Reeling in Good Times

Fishing Trips with Daddy

by Paulette Wooten

Growing up in South Georgia, Douglas to be exact, there was a ritual that painted my childhood with hues of foggy mornings and the scent of fresh river water. One of my most cherished memories as a little girl is those early dawn fishing trips with my Daddy.

We'd get up at the crack of dawn, around 5:00 AM, when the world was still wrapped in a blanket of fog and silence. It felt mystical and magical at that hour. My excitement would bubble over as I climbed into my Daddy's old brown step-side Chevy pickup truck, the hunter-green Jon Boat trailing behind us.

Illustration by Paulette Wooten

Our journey took us about 30 minutes away to the serene 17 Mile River. Once we arrived, my Daddy had a way of effortlessly maneuvering the boat down the ramp, leaving me wide-eyed every time, like he was some kind of boat-whisperer. He’d let me hop out and keep an eye on it, always saying, “Stay on the bank; don’t get in the boat without me,” while he parked the truck.

I can still picture him walking back down the ramp in his faded Lee's blue jeans, plaid shirt, and hat framing his ever-smiling face with a touch of gray peeking out the sides, a mark of wisdom and warmth, then and now.

Once settled in the boat, we'd mosey down the river to set out limblines. Limbline fishing is about as fancy as a bologna sandwich, but let me tell you, it works like a charm. It's just a hook, line, and sinker tied to a tree limb—plain as grits. But let's be honest, Daddy and I weren't out there on a major fishing expedition. Our adventure was to catch at least one colossal catfish that lurked in those waters, sometimes tipping the scales at 40 or 45 pounds. As a pint-sized girl, hauling in one of those behemoths was more exciting than a pig in a mud pit.

While some folks marked their limblines with bright orange flags, Daddy had a different approach. He preferred to hide his lines, telling me with a twinkle in his eye, "When we come back tomorrow, we'll watch for that limb to be bobbing up and down. That's how we'll know we've caught something." Sometimes, we'd reel in an eel. Ick! Those slippery, snake-like creatures gave me the heebie-jeebies, and Daddy would laugh and laugh as I jumped back, trying to avoid their slimy, writhing bodies. For a relatively quiet man, Daddy has the biggest laugh. He'll take you by the arm, shake it like he was trying to start a lawnmower and laugh with such abandonment that you can't help but join in.

I didn't realize until I was older how deeply Daddy and the river knew each other. The 17 Mile River wasn't just a place we fished; it was a part of him. The river, to me, was just a place where we went fishing, caught giant catfish, and ate Vienna sausage and saltine crackers for lunch that we washed down with a cold can of Coke. But it was so much more for him - a lifetime of memories and a connection to the Good Lord.

Illustration by Paulette Wooten

When we got back home, I was spared the chore of cleaning the fish. I'd retreat to my little world of Odyssey video games, roller skating on the dirt road (yes, I did that, you can't keep a country girl down), or the comforting keys of my piano, happily avoiding the messy business of cleaning fish. Meanwhile, Daddy would roll up his sleeves and get to work, meticulously cleaning and filleting all the massive catfish we caught—enough to feed an army and to stockpile for many meals to come.

After a day on the river, the family fish fry was the next step. So, to add to Daddy's already long day, he was also responsible for frying the fish. Armed with his secret blend of cornmeal and spices, he'd toss the fish into a brown bag with the breading mixture, shake it like it owed him money, and each piece came out perfectly coated and ready for the fryer. Mama, who couldn't stand hot, sticky fishing days and likely enjoyed having us out of her hair for a whole Saturday, jumped into the fun by preparing her legendary side dishes: coleslaw made with her homemade sweet pickles and hushpuppies from scratch. Both dishes had no recipe, just plenty of love. To this day, I've yet to find anything that compares to our Family Fish Fry, that slaw, or my Daddy.

These days, our fish frys (or is it fries) are few, but the memories of those feasts still fill me as I remember the moments around the table with loved ones still present and who are no longer here.

For those who may not have such cherished memories or who have lost their fathers, I hope you find comfort and peace in your own unique ways today.

Happy Father's Day