Fishing With My Grandson

Every summer for almost the last twenty years, we have set aside a week to spend with each of our grandchildren.  This summer, our youngest grandson, Cortland, came down from Clemson to sped his week with us.  He is eleven years old and full of energy.  Early on we asked him what he would like to do during the week, and at the top of his list was fishing.

Most years we have gone to the JIYC and fished off the dock with varying degrees of success.  He has always been excited with whatever he catches and usually out-fishes me.  Seems like I spend a lot of time baiting his hook, taking fish off his hook, and untangling lines.

This year, on my son’s advice, we went to a tidal creek in Light House Point where a dock has been built in an area yet to be developed with homes.  But, I am getting ahead of myself a little.  Before we headed out to fish, I warned him that we had to be legal.  So we headed out to get fishing licenses. After a couple of false starts we ended up at DNR on James Island.  We didn’t need one for him since he is under 16, and mine was free because I’m over 70!

Finally, we arrived at our fishing spot and settled in. Our first location wasn’t a great choice as it was on a sloped bank.  After I almost lost my balance and almost fell out of my lawn chair into the water, we wisely moved to the nearby dock where we should have been in the first place.

The tide was coming in and everything looked ideal; we even had some shade.  Fishing was steady, but they all were small.  In previous years I had been able to convince him to throw the fish back to let them “grow”.  Either because my resistance was down or he was a good salesman, I told him we could keep a few to take home and “show” his grandmother, but not to get his hopes up that she would cook them.

From then on he fished in earnest, and as he caught each fish, he named it.  I can’t remember the names, and I think he forgot too as the names changed as the afternoon wore on.  We caught mostly spot, a whiting or two, and maybe a pinfish (nobody keeps those).  About 4:00 pm we were supposed to play golf; no way, he wanted to keep fishing.  Finally, around 5:30, I told him we had to go home as his grandmother would be worried (actually I was exhausted).  In a last ditch effort to rid ourselves (me) of the fish, I told him he would have to clean them.  That was a mistake.  He was even more excited and said he had never cleaned fish and would love to.

When we arrived home, to my surprise his grandmother agreed to cook the fish the next night if we cleaned them.  Well, we dug in; first I showed him how to scale the fish, cut off the head, slice the belly and come out through the “poop hole”, gut the fish, and finally wash it.  (Hence, the pictures of the two of us going through the whole cleaning process.)  The most memorable part of the cleaning was when we got to the last fish.  I had noticed it was not quite dead, but didn’t say anything.  As he cut off the head, it made a final involuntary wiggle.  After he had finished with the fish, he said, “Grandaddy, didn’t you find that a little bit disturbing?”

The next night we had a grand feast.  His grandmother fried the fish, I cooked up some crab legs and with some other stuff we began eating.  About half way through the meal, Cortland said, “This is the most wonderful meal of my life.  I caught the fish, I cleaned the fish, and now I’m eating them.”

That night he related the whole tale to his parents.  He particularly worked over his mom (she does not like seafood) with the part about cleaning the fish.  I don’t think that was the only time he told her the story.

A couple of days later while we were taking him to Columbia to meet his parents, we asked him what he liked most about his week.  He said, “Fishing.  Mostly cleaning the fish.”

Cortland Ennis Young, Jr.

Charleston, SC

Age: 74