Fishin Tales (and the ones that got away)
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Fishing | moathunfohunt.tk
Sign Up Now. I KnOw.. NeXt TiMe.. As Featured On…. Our family is comfortable fishing, but I think this trip is perfect for anyone without experience fishing as well. My family my parents, wife and 8 year old twins had a great 4 hour charter with Captain Andrew. He has the perfect demeanor for a fishing boat captain. Patient, funny and calm. We had 6 rods going at once, and he kept us untangled and fishing the whole time.
Fish Tale: Or the Little One That Got Away
In all, we caught 30 fish. Flounder, sea bass and a few others. Andrew is great!! Fun captain and great with kids.
In two hours the boat caught about 12 fish. Big bummer was no shark this time. What can you do We had a great time and will be back for a 3rd time. Highly recommend Fish tales for families. We had a 14 and 10 year old with us and they loved it.
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Captain Pete and Randy his mate, provided a very relaxed 4 hour water tour, fishing trip, clamming adventure, and crab pot demonstration. First clamming, it was fun but muddy! We also did mussels, but hat was more above marsh "pulling" than the clams. Off to try our hand at fishing, and we caught shark, sting ray and small king fish. We hoped to bring some home, but only clams! The captain was really laid back, and Randy a delight to our two teens. Equipped as promised, but the boat was beat up a bit!
I'd recommend this trip, and hope to comeback again in Went fishing one morning. The Capt gave us a good lesson on flounder fishing keep that bait bouncing, reel don't yank. Three people on the boat we missed on two smaller flounder, got a black tip shark and one keeper. Our keeper was delicious with some butter, lemon and capers. Somehow eating a fish you caught makes it taste better. A lovely way to spend a few hours and the morning was still cool.
Great fun. His father had returned, had collapsed into the side of the tree. It was brown at the tips of its coat, the rest white. With his knife, the father opened the rabbit in a line down the stomach, poured the meat out. It steamed. Over it, the father looked at the son, nodded. They scooped every bit of red out that the rabbit had, swallowed it in chunks because if they chewed they tasted what they were doing. All that was left was the skin.
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The father scraped it with the blade of his knife, gave those scrapings to the boy. The boy smiled, wiped his mouth. His father was sleeping. The next day, no helicopters came for them, no men on horseback, following dogs, no skiers poling their way home. For a few hours around what should have been lunch, the sun shone down, but all that did was make their dry spot under the tree wet.
Then the wind started again. Studying him. Buried hours ago. The father nodded like this could maybe be true.
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That the rabbit would come back. Because they needed it to. The next day he went out again, with a new stick, and came back with his lips blue, one of his legs frozen wet from stepping through some ice into a creek. No rabbit. What he said about the creek was that it was a good sign. You could usually follow water one way or another, to people. Things that had names were real. They were both looking the same direction, their faces even with the crust of snow past their tree. Twenty feet out, its nose tasting the air, was Slaney. He came back an hour later with nothing slung over his shoulder, nothing balled against his stomach.
No blood on his hands.
This time the son prayed, inside. Promised not to throw any of the meat up again. With the tip of his knife, his father carved a cartoon rabbit into the trunk of their tree. It looked like a frog with horse ears. The next time the boy woke, he was already sitting up. The boy nodded the direction he was facing. The father watched his eyes, nodded, then got his stick. The boy, afraid, climbed up into the tree, then higher, as high as he could, until the wind could reach him. His father reached up with his stick, tapped him awake.
Like a football in the crook of his arm was the rabbit. It was bloody and wonderful, already cut open. His father reached into the rabbit, came out with a long sliver of meat. The muscle that runs along the spine, maybe.
The coat was just the same—white underneath, brown at the tips. His father rubbed the side of his face. His hand was crusted with blood. The next day there were no walkie-talkies crackling through the woods, no four-wheelers or snowmobiles churning through the snow. And the rabbit skin was gone. Four hours later, his father came back with the rabbit again.
He was wet to the hips this time. Again, the father had fingered the guts into his mouth on the way back, left most of the stringy meat for the boy. The boy nodded, closed his eyes to swallow. Because of his frozen pants—the creek—the father had to sit with his legs straight out. The next morning his father pulled another dead branch down, so he had two sticks now, like a skier. The boy watched him walk off into the bright snow, feeling ahead of himself with the sticks.
It made him look like a ragged, four-legged animal, one long since extinct, or made only of fear and suspicion in the first place. The boy palmed some snow into his mouth and held it there until it melted. This time his father was only gone thirty minutes. Slaney was cradled against his body. One thing he no longer had to do was dab the blood off the meat before eating it.
Another was swallow before chewing. That night his father staggered out into the snow and threw up, then fell down into it.
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The boy pretended not to see, held his eyes closed when his father came back.