The idea of a fish story is a tale of fantastic proportions. Webster’s defines it as an implausible, boastful story. Little wonder then that people look at you askance when you tell them of some amazing occurrence that took place when you were fishing by yourself.
With that in mind, we all have them. The longer you spend on the water, and the more proficient you get, you will tend to collect more crazy experiences that will make people look at you and say, “That story sounds fishy.”
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The longer the time between the time the story took place and when it gets recounted, the more fishiness it adds.
The very first time I fished the coastal waters of North Carolina, near Morehead City, I was accompanied by my father. I had just purchased my own boat, an 18-foot modified-V, center-console skiff from Cobia. At the time of this excursion my experience in North Carolina saltwater fishing was limited to surf fishing and jetty fishing for reds, trout, and any other things I could wrangle near Fort Macon and Beaufort Inlet. Also, I had done extensive fishing around Tampa and of course all the waters in the state of New York from Lake Ontario to Long Island.
With a little local assistance from an Arendell Street tackle shop that no longer exists, Pete’s Tackle, we proceeded with the recommended jigs and soft plastic tails. We tried quite a few places with no luck. Then the tide changed, both literally and figuratively, we came around a corner using the trolling motor, and I hooked up with a redfish. Seconds later, my father did, too. Knowing the tendency of reds to school, we fired right back. Immediately, we had a double hookup.
We proceeded in this manner, catching and releasing red drum from 17 inches long up to 8 pounds. My father got the biggest. For years, this would be known as “The Day We Got All Those Redfish” in our personal lore. In all the ensuing 30 years of fishing around here, I never caught another fish from that location.
Pete Allred of Pete’s Tackle passed in 2012, and I think of him whenever I go by there.
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When we were younger, my father and I would fish for the lake-run rainbow trout of Lake Ontario called steelhead. We usually fished the Salmon River which was an easy 30-minute drive away. We were up there so often through the 1980s and early ’90s we had our own way of doing things.
On one particular slow day when it seemed like there wasn’t a single fish in the river, Dad found a fly that someone had dropped as he walked down the path.
“I’m going to tie this fly on and catch a fish with it,” he proclaimed proudly. Wouldn’t you know, after just a couple of casts, he did catch a gorgeous silvery steelhead that jumped and put on a wonderful show. So of course, from that day forward, any fly found along the riverbank, would then be tied on. I really can’t remember if it ever worked quite that well again, but he was never afraid of a good story.
As l went along in my fishing career, I became known for false albacore fishing. It took a few years before we could line up a trip for my father to come down and get after them. If you’ve been out there, the fishing can range from all-out blitzes to absolute nothing, sometimes in the same day. Let’s just say this time it was an amazing blitz with fish crushing bait everywhere. You couldn’t ask for a better situation to show one’s parent. We caught them as soon as we could get a fly or jig in the water. Game on.
It was just a couple of years later that he was unable to fish on the ocean. His balance went bad on him, and it was not a good idea anymore. But that day became “The Day We Got the Albies.”
The last time we fished together was at a bass pond. There were a lot there, and they were active. Cast a small Senko plastic worm, as we watch the line as it descends. A little twitch to the side, set the hook. These weren’t big fish like the 10-pounder he had gotten years before in a similar coastal golf course pond, or the 12-pound walleye from the Bay of Quinte in Ontario, or the bright chrome steelheads from the salmon river, but it was our day.
Later that summer I would have a stroke, and that was the last time we’d fish together. So, this was our final fish story. The funny part was, the bass were being so aggressive, I would begin a count when the plastic worm would hit the water, and if a fish wasn’t caught at 10, you had to switch the rod to the other guy.
I’m sure at this point you know where this is going. The final fish story. Don Churchill passed on June 27, 2026. After we had a service for him, we went out to the lake where he kept his boat for 40 years. My brother spread his ashes on the point next to the marina. As we watched it sweep away, a large fish jumped, completely cleared the surface, and smacked back down.
Fish stories can be true.
