A Bad Day of Fishing is Still Better Than...

by Alec Newell 



The North Jetty March 14, 2013 - photo by Newell

Most of the fishermen in North East Florida have seen the tee shirts and bumper stickers that say, " A Bad day of Fishing is Still Better than a Good Day at Work," and most of the time, it's true.  If the boat gets back to the ramp with all the fishermen and most of the boat in one piece the trip has been a success.  When you bring back fish it is a bonus, but when your catch is worth more than what you've already spent on ice, fuel, bait  and tackle, you've had a banner day.  Most fishing trips fall into a category that can be best described as a 'good news - bad news' joke, with the obligatory punch line about the fish that got away.  Saturday's trip was no exception.


Toadfish - photo by Newell

I'd fished the river the day before (Friday) with Phil Thomason.  It had been a disappointing trip.  We boated exactly one 13 inch flounder and a toadfish that was so unbelievably small I had to take a picture of it.  I had another trip with my son-in-law planned for the next day, so I offered the flounder to Phil, figuring that we would probably return home from the off-shore trip with a boat load of fish.  Phil declined the flounder, so I took it home.

The North Jetty 12/12/2015 - photo by Newell

The next day was unseasonably warm with no wind and a clear sky.  Leaving the channel, we noticed an abandoned boat that had been tossed up on the rocks of the North Jetty.  Beautiful weather doesn't always guarantee a good day of fishing.  Just beyond the sea buoy the VHF radio crackled to life and I recognized the voice of George Strate, captain of the Mayport Princess.  George has been running party boats since he was a teenager and is a fixture in the sport fishing community.  The Mayport Princess hadn't left the dock in 34 days and George was clearly excited by the day's prospects.

Matt Evitt with 'endangered' snapper
12/12/2015 - photo by Newell

About 12 miles off shore, on our second drift, the bottom finder lit up like a Christmas tree, so we anchored up and settled in for one of those red snapper bites where every second or third drop is a hook-up.  We stayed on that spot for almost an hour before we realized that if we wanted fish for the table we'd have to leave.  With four fishermen in our party, we had each put upwards of 20 fish in the boat that measured from about 20 to 30 inches each.  The catch from that spot alone should have easily yielded well over 100 pounds of fish, but we were in Federal Waters where there is currently a ban on keeping red snapper.  They all had to be thrown back.

By the early afternoon we had made a few more stops and thrown a couple of trigger fish, some sea bass and few sheepshead in the box, but the bite had slacked off and we were getting covered up with a rash of sharks.  I was spending more time untangling lines and tying on new tackle than I was fishing.  I had only put one sea bass in the ice chest, and with time becoming an issue, I was getting frustrated.  I knew that my wife Kathy was expecting fish for dinner, and I had begun to suspect that even with the flounder in the refrigerator, I might still have to run up to the fish house for enough shrimp to round out a decent meal.  When you're hot you're hot, when you're not - you're not.

Random reinforcement is bait that that keeps compulsive gamblers at the table, and fishermen at the rail when the fish have stopped biting.  The hook is in knowing that on the next cast, the next roll of the dice, your luck can change and you could still go home a winner.  There is also this thing called schadenfreude which is a fancy word that means 'misery loves company.'



Diamond Diver - photo by Newell

I had just baited up and was bracing to get slammed by the next shark when I started to think about the crew who had just lost their boat on the rocks.  A few minutes  later I had a little attitude lift when I felt something bump my bait.  In just another second or two the radio crackled to life again and everything in the world seemed to come back into its proper focus:


     "Diamond Diver, this is the Marissa D, come back."

     "This is Diamond Diver, what's up?"

     "Hey, did one of your divers shoot about a 40 pound cobia today and lose his shaft?"

     (pause - static)  "Yeah, why?"

     "We got it."

     "You got what?"

     "We got the fish...We got he cobia, the shaft was still in it."

     "Can we get it back?"

     "Yep, sure."

     "I mean, what are we getting?"

     "Just a sec." more static and another pause, "Diamond Diver, we keep the fish and you get the shaft."

     "Yeah, that's about what I figured."




