Hand-Lining

When I was a young wart hog; excuse me, I mean, When I was a young fisherman; I learned the ropes with rods and reels.  But there have been times when I’ve had to resort to the old hand line.

As a college student abroad in Costa Rica, my group was staying in a slice of Heaven (by which I mean undeveloped Corcovado National Park), but we were slowly running out protein.  We were all set on beer, coffee, and rice, but we had no beans, no meat, no peanut butter.  Park Officials graciously lent us their fishing equipment.  This consisted of a pair of bleach jugs wound with heavy monofilament, rigged with a couple of nuts for weight and a hook.

A jungle river dumped into the Golfo Dulce near camp, and at a morning’s low tide, a few friends and I went fishing.  We scavenged for bait; the beach was covered with hermit crabs, so that’s what we used.  We threaded a few on the hook and quickly found out that a cowboy-esque, lariat-throwing cast wasn’t going to work; the crabs were too soft to stay on the hook.  We learned to peel off some line and then throw the baited hook and sinkers like softball into the surf.  But the surf was too heavy, we had no contact with our bait, and we were running out of time.  So we re-located a pool or two up the river, and here things came together.  We quickly caught a couple of snappers in the 3-pound range.  These were a blast on hand lines, but they were overpowered by the brute strength of our line.  A third food fish was within our grasp when suddenly we were literally sharked; and we were fast on to a four or five-footer.  That’s a pretty exciting fishing experience!  The shark had no-where to go, we had no way of controlling our drag, and mostly I just remember slapping tails, white water and froth.  It ended when a companion “harpooned” the shark with a stick, it erupted into flight inspired by frenzied terror, and our mono parted. 

Snapper memories - from the web!

We returned to camp triumphant (we were bearing food, after all), but we had to endure some mild scolding for having damaged some line and losing some gear (especially the hook.)  I guess, as American college students, we didn’t appreciate the value of (or the difficulty in replacing) the hook, here in this setting.  That night, the fish were presented to us, roasted whole, and even though I’m not a huge fan of seafood, I recall them as being delicious.

In 2001 I participated in a work-inspired “Hobo Rig Hand-Line Tournament” on the Grand River in downtown Grand Rapids.  This was a month-long event with a co-worker, conducted on a daily basis based on availability during lunch breaks, weather, conditions, and the quality of the bite.  While I defeated my co-worker, E., 4  “Fish Captured” to 1, and I did capture and register a Michigan DNR Master Angler red-horse sucker (taken on a Mini Wheat!), I’d say that this experience is best summarized by the following contemporaneous account:

“While E. demonstrated the pioneering instinct of Ray Scott in bringing carp hand-lining tournaments to America’s Working Class, the debate will rage for some time as to whether Steve more closely emulates Woo Daves or Kevin Van Dam in his performance under pressure.”

(Note, Ray Scott founded BASS and made high-stakes bass tournaments a reality; Woo Daves had just won the most recent BASS Bassmaster’s Classic on Lake Michigan; and Kalamazoo native KVD might simply be the best bass fisherman, ever.)

Master (Hand-Lining) Angler!

I still get a kick out of my trophy from this event.  It was hand-made by a co-worker, and it still stands in my office.  Maybe part of my enjoyment is from the resemblance of the “hobo” atop my trophy with an actual co-worker of that time.

With all due respect - The Hobo Rig Hand-Line Tournament Championship Trophy!

I recall with pride our efforts to increase effectiveness by customizing our rigs with bottles of different shapes, diameters, smoothness and color; our debates as to the merits of mono vs. braid; drift fishing vs. bottom fishing; and even the introduction of floats and artificial lures into the mix.  I would also be remiss if I didn’t say I didn’t learn something about sight-fishing through these efforts.  Mostly, however, it just boiled down to pure fun, and that’s what fishing should be all about.