People who fish always have stories of fish that got away or fish that did strange things or things they caught that weren't fish.
My family has a few of those.
One time my mother hooked a fish that was obviously big as it was giving her a good fight, bending the fiberglass rod nearly double and ripping line out of the reel. Then suddenly there was an extra tug and the line went limp. We all assumed the fish had gotten away. But when Mom finished reeling in the line so Dad could check the lure what did she bring to the boat? A fish head. That's right, a fish head. It was a Bonito. The rest of it's body was gone, severed (in the words of Dirty Harry) "clean off." That extra tug she felt, was no doubt a shark taking the opportunity to catch himself an easy meal. The thing is the head alone was about 5 pounds. There was enough meat on it to feed us all!
Mom and Dad were out by themselves and while Mom was letting out line, she felt a tug like something had been hooked. To their amazement the lure and line went up into the air instead of down into the water. She had caught a seagull! Mom had to actually reel in the bird so Dad and her could unhook the poor thing which fought with a great of flapping wings and pecking of beak. But eventually they did manage to free it and no doubt the bird went around to all his bird friends and told a horror story about the fish that caught him.
Our dear friend Gene got a strike while fishing with Erva and Dad. Gene was towards the bow, Erva and Dad towards the stern. As Gene was reeling in the fish there was an "Oh sh*t," moment when a barracuda, obviously after his catch, lept out of the water and sailed across the middle of the boat, a distance of about 6 feet. Luckily no one was in the way.
Anyone out there have any interesting fish stories?
Showing posts with label Gene. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gene. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
The Hat: A Biography
In light of the recent death of our friend Gene, I thought this would be a nice story to tell.
Sometime between 1968 and ’69 Gene acquired a hat. Gene got The Hat from a friend of his. Who knows how long Gene’s friend had had it before Gene acquired it, but acquire it he did.
It was a black felt hat with a rounded crown and nice wide brim. It was the kind of hat one saw on the heads of Indians in those old Westerns.
When Gene got The Hat he punched the crown down, turning it into a hat that had more of cowboy look to it. He also added a simple three strand braided leather hat band. Into the band, on the left side, he added a couple of feathers, don’t remember what kind.
I coveted it terribly. Besides which it fit me perfectly and looked good on me. I pestered Gene until around 1970 he finally gave it to me. I pinned up the left side of the brim with an amethyst broach Grammy had given me. It was a cluster of leaves with a single large oval stone representing a flower bud. I still have the pin. The band and feathers remained the same.
I wore The Hat all the time.
In 1970 my senior high school class went to Caracas, Venezuela and Curacao. One day, while in Caracas (our visit there is a story in itself!) I was window shopping with a class mate. A man came running towards us, excited and speaking in Spanish which neither of us could understand. He pulled on our arms trying to get us to cross the street, pointing to another man standing in the door of a jewelry store. This second man was waving at us to cross the street.
We were naïve and stupid enough to comply. When I think back on that moment I realize we could have been kidnapped.
The up-shot was this: the man who pulled at our arms trying to get us to cross the street, had the shop owner translate. He had seen me in Curacao just a few days before and now, to see me in Caracas, was like a sign. He wanted to buy my hat. He kept making offers, but I kept politely refusing until he politely gave up. We all agreed it was truly amazing that he had spotted me on two occasions in two different locations, the second being such a huge city. What were the odds? It would be like someone seeing me in Bermuda then spotting me a few days later in New York City!
Later that same year, we four Denhams took a road trip. We flew up to Florida, bought a station wagon (the first and only Chrysler product Dad ever bought) and we drove out to California to visit Dad’s side of the family who lived around Clear Lake. While we were there Dad broke his foot. It was during this time that Mom, my sister Erva, and I went down to San Francisco and spent about a week exploring the city. All this time I’m wearing The Hat.
One day while walking through the city, Mom on one side of me, Erva on the other, a long-hair type (this is 1970, hippies were abundant) comes up to me, puts his hands on my shoulders and says very intently, “Your hat! I’ll give you anything for that hat!”
Of course I refused. He was polite enough and didn’t press too hard, but he was obviously disappointed when I wouldn’t give it up.
The Hat became a part of my costume. I wore it everywhere.
By 1980 The Hat was worn out. The inside sweat band had just about completely disintegrated, there were holes in the crown, and the brim was weak and thin from all the handling. But I couldn’t just throw it away, it meant too much to me.
In a tearful ceremony of farewell, I burned it. Little did I realize at the time I was also symbolically burning away a life-style I had out grown. The ashes of the old became fertilizer for the new ground I was just beginning to cultivate.
Sometime between 1968 and ’69 Gene acquired a hat. Gene got The Hat from a friend of his. Who knows how long Gene’s friend had had it before Gene acquired it, but acquire it he did.
It was a black felt hat with a rounded crown and nice wide brim. It was the kind of hat one saw on the heads of Indians in those old Westerns.
When Gene got The Hat he punched the crown down, turning it into a hat that had more of cowboy look to it. He also added a simple three strand braided leather hat band. Into the band, on the left side, he added a couple of feathers, don’t remember what kind.
