Nerve Endings Firing Away

Nearly 15 miles due east of Savannah is a tiny community that loves to call itself Tybee Island. This island completes the coastal identity of Savannah by its beautiful and pristine endowment of long unspoiled beaches. Unlike crass commercialization of Florida coastline, Tybee still has managed to hold on to its marine charm wherein the ocean holds center stage and not the peripheral nightlife. Not that I mind the nightlife along the sea but silence along the genteel ocean shattered only by the crashing waves and shrieks of the sea gulls is a welcome change. The Pier at Tybee is a colossal but perfectly blending structure on the easternmost corner of the coastline. Similar piers I have seen at Tampa and Miami are nothing more than noisy loudmouthed Hispanics, displaying their pseudo-masculinity by jamming the throttles of loud wave runners and jumping off the piers. Tybee was as pure as a pier should be, although a few Baywatch babes would have made it picture-perfect. The railings lined with amateur anglers, fishing in peace oblivious to our blatant stares at their activities. Fishing is often touted as a lazy man’s sport. The debates on cruelty of fishing apart, I find the sport extremely refreshing and bonding-friendly.

As a kid, my brother and I accompanied my dad to the Powai Lake for fishing on dingy rafts in an almost American family exercise. As he claims, my dad founded the Fishing and Boating Club whilst at IITB and he regularly abused his alumnus privileges by haunting its serene lake with both of us in tow. Mom was an occasional but reluctant companion. Wrapping moist kneaded dough and bread crumbs on simple hooks, we fished for hours. I barely remember these times except our wide-eyed surprise when we cut open our catch to see our bait in the fish’s guts. My dad had a nifty fishing rod, which I still come across whenever I am rummaging around in our attic. Sadly, we moved to the mainland which made it extremely difficult to indulge in this activity although me and my brother tried to relive the sport by fishing in monsoon ponds with ramshackle reeds and twisted hooks. I distinctly remember gouging poor earthworms, dug from under rocks to wrap around our indigenous hooks as bait. Firings from mom, when we brought home our catch, usually some unknown fishes with whiskers did not deter us but eventually our hobby died its own natural death.

The time at Tybee brought back those memories. Father-son teams fishing with much advanced gear than our reeds, husband-wife competing to see who caught the most fish (the wife eventually winning 6-0), or simply friends juggling 6 rods between the two of them over cans of beer. The fact that I loved the most was that the anglers promptly dumped the smaller fishes they caught back into the sea and kept the bigger ones for dinner. Baby sharks, Sting rays, and a strange fish that puffed up in anger were the attention-grabber among the catches of pier. Overall the camaraderie enjoyed by all made the atmosphere perfect for bonding and making new friends. The locals patiently answered our dumbest questions and explained the laws of the land, both written and unwritten about fishing and let us touch their catch. They convinced us that the fishes they dumped lived and swam happily with their school even after their brusque brush with humankind. Strangely the sun held its head and light long enough for us to enjoy these sights.