The Most Famous Fisherman of Our Time(Charles A. Mazzarella) The Most Famous Fisherman of Our Time.


“Come on, Josh! Grab your pole and let’s head out to the lake. I can feel it – today’s gonna be a great day for fishing!” I have heard statements like this from my cousin many times. He would either ask while we sat on the porch after a meal or call me at home or at work. I would join him when I was able, and he was usually right; it was a great day for fishing.

There were so many times when I did not catch anything. Oh sure, a stick fish now and then. But, I was always the luckiest with my cousin Gabe. I caught a few giants that gave me great fights while we fished together over the years. Gabe would usually catch one fish every time we went out. He just knew where they were, that was one of his fishing talents. No one I know will pass his local or state-wide records.

Sometimes we would clean and freeze our catch, saving them for a supper or breakfast up to a year in the future. Rarely would we cook them there at the lake. We would bring them home and dip them in a sea of olive oil and flour or give our fish a shot of lime juice with a beer chaser before their last swim in our stomachs.

Gabe was happiest in a boat on the lake. He lived to cast a line and had a talent for the art of fishing. He was serious when needed, especially in competitions, but he was also silly. Sometimes when he felt like it, he would name his newly caught, wriggling fish and give it a kiss before placing it on the submerged chain holder or gently releasing it back to navigate towards its’ home. Sometimes he would say that the fish was going back to watch TV or call his girlfriend; he was silly that way but it was funny to me.

There were times, when the camera was packed, that we took pictures of the area, especially when it was our first and possibly only visit. He has small albums full of places we visited or shots of some of the great fish we took while away or caught in our favorite, lucky spots. While I write this, I am looking through some of our old photos we took with those old cameras – 110mm, 35mm disk, instamatic and the most recent, disposable. We did not get into the digital pictures; we’re cheap. These pictures make me think of all the times I was happy to get his call and a few times I grudgingly went fishing but was rewarded.

We took some great rides and a few times I was so tired, I didn’t know if the sun was going up or coming down; I only saw stars. I will miss those early morning or after-supper calls and short strolls or long adventures in our beat up cars.

Sadly, I write my cousin’s eulogy;, realizing today that I will never hear his voice again. Now, I am the keeper of these secret and lucky spots, where fish seemed to hide no matter what the weather was like or if it was morning or night. I will still fish there with his kids, my second cousins, but it will not be the same. I hope Gabe will be looking for us, using whatever power he may now have to lead us to the big fish; smiling when his son or daughter struggles with their first catch of that new day.

Gabe appreciated Life, liked being in the outdoors, but really loved to fish. He wasn’t always talented but learned and remembered quickly and was always, always, lucky. His dad and our grandfather would take us fishing at least once every month; even ice fishing. We would go about once a week or more when school was out. Gabe and I would go more often when we were older. One of the first times I saw that my cousin had real talent, was in our first tournament.

When Gabe was 12 and I was 15, we entered our first out-of-state fishing tournament. We traveled with our grandfather about 485 miles, from Make-Do, Maine to Cranbury, NY in the Adirondacks. It was the 73rd Annual Little Adventurer Lake Trout and Bass Tournament; we always hated the name. We were adventurers but not little anymore. The entry fee was $25 but the winners would get $500, new equipment, and be eligible for other regional competitions. Gabe fished well that day, despite a minor snag from a punk kid we had met up a few other times.

The weather was great for the 6AM start. Gabe and I shared the motorized boat and already knew what choice shallows we would try. We had studied the lake the night before, and seeing a large map helped too. Though he was twelve, he had a natural feel for where to search for fish. He must have remembered a lot of trade; inside hints his father and Pop would tell him when I would not be paying as close attention.

Each team would have to catch four fish minimum per day and the weights were recorded. Team with the most weight caught won. It was a fair competition because it was double elimination. We could all fish for two days at least and still be in contention if we only got 3 really nice fish one of those days. We could fish all day or pack it in if we landed 4 or 5 whoppers. Of course, we stayed out ‘til we got cold and could not see to cast.

We did well that weekend. The weather held and we shook off our tiredness after that first hit and after the breakfast gave us our needed energy. We only ate some and took the rest to eat before lunch. I figured that if we ate a lot, we would get tired again. Our plan worked as we, like the fish, nibbled a little throughout the day.

We preferred to stay away from the others and got mad when interlopers would try to tangle our lines with theirs’. We thought they were spies and knew they were trying to steal our fish. We were followed by this punk and his dad here and there the entire weekend. I never got his name but recognized the metallic paint on his dad’s speed boat. They were out of Vermont and would fish on Lake Champlain; that’s one we never hit, too cold. We started calling it Lake Lame Champ. The punk kid had some remote controlled device that was supposed to lure fish to the fishing circle around his boat. He told us once that his father invented it and it worked using pheromones or something like that. We preferred our salmon eggs, corn, and night crawlers. We also had a few great feather and spinning lures.

