Originally from New York, I’ve lived in a few different states. For a spell, I lived near the Chesapeake with some roommates from out West. One beautiful weekend, the idea developed that we should go crab fishing on the bay. None of us had ever fished for crabs but somehow we came into the possession of some traps and a lead on a good place to round some up..
We set ourselves on a set of piers and tossed the bait-laden traps into the briny water. The sun was warm, the breeze refreshing and the company golden. All we had to do was wait. Unfortunately, the few crabs skittering around the sandy floor of the bay where we were showed little interest in the traps or the vittles they contained. So we chose to try our hand at “angling,” bobbing weighted fishing line with morsels of fish to lure the wary crabs into grabbing hold.
It was in the midst of this impromptu “fishing” that one of my roommates asked to borrow my pocket knife to trim his line. Without hesitation I pulled the Uncle Henry stockman from my pocket and proffered the knife. No sooner did he cut the line than I heard a plunk a few feet below and beside me.
My roommate’s response was a mix of embarrassment, hopelessness, apathy and condolence. I could just make out the fading shimmer of the open blade as is passed into the murkiness near the sea floor some 15 feet below.
“Um, I’m sorry,” he said with a sheepish ambivalence. Under normal circumstances, this would be water off a duck’s back. After all, I owned nearly a dozen assorted knives. Some pocket, some belt. Some cheap bargain deals and others valuable either monetarily or for some sentimental reason.
The latter was front and center cause for my dismay.
I dropped what I was holding onto the concrete pier and trekked off to my ‘86 Ranger, shouting over my shoulder “Don’t you move!” with all the authority I could summon. Shocked by my demand, he held fast while I began scouring for something to retrieve the old knife. The nets we brought were only a few feet long and we had nothing to attach them to to reach the depth where the knife rested. Thinking as quickly as I could, I tore through the cab of my little pickup, mentally cobbling together everyday objects, MacGyver-like, to rescue the treasure I feared would be carried off by crabs or the tide.
Leaning heavy on the open door under a brilliant and hot Maryland sun, I just about gave up when I realized where my eyes were staring - there in the door of my truck resided a large magnet in the form of a speaker. Sure, ripping out the speaker would mean no more stereo experience but then again, the amplifier had blown months ago so I had grown accustomed to driving around tunes free.
While the roommate who lost the knife to the water stood affixed in the same place he had been when the knife left his hand, my other roommate had abandoned his crabbing exploits to check on me.
“It’s just a knife, man.” His consolation fell on deaf ears.
“Do we have any rope? Nothing thick. Just big enough to tie this speaker off to?” I asked.
By now, the intensity of a pursuit was questioned as either some form of temporary insanity or that they misjudged the value of the knife patiently waiting for retrieval. Ignoring the questioning looks of my friends, I yanked the cover off the speaker and used a rusty screw driver that had long rolled around the floor boards of my truck. Once I backed the retaining screws out of their holes, I ripped loose the speaker wires, grabbed the thin nylon rope my roommate had found, and made a makeshift fishing magnet (long before I knew that was a real thing).
I returned to my other roommate’s position at a sprint and asked him, forcefully, to point to where he dropped it. I ignored their doubt filled glances and began carefully lowering the magnet. Bobbing it ever so slowly in contiguous circles, I kept fishing for the old stockman, praying, hoping I would hit proverbial pay dirt.
After what seemed ages, while my friends began packing away the gear and hauling up pitifully empty buckets, I finally happened upon my target. Pulling the magnet clear of the bay and over dry land, the gleam of sharp steel glinted in the afternoon sun. Sure enough, with a grunt of victory and smile of relief, there stuck to the speaker’s driver was the knife.
So we didn’t succeed in catching enough crabs for dinner, nor did what we catch survive the trip home in a single bucket of warm water. Dinner was then to be takeout. But I had my knife.
Why all this about a knife? After all, this was a “fishing trip”, not hunting. There was no game to be had, no trees or wide open places. No peaceful hours in the woods. But there was the thrill of the hunt and the greater thrill of the “catch”.
The knife is a vintage stockman by Uncle Henry. $20 can get you a fair copy today. But a new one wouldn’t have the connection. See, this knife was carried in my grandfather’s pocket for years. He did all sorts of things with it I’m certain, just as my father did when it was gifted to him. And just as I do once it was handed to me. I have very few things that belonged to my father’s father. And only a few more that also belonged to my dad.
There are hunters who brag and boast about the Boonies they drop and the fortunes they pay to show them off to anyone who sits still long enough to hear about their victorious exploit. And there are hunters (and fisherman!) who understand sometimes it’s not the size or even type of game that makes the hunt, it’s the hunt itself. The trophy is more often the story and the emotions it evokes over that of the “ value” of the harvest. My first deer was a button buck taken with a muzzleloader after one of the first snows of winter. He wasn’t much. But I can tell where I was sitting, which way he came and where he ran and dropped after I pulled the trigger. I can tell you who I called to lend me a hand dressing the deer and how unprepared I was. I can tell you where I aimed and how true my shot was. And more.
The hunt is what draws us. Not always the game. Like the story of the pearl of great price, the moral isn’t is the getting of the pearl, it’s what the man went through to get it, the hunt if you will.
One day I will pass on this knife to one of my children. And be sure, I will tell the story of how I went fishing for a knife and what it cost and why it was worth it. And hopefully they’ll think twice about lending it to someone over open water!
