Singing the Kamakaze Blues
....by Warren Masten
ed note: Warren, upon sending us this little story, wrote this forward. It came to us on the second day of the year 2000. He speaks of New Year's Eve:
I enjoyed the evening with my wife, feeding a warm fire, drinking a warm
drink and listening to some warm music a la Rackmaninoff...bed and lights out
at 9:00. By golly, the sun came up the next day!
I hope your readers continue to put up with my watery wit. The following
event happened some time ago. Darwin has since moved to Montana after retiring as a fruit inspector in the California orange groves. He recieved what might be
considered the Nobel Prize, Oscar, Heismann Trophy, Stanley Cup of fly-tying.
Some of your angler/readers probably know of him, if they tie their own
flies.
The four of us left the parking lot to take a look at the “playing
field”. I had driven alone over to Success Lake, just east of Porterville,
with my battered aluminum boat banging around in the back of my pickup.
Bill Peppin, Dennis Trudeau, and Mike Parrish arrived at the check-in and
Bar-B-Q area shortly after. The lake was as flat as glass on this May 3rd of
1986. Not a breath, not a puff, not a wheeze of wind ruffled the water.
Dennis motioned with his head to some nice structure across the mirrored
surface as he lit yet another cigarette.
Bill said it, ”Ought to be pretty good.”
Dennis supported it, “Puff, puff, uh huh, puff, puff.”
Mike elaborated on it, “Atmospheric conditions, being what they are, can
create sub-pressures on the hydortherm which seem to indicate a positive rise
in the possibilities of a banned day.”
I questioned it, “Huh??”
We drifted over towards the check-in where crowds of anglers milled
around greeting each other in clouds of meaty smelling smoke.
We, the intrepid four, represented the Monterey Peninsula Flycasters at
this, the Kaweah Flyfishers third annual bass tournament. Ed Yamamoto, the
tournament director, greeted us and pointed us towards the food.
About eight clubs were present, but as is always the case, the home club
showed up in unlimited numbers. Though there were only four Monterey boys at
the event, we intended to walk away with the booty...even though my handicap
was 4,852. The general murmur about the tables was that the Kaweah club
always won since they had divine guidance and they were loaded with flies
that work on the home waters. I understood, also, that they had one club
member, in particular, who was especially good a slammin’ bass. He was
pointed out to me. I saw a large jolly fellow holding court at one of the
tables. His name was bantered around during the lunch, but I am no good at
remembering such things. One of my major life failures is that I just cannot
remember people’s names.
The call was sounded to select the match-ups and, wouldn’t you just know
it, I was selected to fish against the large, jolly fellow. I was soon to
know his name. Mike pulled me aside and informed me that this man was one of
the top fly-tyers in the world and his bass bug and muddler imitations are
without equal. He was used to fishing with the best.
Great, I though to myself as I dumped my gear in my leaking, battered
boat. Here I was with a top gun, a man of the world who without a doubt had
fished out of the finest craft available. I just knew the day would be an
ugly one for him, and myself.
He arrived with his gear, stuck out his hand and introduced himself.
“My name is Darwin,” said he, “Darwin Atkin. Glad to meetcha.”
I had never heard of the man, having lived a very sheltered life in a
cave in Borneo until the day before the tournament. I introduced myself and
helped him load his tube and other gear which included a long, bone white,
whippy, PVC staff. Not wanting to seem dumb, I didn’t question the stick.
Well, we got the motor going and Darwin settled in looking perfectly at
home. He struck up an animated conversation asking me questions about my
life, my home, my fishing experiences, my sock size, all the time guiding us
to a large cove that had a good stand of weeds and grass stalks sticking out
of the water. The guy was so friendly I had no trouble swinging along with
his enthusiasm. I just knew the day would be a beautiful one for him, and
myself. We beached the boat, donned our waders and float tubes and
commenced paddling toward the shallows. Darwin plowed through the water
with a great good will, trailing that strange white stick behind his tube.
I started with a lightly weighted black bugger and Darwin tied on a fly
you would have to see to appreciate. It was a popper so tightly packed with
deer hair of various colors and densities that I had trouble believing it
was not painted.
Darwin’s first cast, WHAM, Darwin’s first fish. He pushed over to me,
white staff in tow, so that I could measure the fish as required by the
contest rules. It was an eight inch black bass. Not big, but it counted.