Capt. George Strate's Mayport Princess returning to the dock
12/12/2015 - photo by Newell

   

The Big Easy Revisited

 by Alec Newell



Photo by Newell - 2015

 

Photo by Newell - 2015

 The Big Easy Revisited: March 2015


My initial reaction was bewilderment.  The French Quarter looked like someone had recently taken a fire hose and a paintbrush to it.  I began my self guided tour on a week day morning and noted several merchants washing down the street gutters with garden hoses.  The earthy smells of stale beer, urine, garbage and horse manure that I'd remembered from years before, had been replaced by the smell of disinfectant, not just bleach, but floral scented disinfectant.

Photo by Newell - 2015

 There were other changes too.  Many of the Quarter's old open-sided dive-bars had been replaced by trendy little eateries; the produce stalls and fish stands in the French market had been supplanted by smoothie stands and tee shirt shops; and the rare cigarette butts to be seen on the sidewalks, all seemed to be concentrated around clusters of the mostly white, suburban pan handlers with the word NEED conspicuously scrawled on their cardboard signs.  Busloads of Asian tourists with digital cameras, and tour guided yuppies on Segue scooters seemed to have taken over the mostly vacant streets that I had remembered as once being choked by throngs of boisterous drunken revelers.  I was shocked.  The bones of the Quarter, the buildings and the streets, were all still there, but the spirit of the place seemed to have evaporated.

 

Photo by Newell - 2015





Photo by Newell - 2015
 

What had once made the French Quarter so appealing had been its unabashed grittiness and the clear eyed, unapologetic humor about what went on there.  I had also begun to suspect that the aura of discomfort  I was feeling had less to do about changes in the Quarter than it was about changes in the guy walking around in it.  Time passes, people age, and things change.  So why had I suddenly become so disturbed by cleanliness and order?   With the onset of age I had acquired an almost compulsive need to impose some measure of order on my world, if only to maintain the illusion that I was still somehow in control of it.

Photo by Newell - 2015

 

Photo by Newell - 2015

My first trip to the French Quarter had been in 1970.  I'd come for Mardi Gras that year.   After a night of celebrating, I woke up early the next morning, shivering on a bus stop bench.  I remember thinking that the whole event had seemed like an alcoholic version of Woodstock.  My second trip to New Orleans had been in the late 1980s for a sporting event.  The trip had been planned to avoid the Mardi Gras crowds, but the culture shock I'd experienced on my first visit hadn't diminished much.  I had graduated from sleeping on public benches to staying at a Motel 6, but by hometown standards, the Big Easy was still a wild and crazy place.



Photo by Newell - 2015

I was probably naive not to have expected the place to have changed, I certainly had.  I had come to New Orleans this time, on a plane with my wife.  She was travelling as a consultant to a national meeting for art educators.  We were staying in a sprawling high rise, convention center hotel on the riverfront, and were being treated to lavish dinners at some of New Orleans finest restaurants.  Her days were spent presenting workshops for teachers while I was free to explore the city on foot.  A day or two into our stay, I contacted Janet MacDonell, an old Fletcher High School classmate who'd been living in New Orleans since 1966.  It was a rainy day, and she graciously offered to not only give me a driving tour of the Crescent City, but  also to take me to lunch at a 'mom and pop' eatery frequented mostly by the locals.



Photo by Newell - 2015
 

During lunch Janet acknowledged that I hadn't been the first person to notice changes in the Quarter.  The culture there had shifted some, but she was obviously quite proud of, and enthusiastic about, the unique vibrancy that still animated a post Katrina, New Orleans.  It was at this point that I began to loosen up a bit and, as the natives  say, Laissez les bons temps rouler, or "roll with it."



Photo by Newell - 2015

By the weekend major foot traffic had returned to the French Quarter and with it, some of the old magic.  There were Dixie Land bands and open air art exhibits in Jackson Square, street performers, cathedrals, museums, and antique stores with museum quality merchandise which the owners were perfectly happy to let you handle or photograph.

