When I think of the many thousands of casts I have made while fishing, it boggles my mind. My casting consists of two very basic actions: get the lure away from the boat and bring it back. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. What’s the big deal? Getting the lure away from the boat is the easy part. Getting the lure back is not always as easy as it would first appear.
I don’t know of anyone who fishes regularly who hasn’t unceremoniously committed a lure to the deep. In other words, toss a lure overboard before tying it on. Lures make a distinctive sound entering the water. That is why I personally refer to this act of unconsciousness as a “plooch”. The person who commits an act of plooching is called a ploocher. The normal procedure for changing casting lures is as simple as one, two, three. First, you attach the lure. Second, you flip it overboard to straighten the line. And third, you reel up the slack. Sounds simple, right? It would be, too, if you didn’t have to contend with all of the interruptions that are typically encountered while fishing. For instance, in my case, before I even complete step one, my fishing partner J.D., who is prone to exaggeration, suddenly announces that he just hooked a monstrous fish of near record proportions and demands that you man the net immediately. Instead of netting a wall hanger, I net yet another hammer handle northern. A brief, but spirited, debate follows regarding my assessment of J.D.’s ability to estimate size. Interruption over, I pick up my lure and execute step two. Plooch!
“Son of a bleep-a-de-bleep-bleep!” I muttered under my breath.
“What’s the matter now?!” J.D. asked.
“My dang lure is gone!”
“Did you plooch?” J.D. smirked.
“No, I just get a kick out of throwing my favorite lures overboard”,
I said dryly.
J.D. replied, “Well, knock it off, you’re scaring the fish!”
“I didn’t do it just so I could scare the fish”, I said.
“So, what’s your excuse this time?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe I can’t ever finish what I’m
doing because of all the stupid interruptions.”
Defending himself J.D. said, “Well it fought like a much larger fish.
Regardless, since you’re not doing anything at the moment, hand me the
pliers so I can get this fish unhooked.”
While giving him the pliers, a thought occurred to me. “Say, J.D., I don’t
suppoooooooose ……...?” I said hopefully.
“Nope. This is the only lure I have like this”, J.D. said with a
dash of smugness. He continued, “What a shame, too, since they’re
really hitting on this color.”
“Gee, I hadn’t noticed”, I said.
I rummaged through my tackle box and selected another lure. With the lure in
my left hand and the line in my right hand, I was about to begin retying when
J.D., who had resumed casting, piped up once more.
“Holy Cow! This is a real horse I got on here! Get the net!”
As I set my unattached lure down on the seat next to me, I reached for the net……
This is a typical scenario for basic plooching. Really talented ploochers have been known to nonchalantly toss a second lure overboard demonstrating how they lost the first one. I have gotten smarter over the years. I frequent the bargain bins at the sporting good stores just to have lures to plooch. When I’m out fishing, I use the cheap lures first until I fill my plooching quota for the day and then switch to the good lures. What I don’t understand is why, for some strange reason, no one ever attempts to plooch a floating lure.
Plooching too easy for you? Want something a little more challenging? Try your hand at flipping. No, I am not talking about the bass fishing technique that the pros use. I am talking about the technique used to rescue your lures from the clutches of evil-minded bushes and trees. When you work a shoreline with prospective fish holding structure, you intentionally try to get your lure as close as you can, next to, underneath, or in between the stumps, tree trunks, limbs, bushes, branches, over-hangs, blow downs, etc. Realistically, casting toward heavy cover is sort of like playing Russian roulette. Sooner or later the oops-gun goes off, so to speak, and you make an errant cast. The lure makes a graceful arch over a limb, the line kisses the bark ever so lightly redirecting the momentum, and the lure wraps around creating an intricate cat’s cradle with the line in and about the branches. The number of revolutions is directly proportional to the value of the lure. The lure is always suspended just high enough to be out of direct reach. Simply wrapping your line around some branch is not flipping. Flipping is the act of trying to salvage the lure by jerking it off the branch without breaking the line in the process. A poorly executed flip can easily break the line turning your lure into an attractive seasonal ornament or result in a plooch.
No one starts out to be a flipper. Fishermen become flippers as a result of an escalation process. Once hung up, a novice flipper’s first reaction is to jerk the line. It never works. If you are foolish enough to expect the branches to break, you can forget it. Nothing is so supple or so durable as the leafy tentacles of lure-snagging foliage. Their flexibility will sap all the energy right out of the jerk. But, novices seem to adhere to that old adage of, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again”. As frustration mounts, each subsequent jerk comes a little quicker and is done a little more forcefully. Fishing partners have been known to offer words of encouragement at moments like these. “Give her a little more choke, she almost turned over that time!” The average person will quickly deduce that it would be more effective to take up as much slack as possible in order to get a better angle on the pull. So, you move the boat just to the outer edge of the offending bush or tree. Upon arrival, the first thing you will notice is that there are multitudes of mosquitoes and deer flies in the immediate vicinity. They are half starved and relish the taste of human flesh. The second thing you notice is that the wind always blows in the wrong direction and your partner will have to work furiously to keep the boat in position. The closer-is-better approach will fail, also.
