By Richard BlockIllustrated by Torianna Bekoscke

How I wIsHI Could FIsH!

How I wIsHI Could FIsH!

By Richard BlockIllustrated by Torianna Bekoscke

Copyright text and illustrations ©2010 Richard BlockAll rights reserved

ISBN: 978-0-578-07532-7

For Susie, the love of my life,Josh and Zach, the lives of our love, and the loves and lives of theirs:

Kim and Rachel,Jordan, Solomon, Jack, and Walter,

and those yet to come.

“It’s a day made for fishing,” my Dad told my mother.“Why don’t you take Josh. I’ll stay here with his brother,”

my Mom said to Dad, as he gathered his gear.“It gets awfully hectic with both of them here.”

So Dad put his rod in the car on a rack,And I went with him while my Mom stayed with Zach.

I asked, “Can I fish, Dad!? Way out on the pier?”“I’m sorry. You’re too young, Son. Maybe next year,”was all that he said as he drove toward the shoreand I thought to myself, “This is kind of a bore.”

I sat on a bench while Dad cast out his line,cast it time after time, and his casting was fine,

yes indeed, very fine, at both high and low speeds,but all he pulled in was a big clump of weeds.

“How I wish I could fish!” I thought as I sat.And boy, if I could, would I settle for that?For flogging the water with one puny hook

and hauling out boatloads of gunk from the brook?For any old fisherman that may be fine.

It may be my Dad’s way to fish. It’s not mine!

And speaking of fish, I have it in mindnot to settle for just any scaly old kind.

I’m tired of snapper and salmon and flounderand sturgeon and striped bass, the kind found around here.

I’ve eaten my fill of cod, scrod, and bluefish.I’m finished with those. I’m after some new fish,some fish that no fisherman’s reeled into shore.Some fish that my Dad’s never heard of before.

Like, for instance, the frightening Fighting Farandit,a fish that’s so fierce that I never could land itwithout an atomic, high-pressure fish feeler,

a glowing green grabber you get from a dealer.It sneaks through the water as quiet as can beand feels for the fish in the cold, deep, dark sea.

The feeler feels fish fast. No fooling around!Fast fish feel the feeler as they’re flung aground.That Fighting Farandit will feel real fast fright

when it lands at my feet on the beach, tied up tight.

There’s one stubborn fish called a Waniteyewanit.It’s never around when I want it, doggonit!There’s no way that stinker can be satisfied.

I’ve whined and I’ve argued. I’ve begged and I’ve cried.So just don’t suggest it. I’ve tried it. I’ve tried!But I know a way I can capture that creep.

I’ll come in the night when it’s fast, fast asleep,and while it is lying in bed in the sand,I’ll let out my fishnet and drag it to land.

There’s also the two-headed Twin-tailed Twumming.While one end is going, the other is coming,

that is, if the going-end tail is the stronger.If not, then the coming and going take longer.

And when both tails swim with the very same strength,the Twin-tailed Twumming quadruples in length.It stretches and stretches and stretches its scales

until there are two very long, twisted tails.And just when it looks like those twisters will snap,they do. They snap back with a thundering thwap!

As soon as the Twumming is all unexpanded,I’ll reach in the water and land it one-handed.

A hard fish to like is the Tantrumustossit,a fish that would burn a bridge rather than cross it.

Not really a mean fish, it’s just all upset.Once you have seen one, you won’t soon forget!It thrashes the water and flip-flops and poundsand makes a big fuss and such terrible sounds!

I plan to ignore it until the last shout.Then I’ll toss out my bait pail and bail one out.

Next I’ll go after the Whizzipperflipper,A long, narrow, red and blue nighttime bait-nipper,

with zippers on top and zippers below,and under those zippers, purely for show,

are orange flashing night lights that flicker and glow.The faster the fins whiz, the brighter they grow.

The way I’ll catch this fish is really terrific,but don’t ask for details. I can’t be specific.

The Razor-finned Ripper’s the Whizzipper’s cousin,with razor-sharp fins, at least thirty-nine dozen.

It cuts through the surf with the speed of a laser.Compared to the Zipper, the Ripper’s a blazer.

I’ll have to be sneaky to bring in this guy.Until everything is just right, I won’t try.

When the tide’s high at midnight, the first night of June, and the waves aren’t too high or too low, and the moon

is full, but half hidden by low hanging treesand the air and the water are sixty degrees,I’ll trip up the Ripper with my Ripper-tripper

and tie down his fins with my Ripper-fin-gripper.

The Talking Tyrocious –- to catch one’s an art.More brainy than most fish, in fact, very smart.

I mean, when’s the last time you heard a fish speak?I heard a Tyrocious speak Tuesday, last week.I said to myself, “When WILL a fish bite?”

“Be patient, “Tyrocious said. “Soon I just might.I like a good fight, but the time isn’t right.”

I’ll have to be clever to think of a wayto talk a Tyrocious up out of the bay.

Then one of my favorites, the Kissing Yuck-Yick,a fish others miss because it strikes so quick.Its strike is so light and so sweet and so fine

there’s no way to catch it with rod, reel and line,nor boat, bait, or float, not a thing you can do,

but hope that the Kissing Yuck-Yick catches you.This one-of-a-kind fish sneaks up right at dawn –just a firm, fishy kiss, a loud “Yuck!” and it’s gone.

Those are the fish I can catch here, near home.A fisherman’s fisherman’s fish often roam

to strange, spooky hideaways, farther than far,and a fisherman fetches fish where the fish are.So, I’ll try some places I’ve long thought aboutwhere no former fisherman’s fetched a fish out.

