Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/299259
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 1 6 I knew enough to know they had just seen eye-to-eye on something, though I had no idea what that something was. But at the time it was of little importance compared to learning my first honest-to-goodness fishing knot. I figured I had a few more steps to take before I could call myself a fisherman, but no matter how many steps there were – or where they would take me – I had that fishing knot thing covered. L ater that evening I sat on the front porch carefully tying a number 2 hook to the 8-pound test of my Zebco rig while Granddad once again blew smoke rings, this time from a creaky old rocker. I would tie the knot and then cut through the middle of it with my toenail clippers just so I could tie it again. From over the rail I heard a passerby say, "Nice knot son. Clinch knot if I'm not mistaken. I prefer the Pitzen knot myself. But it's certainly better than the overhand your granddaddy uses." "Humph, shut up Charlie," was Granddad's reply. As if he hadn't heard, Mr. Prince continued, "Son, you keep practicing that knot. And if you want to learn a Pitzen, you just come down and see me. Remember, if you tie enough of those knots, you'll wake up one morning and realize you've tied yourself to a lot more than hooks." When Mr. Prince had moved on down Main Street my granddad asked, "You sure you want to be a fisherman boy? They seem like a bunch of smart asses to me." "I just wanna catch fish, Granddad," was my bashful reply. I was about to ask him what the heck I was missing about knot tying when he announced, "Let's go fishing." He left his creaky rocker and zipped through the even more creaky screen door and emerged a minute later with a sandwich bag full of chicken livers. "Let's go put those new knots of yours to work." We walked to the end of Main Street, before turning left onto the steep, one-lane road that led to a boat dock on the Potomac. Once on the bank of the river, Granddad settled onto an exposed maple tree root while I tied a liver to my hook and attached a couple split-shots to my line. I laid the rod in a forked stick that had been stuck in the river mud, then settled onto a root near Granddad. He blew smoke rings that drifted into the maple branches, while I watched and wondered if there other knots I'd not heard about. The infinite calm of my granddad combined with the hypnotic sway of the branches over the lazy roll of the Potomac was more than I could bear, and as my chin " It's the tie that binds..." I wasn't sure if he was making a statement to me or talking to himself. He slid the line through the eye of the hook,then doubled it back so he could hold both ends between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Mr. HB looked at me and said, "Seven times, no more – no less." He turned the hook seven full rotations, poked the end of the line through the small gap just above the hook eye, then pushed the line through the loop he had just created. Then he said, "Before you cinch the knot, moisten it." He wet the loopy tangle with his tongue, then gently pulled on the hook. The knot tightened around itself until there was a tidy stack of coils gathered just above the eye of the hook. He held the knot in a beam of sun coming through the small kitchen window and said, "Not a single kink in the line . . . that my boy is a properly tied improved clinch knot. If you never learn any fishing knot other than this one, you'll probably be okay." He took a sip of coffee and said, "The most carefully tied fly attached to the most expensive line are useless if they aren't joined by a decent knot." I still wasn't sure if he was speaking to me – I wasn't even sure if he knew he was talking out loud. Either way, what he said seemed to make sense. "Thank you Mr. HB," I wheezed into the smoky air. My granddad, Baker, sat at the head of the kitchen table blowing smoke rings and making a point to only partially pay attention. As he crushed a butt in the ash tray, he quipped, "Seems like a lot of fuss just to catch a fish. I've caught plenty on a sapling with cheap line and an overhand knot." With a smirk only I saw, Mr. HB replied, "I bet you've lost plenty too. I've never lost a fish that could be blamed on this knot." He added a wink in case my young sense of humor failed to recognize the smirk and provocative retort. Granddad processed what he'd heard as he lit another cigarette, then blurted, "Oh for God sake's HB, you're so full of crap I need boots just to talk to you." He didn't really say crap. Mr. HB looked back to me, now with an ear-to-ear grin, and said, "I'm not sayin' you won't lose another fish. I'm just sayin' that if you do, it won't be the knot's fault." The grin faded as he gazed at the knot still lit by a beam of sun. "Yeah," he continued, most certainly talking to himself this time, "it's the tie that binds." Granddad just huffed, though it was a huff of begrudged agreement.