After he released it and had turned to head back, I cast my bugger into a
small bush, swimming it in first with a quick and then a slow retrieve. A
six inch fish was fooled and Darwin paddled back to measure it. That was it
for us. The fish must have sensed what was looming on the horizon.
As the day wore lazily on, Darwin spoke of the history surrounding this
containment and about the love he had for the country we were fishing in. I
learned that Tule Creek, which the lake sits upon, was California’s first “No
Kill” creek. He spoke of the rough fish that had taken over the lake and
the need to prevent such fish from getting established in bass or trout
waters.
We fished contentedly through the calm afternoon wondering where the fish
might have disappeared to. I had switched to a little rattle-eyed popper and
Darwin was tying on a beautiful little white streamer. He looked at his
watch, he looked up at the sun, he looked out on the flats, scratched his
head and said that the shad would soon start to break and then the action
would get hot and heavy.
I could no longer contain myself and finally asked,”What’s that white
stick attached to your float tube?”
Casually, without looking up from attaching fly to tippet, he said,”It’s
to beat off snakes...rattle snakes swimmin’ in the lake. I’ve had to beat
them down time and again with my rod and nobody wants to break a fine fly rod
over a rattle snake’s back. So, I made up this stick to pound ‘em if they
try to get in the float tube with me. Two of ‘em were spotted swimmin’
across here the other day.”
My popper lay unused, tangled in the grass, bug eyes staring my way as if
waiting for my response. I was sucking in great amounts of air at the time.
Snakes? Rattle snakes?
Darwin probably noticed that I was sticking pretty close to that big
white stick from that point on.
The quiet of the still afternoon air was interrupted when a boat approached across the glassy surface. An official was checking on how the tournament
was going. We were his last stop. We learned that the Kaweahs were leading
by about one half inch of fish. Three clubs, one being mine, were close
behind. Top fish was also held by the Kaweahs, but Bill Peppin was working a
monster only minutes earlier. There was plenty of time left so it was up in
the air. The official took our fish tallies and disappeared around the bend.
I looked at Darwin, smiled and suggested that his club’s chances were
toast, owing to the fact that my club was a on a roll. Darwin looked back at
me, smiled and reminded me that his club had divine guidance. He prepared to
lay his streamer against some structure.
His next cast never happened. In the quickness of a breath, or should I
say sneeze, a wind came howling across the flats turning the lake into a
boiling sea of waves and white water. At any second I expected to see Darwin
pick up that bone white stick and start thrashing the foam, beating off
rattlers that were being blown into the water.
Instead he was blown into the lines of some shore fishermen and had a
moment or two of touch and go as they yelled, cussed and threatened him for
his careless blundering...as if he could have avoided it.
I was finally thrown ashore next to my boat in a screaming gale . There,
I found Dennis lamenting the death of his float tube. Darwin and I got the
boat loaded and after a couple of unsuccessful attempts to launch, got the
propeller weed-free and headed out into the maelstrom. Dennis and his
partner waited for another boat.
The going was slow and rocky. We had to make one detour to help another
boat get started, but we were soon snaking (perhaps I should use another
word) wending our way towards the distant ramp. Darwin sat stoically at the
bow grinning at me. With the combined roar of the wind and the clank of the
motor I could not make out any words he said, but I believe he pointed up and
mouthed the words, “Divine wind!”
The dock scene looked like something akin the the Normandy invasion with
everybody trying to get to shore before being sunk. Luckily everyone made it
in safely. In his worries about what was happening, poor Ed Yamamoto pulled
enough hair out to stuff a mattress.
So, just like that the tournament ended. The Kaweahs were victorious,
holding on to their slim lead. The Monterey Flycasters came in fourth.
How would you judge a day such as that. The fishing hadn’t really picked
up yet when the Kamikaze blew us out of the water. We all know the fish
would have started to pick up in the late afternoon. Some of the contestants
grumbled, but in my case, I was perfectly happy with the day. I had had a
chance to fish with a truly fine person, one who was not wrapped up in his
fame...an expert who gave me guidance in my first real attempts at fly
fishing for bass...a person I would welcome to my own home and club years
later. If you are going to have a fishing tournament, those are the results
you want. Through the ensuing years I think fondly of that day as I poke
around the structure of this and that bass pond....towing along my own, long,
white stick.