In addition to all the great eateries, I had stumbled across some the Quarter's more interesting watering holes, like the bar in the Napoleon House, or the Carousel Bar and Lounge in the Hotel Monteleone.   The Carousel looks like a gaudy carnival ride that makes one complete revolution every 15 minutes.  It's the only rotating bar in New Orleans.  Among some the bars more notable patrons have been: Tennessee Williams, Ernest Hemmingway,  Winston Groom, the author of Forrest Gump, and Truman Capote who was proud to have once been a fixture in the place.



The Carousel Bar -  Photo by Newell

The French Quarter is actually a relatively small place, but just to the South and West of it is the Warehouse District whose old buildings host some the Quarter's  overflow businesses.  There are restaurants like Mother's, the Ruby Slipper Cafe,  Mulates, the "Original Cajun Restaurant" with live Zydeco music and a large wooden dance floor.  There is  Peche, a hot new seafood grill, and Lucy's, which is a bar and restaurant with a beach theme.  On one of the old brick buildings along Julia Street, there is a bronze pack that reads,  "ON THIS SITE IN 1897 NOTHING HAPPENED."

Photo by Newell - 2015

 

Photo by Newell - 2015

At 701 Baronne Street, just outside the Warehouse District, there is a neighborhood grocery store and delicatessen called Rouses. It is open from 6:00-am to 12:00-am, and sells liquor seven days a week as well.  The variety, quality, and prices of food and wines there are amazing.  It serves the well heeled, high rise urban condo dwellers from  just up the street, and it is a hang-out for school children and street people who dine on take-out meals or snacks at sidewalk tables just outside the store.

Strolling down a street in the Quarter later that week,  I noticed that the service door to one of the restaurants was standing wide open to take advantage of the beautiful spring morning air.  Inside, the kitchen help was busy prepping for lunch so I paused to take a picture.  One of the prep cooks held up a hand with five extended fingers and waved it.  I raised a hand and waved back in acknowledgement.

Photo by Newell - 2015

"No, no, man," he said still waving the five fingers, "Five dollars!"

"Five dollars?"

"Yea man, five dollars."

"You want five dollars for me to take your picture?"

"Yea, man."

I paused a second then started laughing, "That ain't worth five dollars."  I lowered the camera and still laughing, waved again, "Later."

The prep cook laughing too now, waved back, "Yea man, later."

Photo by Newell - 2015
 

I'm glad to report that after my initial misgivings, the humor and spirit of the Big Easy are still very much alive, and doing well.  If you ever get a chance to visit the place, don't pass it up.

Super Bowl XLIX

  by Alec Newell

 



 

Super Bowl XLIX: Football Mascots and Logos

Before there were Super Bowls, Jumbotrons, professional cheerleaders, wardrobe malfunctions, and million dollar players who prayed or danced obscenely in the end zone, there was the game of football.  Whether you favor the Boston Patriots and their flaccid footballs, or the Seattle Seahawks with their on-field temper tantrums, it's becoming increasingly difficult to get excited about any of the Super Bowl match-ups these days.  As football  descends deeper and deeper into the realm of performance spectacle, it has begun to look more like professional wrestling than a legitimate sporting contest.

So how do you pick a favorite?  Most fans are bonded to their favorite teams through some notion of regional identification or brand loyalty.  After that, reasons to favor a team become as arbitrary as the betting selections of novice aficionados at the local horse track.  If you based your selection on team mascots or the uniform colors this year, Seattle was probably your team.   There was nothing too imaginative about the name change from Boston Patriots to New England Patriots.  There is no catchy alliteration in the name and nothing sexy or terrifying enough in the team's logo to get the blood racing.  As to the Patriot's team colors, there is nothing new or imaginative there either.

On the other hand, the Seahawks have a logo that could have been inspired by a Native American tribal mask or an Intuit totem pole - a  brilliant stroke of politically correct marketing when compared to a team like the Redskins.   But what is a Seattle Seahawk?  Some mythical creature like the Thunder Bird or a Phoenix?  Or something as arbitrary and obscure as a Cleveland Brown, a Nittany Lion, or a Green Bay Packer?  Turns out it's none of the above.  A sea hawk is  another name for an osprey, the same bird that doubles as the local mascot for the University of North Florida.

