The Weekly Fare . . .July 1, 2004

Lovin' The Loon

We own a new kayak.

It is a dark green, sixteen foot, tandem (two-seater), Old Town "Loon 160T."

She is absolutely beautiful.

In fact, if a man is crazy enough to own any boat at all, I highly recommend the Loon - no engine to service, no sails to haul and maintain, no trailer required. As long as one is satisfied with a maximum speed in direct proportion to one's bicep strength (or lack thereof) the Loon is definitely the way to go. She's quiet. She's quick (relatively). And at a cost that is substantially less than four figures, she comes in just a wee bit under the average Chris Craft.

Last week, we strapped our new vessel to the top of the car and headed for the coast of S.C. The Loon proved to be invaluable before we ever left the driveway, as it didn't take long to discover that one can stuff a lot of extra gear inside before hefting her up on top. Beach chairs, boogie boards, towels, and tackle boxes - it all fit in there. So before you go out and buy one of those "clam shell" luggage haulers, I recommend spending just a little bit more and getting a kayak. It's more aerodynamic to boot!

Our first few days on the coast were windy enough to relegate the Loon to the sound side of Litchfield Beach. Dads can occasionally be over-adventuresome, but I had just enough ocean kayaking experience to know that risking our new craft (ok, and maybe the children) wouldn't be such a great idea. We had decided to conduct outings based on descending age and oldest son George (10) wanted to venture up to "the point" to fish the channel between Litchfield and Pawleys Island. The sound side was the best way to approach it.

We set out on Monday morning and as soon as we were on the water I knew that I had made one of the best investments of my life. George and I eased along past the tall green marsh grasses as great white egrets ascended and descended and a variety of shore birds called and swooped over the inlet ahead. For its part the Loon performed flawlessly - guiding us smoothly and effortlessly up the narrow estuary and making us appear to be quite the experienced paddlers. (Experience being a relatively relative term among relatives.)

As it turned out the tide was just about to change and we were arriving at the slew between the two islands at the perfect time to fish. But unfortunately, we had the wrong bait. To fish this water well, we needed small minnows from the sound, not only because they were the meal of choice for most every species of fish moving through the channel, but also because they stayed on a hook far better than shrimp in the fast moving current. I didn't have a throw net, so we had no way to gather minnows. In frustration I put a small "Hopkins" lure on George's little Zebco and told him to cast it in the confluence of the two opposing currents. My expectation of his getting it out far enough to have any real chance of catching a fish was low, but serving up free shrimp certainly wasn't getting it done.

Miracles never cease.

On his third cast George hooked onto something big. I had just turned my head to check on him when his whole body became tense and he began to spread his legs to take a better stance against whatever had latched on to his lure. His rod bent wildly towards the surf and he let out a nervous yet excited, "Da . . Da . . . DAD! . . . I've got something!!"

He had something all right. Whatever it was began to actually pull him towards the churning water off the point. I realized that I had never checked the drag on the little Zebco and without the proper resistance on the line George was likely going to lose whatever he had. I immediately began to reel in my line and move toward him as only a father, who is sure his son has a state record on the line, can do. I reached him in waist deep water and quickly spun the drag wheel, resisting, somehow, the urge to take the rod and insure that he would get "his fish" to shore.

But that didn't mean I couldn't coach.

"Let him run! Let him run!" I barked as George dutifully backed off his reeling, "Now bring him in a little bit . . . that's right . . . that's right . . . rod tip up . . . Is he pulling hard?! He is?! Let him run again George! That a boy! You're doing great!!"

George's eyes were wide with excitement, but with the light tackle the fish was getting the best of him - at one point he declared that he wasn't sure he could get him in. "I'm getting leg cramps!" he yelled.

"Stick with it son!" I replied. "Horse him a little more if you have to - but don't lose him George . . . We've got to see what he is!" I was delirious with excitement.

Ten minutes and one worn out, adrenaline drained dad later, George landed a twenty-inch Speckled Sea Trout - one of the most beautiful species in the Atlantic. Any fisherman on the planet would have been proud to catch such a fish and George was absolutely thrilled. His face beamed like the mid-morning sun above, and the entire flock of fishermen over on the Pawleys Island side was clearly enthralled with the young boy's catch.

It was an absolutely magnificent Trout.

I asked him if he wanted to keep it. George beheld the glorious fish as it gleamed in the bright light, its spotted sides and large symmetrical fins creating a work of living art. He pondered it a moment and then decided that it was, indeed, too beautiful to keep. We released it back into the sandy wash around our feet and it made several quick pumps for the safety of the deep.

George's "high-fives" stung my wet hands.

I didn't hear any groans from the serious fishermen on the other side as he released the fish, but there must have been a few. I did notice, however, a certain improvement in George's kayak stroke on the way back. Even the Loon seemed to cut through the water with a bit more confidence. Dad laid back with his feet propped up high on the gunwales - affecting a reasonably smooth stroke and basking in the sun with a heart as warm as the dunes that passed silently by.

We are all told that we should count our blessings and this is true.

I'm just not sure I can count that high.