Next, you resort to a more direct assault like oar swatting. The “jerk and swat” is always performed inside the offending brush standing tiptoed on the bow seat directly below the lure. This positions the boat under the branches within a foot or two of the shoreline. Your body should be stretched out as far as it can possibly stretch. The oar is held precariously with one hand. How effective is this tactic? You’ll be waiving your free hand at the insects buzzing around your head. The weight of the extended oar will keep you perpetually off balance. Wave action from passing pleasure craft will vault you up closer to the lure while simultaneously buffing the boat hull on the rocks below. Various sprigs and twigs will lovingly thread their way between your face and sunglasses, under your nostrils, up your sleeves and into your armpits. All manner of displaced unidentified life forms will casually rain down from above and take refuge under your shirt. Once there, they will scurry and squirm up and down your torso looking for that very special place to check your blood pressure. People witnessing your convulsive movements will probably think you are performing some kind of weird aboriginal fertility dance. Parents will shield their children’s eyes. “Don’t look kids! That man only has one oar in the water!” After a number of failed attempts at swatting, your fishing partner will likely offer some constructive criticism. “Will you get that ‘flipping’ thing out of there before the gnats take up permanent residence in my sinuses!”
One cautionary note. Any use of an oar should be preceded by a careful scrutiny of the surrounding foliage for hornets. I have studied the reaction time of individuals who have disturbed hornet nests. They are, at best, a desperate lot. I have concluded that even a half-crazed, wild-eyed, oar-flailing fisherman would not be able to pass himself off as a ninja master. I have also learned to start the motor with one hand while simultaneously putting it in gear at full throttle with the other. I no longer have to think. I just react at the first sight of a hornet. Most fishermen engaged in the jerk and swat are generally too preoccupied with their own issues to adjust to the unexpected acceleration. The last time I had cause to execute this maneuver I suddenly realized that I was the lone occupant of my boat. From a safe distance, I scanned the water. I spotted J.D. a few feet away from where I started the motor just under the surface. The ensuing conversation with him sounded like listening to half a telephone conversation with me doing all the talking.
“Speak up J.D. I can’t hear you very well with your head under
water like that.” Pause.
“Oh! I get it. You want to use hand signals.” Pause.
“Don’t complain to me. You’re the one who decided to play
paddy cake with the hornets.” Pause.
“Come and get you? Are you crazy?! I’m not motoring back over there
while those little kamikazes are still swarming around like that. You swim out
to me.” Pause.
“Well how do you know you can’t hold your breath that long if you
don’t at least try?” Pause.
“Yes, I suppose the water is quite cold at this time of the year. That
three dollar lure doesn’t seem so important now, does it?” Pause.
“Well, there was really no need for that last hand signal!”
As you gain insight from various flipping experiences, you will begin to recognize a doomed cast developing in mid-flight. Panicking, you will likely try to pull the lure back before it reaches the hazard. If your reaction time is even a fraction of a second too slow, pulling back on the line only serves to create a whipping action adding to the number of revolutions and tightness of the wraps. If you are lucky enough to reverse the direction of the lure’s flight before it’s too late, be sure you duck before the hooks embed themselves into various parts of your anatomy. Veteran flippers have the presence of mind to slow the lure without creating the whip-snap. With this strategy, the line simply drapes over the branches without wrapping. This is referred to as a dangle. If you are lucky enough to be using a heavier lure, you can let more line out and lower the dangled lure within reach.
Veteran flippers also never admit defeat. My father relayed a story to me about an episode that occurred while fishing with his friend, Joe. They were drifting down a wind blown shoreline casting as they went. Joe was using a large Daredevil spoon. As fate would have it, on his next cast a sudden gust of wind caught his lure the wrong way. Joe courageously stayed with it. The lure steadily gained altitude kiting over several large trees as it disappeared into the forest canopy. The line draped over the treetops like telephone wire. Veteran flipper that he was, instead of simply cutting the line, Joe suggested that they beach the boat so he could assess the situation on foot. The undergrowth loomed before him like a solid wall. Undaunted, he pushed steadily through the thickets following the line as he made his way back into the woods. It was tough going. Torrential rain, mud, raging rivers, insects, scorching heat, freezing cold, erupting volcanoes, bears, wolves, and the occasional bigfoot or two, all hampered his progress. I must say at this point that it’s entirely possible that the story may have been embellished a bit over the years. For myself, I discount any silly assertions regarding volcanoes in Wisconsin. I mean, really, how absurd can you get? Anyway, just when all appeared to be lost, the line stopped in a maple tree. Joe stepped into a small opening in the trees where he encountered the longest dangle he had ever seen. His line lay over a limb about 25 feet up and then came straight down. Incredibly, the lure was hanging complacently about chest high. Allegedly, Joe simply unclipped the lure, walked back to the boat, and reeled up 100 feet or so of line all the way back to the leader. Unfortunately, neither Joe nor my father kept a journal of the expedition to attest to truthfulness of their claims.
