Fishing can be a phenomenal and fun activity for children and youngsters. Fishing can be a very fulfilling sport; you and your family can fish rather than dealing with the hectic routines of day to day life in Yermo, and enjoy the outdoors. Families regularly enjoy the outside air, find out about the earth, and even create great memories. Best of all, fishing is quality time spent together talking, laughing and sitting next to each other. It can be a perfect game for little children, on the off chance that you present it emphatically. For some families, the experience of fishing with live bait, and catching fish that later become dinner, can be a memory making experience that lasts a lifetime.
Here are some of the thought to make your fishing trip successful in Yermo with your kids.
Yermo Live Bait Well
My Time with Captain Billy: A Vanishing Way of Life in the Heart of the Chesapeake
“Bait truck’s coming this afternoon, you need any bait Benjoy?” Morris lit a Marlboro and squinted southward looking for the last boat in.
“Thanks, me and Mick’s going run over to the factory and get a load.” I gave the stacks of empty five-gallon buckets a nudge with my foot.
Bait on the wharf was thirty-five dollars for five bushels. John always heaped the old wooden wheeled barrow when he came to dump bait for Dickie and Mick and me so there was usually closer to seven bushels than five when we got done shoveling it into the 55 gallon drums but bait was only two dollars a bushel if we went to the factory and hauled our own.
The cannery in Bass Harbor had closed down a few years ago. Up and down the coast the herring, like the cod fishery, the haddock, the menhaden, the alewives, the salmon, the striped bass, and the tuna were on the wane if not already exited stage left, but the factory in Southwest Harbor was still a going concern. Summer and fall the herring boats came in from where they’d vacuumed up a load caught in seine nets in open water or shut off in a cove, net by net, until they were packed almost as tight in the water as what they would be in the can. Then the factory whistle blew to call in the ladies to snip the heads and tails and pack them in oil or mustard sauce or with chilies.
Mick spun around in the gravel parking lot and reversed through the dust cloud. The group of tourists admiring the view scattered. The painting group in front of the old post-office just above the wharf turned like a flock of gulls. Morris just sat back on an empty lobster crate and lit another smoke.
At the factory Billy opened a sluice gate and let a cascade of heads and tails pour into our buckets and barrels. He watched Mick carry two five-gallon buckets, slopping full, in each hand.
“That boy is a regular force of nature,” said Billy. Billy organized the pignic each year. He rigged a pair of motors and gears his grandfather got out of a lighthouse to turn the spits. The volunteer fire department was mostly there tending the fires and the kegs but the police found somewhere else to patrol that weekend. Billy knew all about forces of nature.
“If you told him another fella carried three, he’d do it,” I said.
Billy eyed the buckets but here was only four left.
Back at the wharf Dickie watched me dump layers of fish in the rusted fifty-five gallon drums while Mick shoveled in layers of salt.
“I didn’t see you to ask if you wanted us to pick up any for you,” Mick said.
“I’m still using up what frozen bait I got. I run down to the freezer yesterday.” Dickie nodded toward the stack of white boxes in his stall. “Top ones oughta be thawed out enough to haul with tomorrow. You planning on using that tomorrow you want to make sure you touch give her a touch of salt.”
“I got fresh set aside already for tomorrow. I made sure Benjoy got his out too,” said Mick.
The wharf was quiet by the time I lowered my bait aboard and got ready to head back to the island. Morris watched me. “Ain’t you got a place you can keep bait out to the island?” he asked.
“Nah, no space.”
“You oughta build a little bait shed and wharf out there.”
“I fixed up a place to build traps, geez, the stink and holler about that, can’t imagine what they’d say about a bait shed. The shore’s not like it used to be.”
Morris nodded. “Used to be I could catch a mess of flounder any day while I waited for the boats. Bass Harbor, hasn’t been a bass up here in years. Whores eggs and punkins and sea cucumbers, fellas fishing now for what was trash back then.”
“I wonder what they’ll use for bait when they get down to the plankton,” I said.
Morris give me a long look. “Rate we’re going it won’t be long. Not long for fish or men,” he said.