I coveted it terribly. Besides which it fit me perfectly and looked good on me. I pestered Gene until around 1970 he finally gave it to me. I pinned up the left side of the brim with an amethyst broach Grammy had given me. It was a cluster of leaves with a single large oval stone representing a flower bud. I still have the pin. The band and feathers remained the same.
I wore The Hat all the time.
In 1970 my senior high school class went to Caracas, Venezuela and Curacao. One day, while in Caracas (our visit there is a story in itself!) I was window shopping with a class mate. A man came running towards us, excited and speaking in Spanish which neither of us could understand. He pulled on our arms trying to get us to cross the street, pointing to another man standing in the door of a jewelry store. This second man was waving at us to cross the street.
We were naïve and stupid enough to comply. When I think back on that moment I realize we could have been kidnapped.
The up-shot was this: the man who pulled at our arms trying to get us to cross the street, had the shop owner translate. He had seen me in Curacao just a few days before and now, to see me in Caracas, was like a sign. He wanted to buy my hat. He kept making offers, but I kept politely refusing until he politely gave up. We all agreed it was truly amazing that he had spotted me on two occasions in two different locations, the second being such a huge city. What were the odds? It would be like someone seeing me in Bermuda then spotting me a few days later in New York City!
Later that same year, we four Denhams took a road trip. We flew up to Florida, bought a station wagon (the first and only Chrysler product Dad ever bought) and we drove out to California to visit Dad’s side of the family who lived around Clear Lake. While we were there Dad broke his foot. It was during this time that Mom, my sister Erva, and I went down to San Francisco and spent about a week exploring the city. All this time I’m wearing The Hat.
One day while walking through the city, Mom on one side of me, Erva on the other, a long-hair type (this is 1970, hippies were abundant) comes up to me, puts his hands on my shoulders and says very intently, “Your hat! I’ll give you anything for that hat!”
Of course I refused. He was polite enough and didn’t press too hard, but he was obviously disappointed when I wouldn’t give it up.
The Hat became a part of my costume. I wore it everywhere.
By 1980 The Hat was worn out. The inside sweat band had just about completely disintegrated, there were holes in the crown, and the brim was weak and thin from all the handling. But I couldn’t just throw it away, it meant too much to me.
In a tearful ceremony of farewell, I burned it. Little did I realize at the time I was also symbolically burning away a life-style I had out grown. The ashes of the old became fertilizer for the new ground I was just beginning to cultivate.
Thanks, Gene, for the memories.
This a newspaper picture taken the day we left on our class trip. It was taken by our class photographer, Les Francis, who is now a professional photographer, consequently, he isn’t in the picture. The ‘xed’ out person in the back is a stranger who did not belong in the shot. There I am squatting in the front row wearing The Hat.
I seem to be intently studying. I was in the school library when this picture was taken so it was study hall. It was also “free clothes day,” the last Friday of every month when juniors and seniors could wear street clothes instead of our uniform which was forest green and white. Mom made the outfit, a little short skirt and vest, from a mottled blue and white Merimekko fabric. The shirt was my favorite, a wonderful sort of pirate shirt, with buttoned cuffs that went nearly up to my elbows. Those earrings were stainless steel discs Dad gave me with holes drilled into them so I could link them together, there’s a third disc hidden behind the collar of my shirt. The binder was cloth covered in Stewart plaid. I am wearing rings on at least six of my fingers.
Also taken around 1970, another tree moment. This time I’m in a mango tree. That’s a little bell around my neck with yellow and orange seed beads strung on a piece of elastic thread. Another photo taken from a different angle went into our senior year book.
I seem to be intently studying. I was in the school library when this picture was taken so it was study hall. It was also “free clothes day,” the last Friday of every month when juniors and seniors could wear street clothes instead of our uniform which was forest green and white. Mom made the outfit, a little short skirt and vest, from a mottled blue and white Merimekko fabric. The shirt was my favorite, a wonderful sort of pirate shirt, with buttoned cuffs that went nearly up to my elbows. Those earrings were stainless steel discs Dad gave me with holes drilled into them so I could link them together, there’s a third disc hidden behind the collar of my shirt. The binder was cloth covered in Stewart plaid. I am wearing rings on at least six of my fingers.
Also taken around 1970, another tree moment. This time I’m in a mango tree. That’s a little bell around my neck with yellow and orange seed beads strung on a piece of elastic thread. Another photo taken from a different angle went into our senior year book.
What a trip.
Monday, May 19, 2008
To Gene
There are people who come into your life who, in either large or small ways, make a difference.
Gene was one of those people. I suppose I could list the many influences he had on my life, my sister's life, my family's life, but of what importance are those influences to anyone except us?
What I will say about Gene is that he loved life, he loved to laugh, he loved helping people. He spent all his working years as a lowly social worker. Just think of how many lives he touched?
I got the word today from my sister, who was closest to him. On Mother's Day, Gene was doing what he enjoyed doing most, riding his motorcycle, when a tree fell on him, killing him instantly.
There are some among us who will expereince for the rest of their lives a kind of hole which once was filled by him. He will be missed.
This is the only picture I have of Gene. It was taken on July 4th, 1968. He had the most amazing blue eyes. Perhaps the sky will be just a tad bluer from this point on.
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