If you can’t lower your dangler, you have to attempt a flip. Tree flipping is an art. First, you make sure that you are on the opposite side of the limb from the dangle. Then, you draw the lure back up to within an inch of the branch. With just the right amount of finesse, a quick jerk will flip the lure up off the branch and back toward the boat. Too little snap and the hooks augur themselves into the bark. Too much snap and the lure will jump up only to tangle once more in the next limb up. But, if you do it just right, the lure will hop over the branch and fall back into the water. Often other self-proclaimed expert flippers will score a particularly challenging flip skillfully performed. On a scale of one to ten, there are points for both style and degree of difficulty. “Was that a real flip or were you having a spasm attack?” (1 style point) “I can’t believe you actually got that stupid thing down!” (7 degree of difficulty points)
Now, let’s say that you are not casting toward the shoreline hazards. You have all the open water you want. Does this mean that you are free from the pitfalls of the errant cast? Of course not! You see a rising fish or a good-looking spot along a weed bed. You feel compelled to get your lure over there as soon as you can, possibly before your fishing partner notices the opportunity. But, there’s a hitch. The target is farther than a normal cast. By all rights, you should wait until you get closer. But, your sense of urgency wins out. You convince yourself that a fisherman with your talent and experience can make it that far. You put extra zip into your cast. “Holy cow! Look at that lure go!” The lure rockets away faster than the reel can turn. That’s when you hear the characteristic click of the line parting. The reel stops rotating. The line goes slack. You hear a distant plooch. You have, as I like to say, “chucked’ your lure.
Another way to commit an act of chucking is to make the mistake of turning into the wind to make your cast. As any caster knows, it is much easier to cast with the wind. And, on level-wind reels, you will reduce tension on the reel’s anti-backlash adjustment accordingly. When casting into the wind, the extra wind resistance can suddenly slow the lure. Your reel does not have the ability to compensate and will over run the line causing a bird’s nest. Under the right conditions, the line can instantly cinch tight around the spool. When the lure gets to the end of its rope, click, plooch.
Lure chuckers looking for that special bit of notoriety occasionally attempt the advanced technique of the double-plooch chuck. It takes real talent to execute this. If done properly, here is what happens. At the end of your forward casting motion, the top section of your favorite two-piece rod disengages from the bottom section sliding up the line while leaving the immediate confines of the boat. The lure stays attached to the line for a second or two longer before it reaches terminal velocity. In sequence, you will hear the following. Pop! Click! Plooch! Pause. Plooch! You are literally left holding the short end of the stick. Then, the full gravity of the situation hits you. The lure is long gone. The broken line is still strung through the guides of the wayward section of rod, which is now floating precariously on the surface of the water a dozen or so yards from the boat with no visible means of support. You are afraid to reel in the line, as it may be all that is holding up the suspended rod section. The previously light breeze chooses that exact moment to freshen pulling you farther away. There is no time to debate a course of action. Your only option is to take command of the situation and instill a sense of urgency in your shipmate. “Row faster! Row faster! Hurry up, the line is slipping through the guides! Go left! Go left! Go Left! No! No! No! My left not your left!”
Lure chuckers come in all shapes and sizes. While shore fishing for salmon on Lake Michigan, I witnessed a chucking protégé make a spectacular chuck off the south pier of my local harbor. A boy of about twelve or thirteen was standing alone casting off to my right. Each time he threw, he tried to show his prowess as a fisherman by casting as far as the adults. He wasn’t having much success. Finally, he wound up and made a mighty two handed fling. He really put all he had into it grunting as his hands flashed by. Unfortunately, he forgot the first and foremost rule of casting. Hang on to the rod! The St. Croix sailed out a good 50 feet. The Little Cleo trailed behind sparkling in the sunlight. Plooch!!! The rod hesitated momentarily and then sagged down butt first. The rod tip was the last thing to be seen before the rig disappeared into the abyss. All that remained was the sound of the waves breaking on the jetty. Now a chuck of that caliber surely must be acknowledged. So, I walked over to the boy who was still gazing out over the water mouth open in stunned silence. “Wow, that was a mighty impressive chuck”, I said enthusiastically! “Too bad your dad wasn’t here to see it himself!” I was sure his father would be just as excited as I was once he learned of his son’s great feat. My words of praise didn’t faze him. He turned and stared at me for a few seconds, face twitching uncontrollably. Then he slowly walked away babbling some incoherent nonsense about a lifetime of indentured servitude. That’s kids for you. They have no appreciation for the finer points of fishing.
Well, like I said in the beginning, getting the lure away from the boat is the easy part. Should you actually get your lure in the water with the line still attached, you may have a chance at retrieving it. Notice, I said a chance. The water is not a safe place either. But, that’s another story.
Click the mailbox to e-mail. Last updated on ...October 31, 2003