Catfish, I guess, go back as far as man can recollect. Some mighty fine eatin’ and some, I wouldn’t touch with a 10-foot pole. All not the same, but most just as much fun to catch. I’ve stored up a few recollections of them whiker kritters. I’ll just sand up while I’m thinking on this one…
In the late fifties, I was shrimpin’ with Arthur Medolf on the Joe Thomas, working San Antone Bay not far out of Seadrift. We made our last haul and headed in, not having the trash shoveled overboard, which included hard heads not on the dead side yet. Coming up on the dock, throwing a line to the pier wasn’t all that hard, but takin’ a strain on that mooring line, slipping and coming down butt first was bout as hard as one could take it on the back side, especially sittin’ on a pile of prickly critters. Makes one numb and not just from the flop! I guess I sat there 30 seconds of a life time. I was worried more in that situation than I have ever been, in any given time or place. I don’t know if I was more embarrassed to find out I was stuck at all or taking that dive in public. But it sure felt good to get that numb off my butt. I can still feel a twinge just thinking on it.
Catchin’ hard heads when I was a kid around the docks was not a great feat. Any bait would do. I resorted once to using big blow flies when nothing else was available.
Back when women came down to the shrimp houses to head shrimp, there was always some two legged wharf rats to keep occupied while moms headed the catch. The not so elusive hard head helped fill the bill for kid-weary moms.
I get this idea once while watching the shrimp heads being dumped over the pier; you never seen so many catfish boiling in any one spot where the heads were dumped. One metal bushel basket, a piece of discarded rope and a bucket of heads for bait. Just lowered this contraption down a few feet, count to 10, and come up as fast as you can. A easy half bushel of hard heads as you’ve ever seen.
Working out of Port Lavaca on the Joe Thomas was another story. I was takin’ a nap, tryin’ to stay in the shade when Mr. Medolf let me know it was time to haul in, beings them boards just closed up is less time than any haul yet. He says we just cut across the corner of the most god-awful black spot in the bay you ever did see (I think he did it a purpose). “Gaff top sails” we shook them fin-sticking things down the net, very carefully swung them aboard, (always my job to open the sack). This time very cautious – splat – fin city.
About that time, who comes down the channel, Joe Thomas Medolf, the boat’s namesake, on a tug. We just ease up together, cinch up and sit down to headin’ gaff top. The help was a blessing.
Time we pull in to Port Lavaca, we had just over 700 pounds of gaff top tails. Wasn’t much a pound, but sure covered the fuel.
I guess I wasn’t much older than 15 workin’ with Uncle B. Sanders on the Jane. I like the Jane. Seems like that boat was always tryin’ to tell you something.
Anyways, we were working some nylon strike nets (it was legal then) somewhere outside the channel near Beacon 21. We had some luck on specks and was headed in when we seen this bunch of birds workin’ a muddy spot on the flats off the channel. It was right near where Mr. Edwards kept that big house boat (which my Uncle Bernie DeForest ran for him). Anyways, Uncle B. Sanders says, “Let’s give that a try.”
We did that, dropped the hook, takin’ the net skiff circling that bunch of birds with that fine nylon net. Uncle B says we’ll just strike it once and see what we got ‘afore we work it down. Thank God for that, (hard heads) occasional rat or tow, too small to keep. Ever see a few hundred catfish in a nylon net? Took us come dark time to get them out. I guess if that net still existed, it would still have fins twisted or cut off in it. Catfish and nylon still don’t mix.
I’ve had some experience with catfish, but this one really takes the cake and should I say, other things. Anyways, it was my privilege to serve in Vietnam, most of the time on the river. We on occasion were sent up the Vente Canal off the Mekong River to a listen outpost (monitoring sensors placed in strategic positions) for support purposes.
Anyhow, there were no indoor facilities…just the outside kind, and you wouldn’t call them outhouses, either. Most cases just a railing that covered the lower most portion of one’s extremities. Now that wasn’t the case at Tinbin, ‘iffin I’m spellin’ it right. We had to build our own on 55 gallon drums and placed it on a catfish pond, for what purpose I found out.
Needless to say, I had to go one time or another and at what expense I’m not for sure. Most people say they just sit and relax and wait for mother nature.
Now take a few hundred catfish all waiting for the same thing coming down that chute. Seems them 55 gallon drums made this certain kind of ripple when one sat on the throne. *#!?##*! I’d swear to it nothing hit the water. Things kind of got wet under there. Never was that regular after that first time, but one must go…it’s inevitable to think otherwise. Come dry season, it’s told there was a bumper crop of big cats otta that hole!
Talk about eatin’ fish. I’ve eaten fish in some odd places, but heck, that’s another story…