Unlike the Detroit Lions, Tennessee Titans, or the Jacksonville Jaguars, it seems like a team's name or mascot should reflect some kind of regional identity.  How is a Jaguar any more descriptive of Jacksonville than say a giraffe or a rhinoceros?  At least there are still very real sea hawks indigenous to the Seattle area, and the logo has an authentic association with tribes native to the North West Coast of this continent.

PS:  If you bet long green on the Seahawks because you like their uniforms, you just lost.  The final score was New England Patriots - 28,  Seattle Seahawks - 24.

 

A.G. Penman's Record Tarpon

A. G. Penman's Record Tarpon: The Rest of the Story

by Alec Newell

Penman's trophy tarpon on display at the Beaches Museum
photo by Newell



 Penman (right) with 172 pound
7 foot 9 inch, record tarpon
courtesy: Beaches Museum

Canadian born Arthur G. Penman (1882-1966) moved to Florida in the 1920s, became a US citizen, and in the 1940 census is listed as living on Florida Boulevard in a house that he had probably built for himself.  Penman has been called the Beaches "first pioneer developer." He was also an avid golfer and fisherman, but most Beaches residents will recognize him as the man for whom Penman Road is named.

 

As a youngster in the early 1960s, I remember visiting the old Jacksonville Beach City Hall building and being impressed by the enormous mounted tarpon that hung on the wall there.  I didn't know it at the time but that fish was, and may still be, the largest tarpon ever caught in the St. Johns River.  Also on that wall, below the fish, was a plaque that bore a familiar name, Penman.

 

Penman Memorial Trophy
photo by Newell

The term "fish story" has become a synonym for exaggeration and puffery.  That same 7-foot 9-inch mounted tarpon, now on display in the Beaches Museum, still bears mute testimony to the fish's impressive size.  The International Game Fish Association has pages and pages of rules for determining what is a fairly caught record game fish.  The fish's weight and the fact A.G. Penman was holding the rod when the fish was hooked, has never been disputed, but even Official Record catches are not entirely immune to omissions and embellishments.






February issue, 1954

In February 1954, Motor Boating Magazine carried an account of the story which did not inflate the fish's weight, but did take considerable liberties in reporting the tackle used and fighting time for the catch.  The following information appeared on page 117 of that issue; the "...171-pound, 14-ounce tarpon was caught October 14, 1949 by A.G. Penman," (true, except for the date) "on 15-pound test line," (it was officially 36-pound test line) "using a 2/0 reel" (officially a 4/0 reel) "and a 4-ounce tip." (officially a 6-ounce rod tip) Refer back to information on the engraved plaque (see photo).  "It took him 5 and a half hours to boat his prize." (a total fabrication)  But the best part of this fish story was still yet to be written, or told.
 

Official statistics for Penman's trophy catch
photo by Newell

 

A.G. Penman
courtesy: Beaches Museum

About 1964 or 1965, the old Jacksonville Beach City Hall building was torn down and replaced.  Penman's tarpon was moved, for a while, to the Beaches Chamber of Commerce before coming to the Beaches Museum in about 2006.  I had all but forgotten the fish until early 2012, when Charlie Hamaker published Cane Pole Wisdom - Volume II.  In it he relates the following story as told to him by the late J.C. Ross, a veteran angler and longtime resident of Mill Cove, where the fish was caught.

"Well, I guess it's okay to tell the story now since they've all passed away. Phillip Hahn had taken Arthur Penman and his friend for a day of fishing on Mill Cove.  Everyone knew the Cove was loaded with big tarpon. Phillip took Arthur and his friend trolling in an area known as Coon Point, the banks drop off real steep in an area between two sand bars, probably 12 feet deep or deeper. As they passed between the two sandbars the tarpon struck.  It came out of the water, made one huge jump and landed on the sand bar. Phillip got the boat beached on the sand bar...got out...and beat it to death with a window-sash weight."

And that's the rest of the story.





The Arthur G. Penman Memorial Trophy
"In tribute to one of America's most famous tarpon anglers"
photo by Newell