Sunday Morning, Not Fishing

No fishing today. I'm sincerely upset over that. Sunday morning fishing is my religion, the East River is my church, and my soft plastic swim minnows are my offerings.

Ok, maybe that is a bit of hyperbole, but I do enjoy my Sunday fishing. I'm sitting here, just hoping and praying that any second my dad is going to pull up to the house, with Mitzi in tow, and say "I came back from vacation early just so we could go fishing!"

Alas, not gonna happen. So, instead, I leave you with this fishing related blog.

I will now answer the question which has racked man's brains all throughout history.

Why do mullet jump?

I'll tell you why.

They jump in fear of me and my cast net of bait fish doom.



The pinfish and mullet swim like they have never swam before when they hear the silent approach of the boat. They become paralyzed with fear when the shadow of me standing on the bow, with cast net in hand, hits the water.

They would rather swim into the jaws of the bull alligator that silently waits in the shallow water along the shore than to be caught under my mighty cast net of doom.

They know that once they are caught they will become the main course for a much bigger, hungrier fish. There is little consolation in knowing that the bigger fish that eats them may very well become my neighbors or coworkers dinner.

I stand on the bow, looking for the slight ripple in the water from a school of fish. They swim to the small, shallow inlet, thinking that there is safety there, not realizing that Mitzi is a flats boat, and can easily navigate eight inches of water.

With a quick twist and toss, the cast net is in the air, arched in a perfect semi-circle. It hits the water with a spectacular splashing sound, and sinks to the bottom, trapping everything in it.

I pull the net back in, my feet and legs getting covered with muck, and drop the captured booty on the boat floor. There are 6" mullet, which do get let go, because they are too big for bait. They are the lucky ones. There is a medium sized crab, which would have been let go, had the bastard not pinched my fingers. You made me bleed, you are now redfish bait. An eye for an eye, baby. What remains is about half a dozen pinfish.



These make excellent bait. We throw them into the live well, and head out to deeper water.

I grab a pinfish and stick it on my hook. I hate the way that their little mouths open in surprise when you jab the hook through their back.

The pinfish gets the ride of his life as I cast him out. I tell you what, them fish aren't stupid. They go right for the long grass and hide. I make sure to yank on the line every few seconds to keep him exposed to larger fish.

If I don't catch anything after a while, the little guy gets set free with a complimentary body piercing, courtesy of me.