Don’t let the water drip

I can remember seeing Wig pulling up to the old house in Midville in a 98 Oldsmobile with the long fins on the back, he was so short he could barely see over the steering wheel, and he had a big, liver headed pointer sitting on the back seat. I’m certain he had been oblivious to all the looks he received along the way to Midville. When he stepped out of that old car, he was dressed in his usual attire; LL Bean boots that were never tied, suspenders, an old pair of hunting pants and a cigar dangling from the side of his mouth. In the eyes of a very young boy, he was somewhat of a god of sorts. I was enamored with him.

Not only was Wig a bird hunter, but a fisherman as well. I remember well, the day he asked me to go fishing. I could not sleep the night before. The next morning, we met and loaded up in that old car, headed out to go fishing. I was ecstatic. I can see that old pond clearly in my mind as I write these words out. It was huge, by far the biggest body of water I had ever witnessed firsthand. I really thought we had made it to the ocean.

Wig had an old boat that he kept at that pond to fish in. We unloaded our gear into the boat, and we were off. I was assigned to the back of the boat. It was a Sikes boat made of fiberglass and modeled after the wooden boats that were so popular with all of the old men. It was a death trap. It would turn over if you breathed wrong. I was handed a paddle made out of cypress and then promptly received instruction on the finer points of boat paddling. “Stick the paddle in the water like a knife, turn the blade and begin paddling. When you pick the paddle up to swap sides, let all of the water gently run down the blade, but don’t let the water drip. If the water drips it will spook the fish.” Three hours later he asked me if I wanted to fish some…

My boat paddling days had begun. Wig and I spent many hours in a boat. I was watching, learning, but I had received my formal training on paddling and fishing and went forward with my newfound knowledge. Over time I became quite proficient at both and continued to paddle for him and others as well.

I love to bass fish in an old black water pond, but the mystical black waters of the Ogeechee River are always clamoring for my attention. I soon started fishing the river and it was quite a learning curve. It ain’t nothing like fishing in a pond. You have to learn the water, hold the boat just right so the man in the front can cast in all the right spots. Over a number of years, I got to be pretty good at it. My greatest joy came from the fact that I had gained the respect of the old men. They deemed me quite capable of handling a boat and a reel in our beloved river. In my twenties I started fishing with some of these men. A.H. was quite the fisherman in the river, and we had already been bird hunting some together, but started fishing in the river together as well. He was many years my senior and quite knowledgeable about the fish in the river and exactly where to fish for them at.

We fished out of L.A. Kemp’s boats that were handmade out of plywood and cypress. They were river boats. Meant to be paddled only. Under the proper hands they would glide through the water and allow you to get in the right position to fire a cast right up on the bank and hopefully be rewarded with a strike. These boats were fairly stable, but you couldn’t make any sudden moves, you had to sit perfectly still, back straight and cast only with the power of your wrist.

A.H. was proficient with a paddle and a reel. He was taught to cast with his left hand so that you didn’t have to swap the reel from one hand to another. He had a very small tacklebox that only contained floating minnows such as a Bang-o-Lure or a Broken-back Rebel. There were probably about 50 or so of them all hooked together in that old box. The only other lure I ever saw him fish with was a Snagless Sally with a piece of fatback fashioned in a split-tail design. He called that the last lunch. He always said that if they bit it, it was their last lunch……

I spent many years paddling him in our old river. We would take turns paddling. One man paddled for an hour and a half and then we would swap. A.H. always, somehow managed to paddle in the sorriest water in the river leaving me to paddle him through the best. At 76 he told me he was too old to pull the boat across logs anymore. After that we fished out of a much stabler aluminum boat.

Paddling a wooden river boat is not only an art, but an almost lost art. Hardly anybody does it anymore. All of my boat paddling partners have gone on to the great river in the sky. Fortunately, I’m still able to paddle a wooden boat, but it’s just not the same as it once was. I’m thankful for being taught in the ways of the old men. I will always cherish their memory, the memories we made easing along the banks in those old boats, getting in exactly the right spot and casting an old plug right up on the bank and swoosh, fish on.