I saw it first; a weird hook and what I thought was a tiny scissors-like device. I watched as this shiny, silver cable undulated towards my 25lb test line. It grabbed my line with the small, dull hook and pulled it towards my boat. There was a glisten of sun and then the tension of my pole and in my hands felt less like I had a fish on, than nothing. Along with a nice stick bobber, I lost a good lure that day and decided to help my cousin who was not doing as well as I thought.

I had already caught 7 fish during the three days and as the sun was thinking of starting its’ descent, I watched out for the return of that punk kid’s contraption. He could have gotten disqualified and barred from competing but Gabe thought it may be tough to prove, it being easy to get rid of the sneaky device. That young punk did not attempt to interfere with Gabe’s luck. I was able to make a mean gesture, at the punk, when I caught his attention and his father was distracted by rippling water. I made the “break-you-in-two” gesture, sporting the meanest and sincerest face I could muster without spoiling it with a laugh. The punk was smaller and looked younger than Gabe. He knew we’d kick his butt in fishing or if we met up with him later.

Gabe and I won that day and we went on to win 9 other tournaments, until I was too old to compete with him. That summer Gabe alone won $3,500 and we won ourselves a new boat that Pop had to sign for. Gabe was truly a lucky boy and fisherman that year.

His luck with fishing would last his entire Life. He started practicing almost every day and would try to fish at least once a week, even when school was in and during the winter. If I recall, Gabe won about 57 tournaments, dozens of poles and tackle boxes and a wicked fast-looking speed boat with a big engine and green and blue metallic paint job; better than that crap boat of that old punk and his dad. Gabe earned over $500,000 in almost 35 years; probably a little more I do not know about.
Gabe and I stayed in contact after I went to college and moved away. We would go fishing a few times a year. I got married but it did not last. But, I am happy with my job and girlfriend. I thought about joining the military but decided that was not the life for me. Gabe however did join the Army and served two times in a far off land in the Middle East; where there was action, not near by, waiting for the action to come to him. He wrote me one time after he was able to go fishing over there. His company commander insisted Gabe show off his skills; it was good to be in the Reserves. Gabe sent a picture of a bony fish he caught. He told me when he got back that he would have not taken the chance to eat that mutant fish.

Gabe went to college and did get his two-year degree but was happy just fishing and working at the sporting goods store. He was approached by rod and reel companies and did test a few for them, keeping the prototype as payment. He eventually had enough fishing supplies that he would give some away to needy boys and girls in our area. He also would teach kids or any one who wanted to learn how to be a better fisherman. He said his borrowed philosophy was, “‘Take someone fishing and they eat for the day’ and get a tan. ‘Teach someone how to fish and they will eat for a Lifetime’ and you will always get a free beer, or two.”

As you can imagine, he became quite well known in our area and appeared several times on the local sports and outdoors shows. His picture also appeared in several international magazines, especially when he was younger. I joined him once on the cover and two times on the local TV show the summer we won all those tournaments. I would never be as famous as my cousin and I was happy with that.

Several years ago, Gabe was diagnosed with cancer. He fought it a long time and only tired a bit, especially with these new meds. He still would drag me out fishing and his kids made sure he went often. One of the last trips we all took was to Lake Lame Champ; I thought he would never go there. I watched out for that old punk and his dad’s crappy boat. Gabe let his son rev up the engine and the boat’s defiant roar echoed in the surrounding hills. Hopefully, the fish in the lake were deaf that day. We were lucky but I walked away the winner of our little competition, out doing the all-time champion by a few inches and a pound or two. He looked a little tired that morning but sparked up with renewed energy as we each landed a large mouth bass and a slew of pan fish. That day we did cook our fish at the camp site, saving a few for breakfast another day; trout or bass and eggs, ya gotta try it.

Sadly, Gabe died a few days ago after a cold night of fishing last week sometime. I was not able to go fishing with him as I live in Connecticut. He decided to relax out there in his sporty boat after enduring weeks of treatment; he felt he deserved to “do a bit of fishin’”.

I can hear him now as I write this, “Come on Josh! Grab your pole and a few beers and meet me at the lake.” I’ll always remember him and our times out in the boat - the sun on our backs and poles near by, waiting for the bobbers to head towards the fish’s home. Maybe he watches now, down from heaven, happy he could get in one last cast. Thank you dad, Grampa (Pop), and Gabe for teaching me about fishing and takin’ me on the lake.

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