Spear-Fishing Is A Bloody Mess

You didn't go spear-fishing in daylight back in the 50's. Where was the fun in that?


The adventure was at night, skulking across foreign lands in rubber boots and spears held in teenaged boys' hands like medieval cowboys.


Dark clothes, a pail or two, and whispers.


I had begged for years to go with my brothers, and they always said, You're too young, You're a girl. Ridiculous stuff like that.


I loved the sound of their adventure tales when they came home in the dark and talked, so I wanted desperately to go too.


When I finally turned twelve and my oldest brother was twenty, and I stood almost as tall as one of them, they said yes.


"You're not using a spear, though," they said.


"I don't want to," I said.


"And you can't talk. You can't chatter like a -"


"I'll be silent," I said, grinning.


"Only whispers," they said.


"Whispers." I nodded.


I borrowed a pair of rubber boots and got to carry a pail. They carried the heavy spears and the flashlights. I didn't get one.


Mom told us to keep to the ditches by the road, so if the OPP - Ontario Provincial Police - drove by, they might not see us. And for sure keep the flashlights hidden. Mom was an aider and abetter to these crimes, though she would have denied it at the time.


We went on a moonlit night, down the country road and across a farmer's field in the dark, looking evil in our old clothes and spearheads pointed to the sky.


The small creek was adorable and I nearly squealed with delight. It had rushing clear water and pebbles to make eddies and it was just...so adorable.


We could see the fish in the light of the moon. They were swimming in the beautiful shallow water. Cool water that smelled like them.


My brothers got right to work, spearing and splashing and saying not one word.


It was disgusting. Horrible and bloody.


They mangled the fish with the spearheads in their zealousness. Who could eat that torn meat, all bloody and ewwww.


The wicked night brought out the joy of whispered cuss words, further disgusting me. What would Mom think?


"Don't you tell her," they whispered, "or you'll never come with us again."


"I never want to," I said. "Are you catching the right fish?"


"Be quiet," was their answer to that.


I decided to move upstream and just explore the adorable creek by myself, but one of my brothers followed me, no doubt to spoil my peace.


I said, "See that fish right there? I can catch it with my bare hands."


He scoffed. "You can not."


"Watch me," I said.


I moved downstream a few feet, squatted down, and waited.


When the fish swam by me, I reached in and grabbed it. No problem. It was maybe eleven inches long and it wriggled like crazy.


I held it up for my non-believing brother to see.


"How did you do that?" he yelled.


"Shh. Whispers," I said.


Then I put it back in the stream and moved further down the stream and said, "I'll catch it again."


"No way. You can't catch it twice," he argued.


"Sure I can," I said.


And I did.


So he tried with other fish and he couldn't even come close. Fish are wary and slippery and he lost, every time.


I took my fish to a pail and put it in with the speared fish, knowing Mom would be proud of cooking a piece of fish that was not all mangled from a vicious spearhead.


We skulked home in the dark. My brothers had used their flashlights to spear their fish because it was illegal and they liked that thrill.


I caught mine by the moonlight.


In the kitchen, we showed Mom our two pails of catch.


I expected her to be wowed by my one fish.


She threw up her hands in utter disgust.


"You did it again! Carp and catfish! What's the matter with you boys!"


I said, "What about my lovely fish, Mom? Is it a good fish?"


She just gave me a Look.


I glared at my brothers and stomped from the room.