By Paul MacInnis
My dad was a lousy fisherman. I’m not exactly sure when I figured this out but it ranks up there with other traumatic childhood revelations like the truth about Santa Claus and what your parents are really doing when they lock the bedroom door.
It wasn’t for lack of effort. Dad recognized my love for fishing and was willing to try his best to help me pursue my passion. Dad simply didn’t know much about catching fish and never developed the skill sets needed for consistent success on the water. I shudder when I recall how awful and misguided some of our attempts at fishing were. A prime example is the infamous Tarpon Rig.
Dad had an odd fascination with tarpon and dreamed of catching one. Dad’s elocutions on tarpon raised the fish to almost mythical proportions in my young mind. I thought actually catching a tarpon would be akin to trapping Bigfoot or finding Atlantis.
One day in a dusty old tackle shop Dad and I found the panacea of our tarpon quest. It was a massive braided steel cable leader about ten feet long coiled up in a bag boldly labeled with the tantalizing words “Tarpon Rig”. A pair of giant 14/0 J-hooks anchored one end of the cable and a 1 ½ inch long chrome swivel was crimped to the other end. A bright orange and white Styrofoam float about the size of a soda can was free to slide on the leader. The whole contrivance looked more suitable for monster sharks, but the label said “Tarpon Rig” so, by golly, it was a tarpon rig.
We were beaming with confidence knowing we finally had the magic bullet that would leave the mighty tarpon begging for mercy. Off we went on our tarpon quest, completely oblivious of one key element of tarpon fishing; namely, you won’t catch them if there aren’t tarpon around to catch.
Dad pinned a frozen mullet to the two massive hooks and I lowered the Tarpon Rig off the Titusville Bridge on my trusty Zebco 808. I clutched the rod with a death grip knowing any second I would have six feet of silver fury jumping on the end of my line. I waited and waited, not even a nibble. Perhaps the wily tarpon had managed to suck the frozen mullet off the hooks without me feeling even the slightest bump. I reeled in to check the bait and noticed the mullet spiraling in the water. “Dad, the mullet is spinning,” I announced. “That’s okay,” replied my Dad. “It’s probably supposed to do that. That’s what attracts the tarpon.”
I waited and waited and waited. Others around me caught hardhead catfish, blowfish and stingrays, but I wasn’t about to give up on my shot at the mighty tarpon. Hunger and fatigue eventually won out over youthful determination. I reeled in for the last time. The raggedy mullet with milky eyes still hung from the hooks.
We took other forays with the Tarpon Rig and they all ended like the first. The magic of the Tarpon Rig along with my confidence faded away.
My fishing knowledge exploded when I was old enough my parents would let me go fishing on my own. My friends and I learned from countless days of trial and error, and from the many mentors we met along the way. Eventually Dad and I switched roles. I would take him fishing. I would rig his rod. I would teach him how to fish. Sometimes I would get frustrated with him, much like, I’m sure, the many times he got frustrated with me. When Dad caught a decent fish I would enjoy it more than any fish I ever caught.
They say you don’t really learn all the lessons your parents teach you until you have children of your own. Dad taught me you don’t have to be a great fisherman or soccer player or musician to be a great Dad. What is important is giving your children your time and trying your best to help them pursue their dreams. I cherish the memories of the times Dad and I fished together.
I’m proud to say I helped my Dad catch his tarpon before he passed away. It wasn’t a big one like you see in fishing magazines, but it was a tarpon. Dad couldn’t have been more pleased.
Thank you Dad. I miss you and I love you. I hope the tarpon are biting in heaven.