It’s been a tough week out
at sea on the piers. The new Daiwa reel purchased (I had to roll my pennies) to replace my beloved Shimano joined my rapidly growing collection of those no longer with us. With all my broken goods as well my Native New York Don’t Fuck With My Fishing attitude, I headed to the unnamed fishing store to demand a solution. With no refund, exchange, customer satisfaction policy, I found myself at the end of my line (pun intended). Just as I was about to cry me a (East) river, realizing I wouldn’t be able to fish that night – if ever again, I met a spunky, self proclaimed broke fisherman who shared the best fishing tip I’ve received to date: Sports Authority – the one on Northern Boulevard in Queens.
Many subway transfers later I found myself happy as a clam. The store has the best prices by far, a good return policy and the most helpful saleswoman/ fishing goddess who “hasn’t held a rod outside of the store in 18 years.”
Armed with a new baitrunner, I rode the rails back home, grabbed by rod,
frozen bunker and biked over to Valentino Pier in Redhook. The current was calm but I was just happy to be out and equipped. Friends stopped by and a perfect friday night was in progress. Fellow fisherpeople pulled in the biggest Conger Eel I’ve ever seen, the temperature took a nose dive, and the crew decided to head to indoor warmth. Because I’m stubborn, obsessed, I always catch when I’m alone, I stayed. I put on a new chunk of bait, said a little prayer and cast out. Some say fishing is all about timing. Others say it’s all being in the right spot. The conclusion of this too-long blog entry proves both theories to be true: the moment my line hit the bottom of the river, I got a catch caught. No, not by a 45 inch striper (I want to beat Jan Groz who is in the lead) or a sharped toothed blue, but by the pigs cops. I figured I’d have to tackle (pun intended) a small fine – but nope. This fisherwoman is heading to court. Criminal court. Apparently the pier closes at sundown which makes me either a trespasser or some other kind of smooth criminal.
So this week’s fisherwoman’s fishing report is a pathetic one. But as I learned when I was at Rite Aid (with my rolled nickels) waiting to get some Xanax, it can always be worse. Seated next to me also waiting for a prescription to be filled was a man clearly entertained by my fishing stories. We started swapping tails, (pun intended). I showed him the photo on my phone of my sole (pun intended) derby catch. He lowered his scarf and showed me the 60 stitches on his neck from the marlin that attacked him not even a week ago. I got his phone number. He said as soon as he’s not in extreme pain, he’ll take me fishing.
I’m heading to the North 5th pier now. In lieu of sympathy, I’ll gladly accept fresh bunker.