THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, October 30, 1994 TAG: 9410270198
SECTION: CAROLINA COAST PAGE: 30 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: Ford Reid
LENGTH: Medium: 65 lines
Promise comes in many packages.
Sometimes, the morning just feels right. Sometimes the water looks right and sometimes it smells right.
Circling, darting birds or, better yet, jumping, scurrying bait certainly look promising.
But nothing makes the angler's heart flutter like the sight of another fisherman struggling against a bent rod.
Any surf fisherman who has spent his time on the beach has seen it happen. A crowd of people will be jawing, sipping from cups and cans, generally wasting away the day when one hard worker - often the only person casting - hooks a fish.
His reward is a host of company. One glance at that bent rod and grown men in waders will run and trip, grabbing rods, knocking each other down, acting foolish in a thousand ways.
I felt like that on a recent morning as I wandered in the general direction of one of my favorite trout holes.
At first, I was a little annoyed to see someone else fishing there. It was barely light, the wind, the tide and the water were perfect and I was planning on having the hole to myself at least for long enough to fish it from one end to the other.
Then the other fellow hooked a fish and suddenly I was more than happy to share.
It's a big hole, I thought, huge, really, with plenty of room for two anglers.
I walked past him as he landed his fish, taking note of the lure he was using and nodding hello.
I then began casting on the far end of the hole.
Before long, I had landed a small speckled trout. It was not a big fish, but it was a game one and, best of all, one with lots of friends.
The other angler and I continued to catch fish with some frequency for the next hour or so. Often, we were both fast to fish at the same time.
These were not especially choosy fish. He was using the old speckled trout standard, a red and white Mirolure while I was fishing a small Hopkins outfitted with a hook sparsely dressed with red and white bucktail in about equal measure.
I thought about switching to a butter bean jig, perhaps of colors other than red and white, to see if these fish really were hungry enough to bite at anything but decided that I was having too much fun to take the time to do that.
Then, it stopped.
I made a dozen casts without a bite. Then, a dozen more and still nothing.
The tide had come up and the hole was no longer so clearly defined.
It is a funny feeling, when the fish stop biting. You always know it is going to happen, but you are always surprised when it does. My reaction is to plead for just one more.
Just one more and I will be satisfied. I swear I will be.
But I know that is a lie.
There is not one more, though, and finally I admit that there will not be. It is over for the day.
But even as they are made, the memories beget promise for another coming day. by CNB