Like the world’s deepest lake, which they say has no bottom,the murky, mysterious Lake Merrapottom.

The name, in some language, means “bottom no gott’em.”I’ll catch a fish there and be proud that I caught him.

What kind of a fish? Why, a Merrapottoat!He’ll be so glad to see me he’ll leap in my boatand I’ll have to row hard just to keep us afloat.

I’ll fish in a pond by the side of a mountain,that’s fed by cool water that flows from a fountain,

a hole in a huge bunch of rocks by a creekthat fall from a nearby cliff five times a week.

Only the world’s bravest fisherman dareto fish at that spot with a snap-snelling snare.Nobody knows which fish live in that hole,but I will find out when I unleash my pole.

Nearby that pond there’s a lake that’s so smalland so slender and still, except in the fall,

that to call it a lake might be thought rather sillyby those who choose their fishing spots willy-nilly:

the tiny, but mighty Lake Terrapottittle,a name that means “Hey, look for fish in the middle.”

There lives the tiny fish, Terrapottite,too mini, too skinny, too finny to bite,

but well worth a long day of fishing to snatch,so I’m going to go out and catch me a batch.

I’d love to go fishing in Goobooloo Swamp,a bog where the Troobloogoobooloofish rompwith hundreds of dozens of cousins of theirs.They’re so very friendly they travel in pairs.

A Troobloogoobooloo has never been caught.Goobooloo Swamp’s such a hard-to-reach spot,

and after you get there it’s easy to fail.See, the Goobooloo Swamp is stinky and stale

and slimy and slippery and full of foul crudand covered by acres of blood-colored mud

that’s underneath three feet of smelly orange oozethat fills up your pockets, your pants, and your shoes.

And if you’re not careful, you’re up to your earsin ooze, mud, and swamp-slime that take years and years

to scrub from your hair and your toenails and skin.So, as you might guess, few get all the way in

to the part of the swamp where you just might wina bout with the Troobloogoobooloos and kin.

Most fish are quiet, quite silent in fact.That’s one of the ways they avoid getting tracked.

But one type’s not shy and retiring, it’s daring:The very rare Basso-Profundo-Song-Herring.

A babbling brook of just the right sizeis where you can meet up with one of these guys.

It can’t be too shallow, too deep, or too wide,or too narrow either, with no place to hide.

The water must flow from an underground streamheated luke-warm by stale geyser steam.

On late summer evenings, not too hot or cold,the Basso-Profundo-Song-Herring gets bold

and just before dark, the Song-Herring’s throatlets out a loud, deep and earth-shattering note.Hum-Gurgle-RUMBLE, it wobbles and wails

and stirs up the air singing musical scales.Herrings sing rarely. I’ve heard it once only,

and loud as the Song-Herring sings, it sounds lonely.This is one fish I don’t want in my net

unless I catch two to sing a duet.

There’s many a fishing hole, stream, lake, and pondI’d love to explore with my magical wand –

a rod light as air with a line fine as silkand a self-reeling reel that’s the best of its ilk,

a hook that grips tight, but doesn’t need wormsand won’t hurt a fish as it splashes and squirms, a hook that’s so gentle a fish just won’t feel itwhen my self-reeling reel gets ready to reel itand reels it right up, real close to the shore

where I’ll let it go free and I’ll see it no more.Well, maybe just once, as my fish swims away,

looking for pals playing hooky that day.

Someday, I’m sure, I’ll fish far from here.I’ll travel the world with my own special gear.I’ll bear any burden and spare no expense.I’ll round every bend and hop every fencethat lies between me and a new fishing spotwhere the water is cold and the fishing is hot.I won’t be scared off by darkness or danger

or places where faces grow stranger and stranger.I plan to ignore all rude questions and stares

from smarty-pants people who rock in their chairsand try to pretend they know all about fishing.

While I’m catching fish, they will all be home wishing.

Yes, someday I’ll do it all. Someday I will.I’ll catch every species with scales and a gill.

But I’m still a kid and for now I’d be gladto be out in the sunshine, just me and my Dad,

if only he’d loan me a worm or a flyand hand me his pole so that I, too, could try…

And just as that thought popped into my mind,my Dad sure surprised me! He came up behind,

put his hand on my shoulder, and said with a smile,“My luck’s not too good, Son. Why don’t you fish awhile.”

“Thanks, Dad!” I cried out, and gripped the pole tight,the rod in my left hand, the reel in my right,

when all of a sudden I felt the rod jiggleand saw that the tip was starting to wiggle.“A fish! A BIG fish!!” I yelled as I yanked,

and holding the rod up, I tugged and I cranked.

I rocked and I reeled till I thought I would drop.Then I pulled back as hard as I could and Kerplop!

There at my feet was a plump rainbow trout.I had caught my first fish and I let out a shout:

“I did it! I did it!” I shouted out loud.Wow, I felt great! Gee, I felt proud!

My Dad helped me take my trout off of the hookand said, “Way to go, Son. Let’s take a close look.”

I looked, and it wasn’t as large as I’d thought – only six inches long. It seemed big when it fought!

“It’s a beautiful fish. Shall we let it go free?”“Sure, Dad” I said. “That’s just fine with me.”

When I grow up, I know that I’ll catchmuch bigger fish, but none that will match

the fun of the first, a pint-sized trout,a fish that I’ll never stop bragging about.