set in. So, we’ll see.
Fred Lorenz Dunham
Footnote:
The recent tornadoes that swept through the Southern United States wreaked havoc on some of the fishing areas that I have frequented in the past. From as far west as Coppermine Lodge on Beaver Lake in Arkansas, through Missouri, Southern Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Ohio, my fellow anglers and I have fished in all these states – on the same paths that the killer tornadoes took.
