Pomatomus Saltatrix / That Summer Feeling.

Pomatomus Saltatrix

I know what you're thinking. Pomato-whaa? Pomatomus Saltatrix is the latin name for our tasty friend, the bluefish. Much time has passed since my last fish story, and knowing that the nature of such stories frequently serve to bore the crap out of some of my readers, I will try to keep their frequency to a minimum, unless they're really good. 

It really must be something you're born with. The drive for things like fishing, I mean. Or whatever your personal version may be. But for folks like Khomenko and I, there's just this thrill we get from the strike, or maybe its the fight. Possibly even holding up that trophy fish, and knowing that you were able to match wits with, and conquer such an intelligent beast. Whatever it is, we'll burn under the August sun on a party boat, stand in the pouring rain, and waste away on a sorched dock, praying and hoping for that bite, and otherwise devoting unreasonable amounts of time and idleness in pursuit of that feeling.

Even I find myself puzzled when I take a step back and wonder "Why am I standing in a 40 degree river, slogging through the mud, with water up to my waist, in waders that are starting to leak, all for a maybe 10 inch brown trout that I probably wont even catch?" But then I catch one, and remember. Oh. That's why.

But about our day on the Miss Belmar. Although I went home without landing a single blue. I was using 17lb test line, too stubborn to use a rental rod with heavier line, I was deadset on using my own gear. I hooked 5, lost two, and the other 3 broke my line. They were pretty big fish, and the 17 just wasn't cutting it that day. I spooled 40lb imediately after. I'd like to see those pomatomuses get away from me now! Dan landed 2 and Jason landed 3. We took them home, filleted and grilled them for whoever from the development came. It was quite a feast. 

The real story however, takes place a few days later. On trash day. As usual, I neglected my clean up duties and left the wagon in the woods. When trash day finally came around, what was left in the wagon was completely rotten, and had gone to the maggots and other big ugly bugs who had come to join in on a feast of their own. It was truely a horrible sight. The smell was. I have no words to describe such an rancid, putrid, disgusting smell. It penetrated straight through the wrag I held over my nose, and I scarecely breathed on the way to the curb. When I got there however, I could hold my breath no longer, and took in a deep breath. 

Then I threw up. It was that bad, I kid you not. I went to bed that night with less than fond memories of the whole ghastly ordeal, and the next morning when I heard the garbage truck's hydraulics screech to a halt, I could only help but wonder how the trash collector would fare against such a smelly quarry. Quickly, I rushed for my camera to document their misfortune.

The two men stood before the wagon, dreading their life choices, as well as every moment leading up to the horrible task they had at hand. After a lengthy pause, they mustered the strength to face the smell, and together, tossed the wagon into the truck and hurried back to the safety of the cabin. Poor saps.

That Summer Feeling

I'm not all too sure how to write this one. I've been wanting to cover this topic for awhile now, its something that I have trouble describing accurately, as it is heavily encased in a shell of romance and nostalgia, which at times can blurr my mortal preception of the things which I witness. 

I'll start with this. It hits me when Im at that late night bonfire, having accomplished a daring though-the-window escape, amongest friends, talking and laughing away as I stare out across the moonlit lake, my toes burried in the cool sand, and my mind elsewhere. Or when I'm lying down in the soft green of the golfcourse fairway, speechless in awe of the myriad of distant lights that form the night sky. Or when I'm in the passenger seat, driving home late at night with a friend, eyes fixed on the lines of white that seem to flash by one after the other on the surface of the road, as the stereo seranades us, and fights against the roar of the open windows, my mind fresh with recollections of an eventful night. Or when I'm leaning against the railings on the roof of Sami's beachhouse, watching quietly as the setting sun throws a multitude of brilliant colors across the western horizon. 

Its almost as if I'm taking a step back from myself, and absorbing every last bit of the grandeur from an observer's point of view. Yeah. Its like I'm taking a step back, and observer me is thinking to himself "Wow. This is your summer. Nice to see you making the most of it. Good job, Chris" It's an appreciation for these careless days, when I'm free from the ever present burden of worry, when theres no paper due, or test coming up, no constant nagging thought to hold me back. 

I have no idea as to how common this feeling is. After all, it could be a me specific thing. Let me know, post a comment, or talk to me on facebook. Maybe the summer feeling hits you too, maybe its a little different from how it hits me. Tell me, I'll listen.

Im completely aware of how gay I sound up there. Lets not heckle me about it now, sunshine : )

Music I'm listening to right now: