Lure Fishing Quotes

If you don't want people to look at you, Park had thought at the time, don't wear fishing lures in your hair. Her jewelry box must look like a junk drawer.

What it looks like is that you’re having sex with one of my oldest friends in the linen closet of our reception hall. Unless, of course, she’s lost something in her vagina and you were gallant enough to try and fish it out for her. With your penis. If that’s the case, I suggest using a larger lure.

Hunting and fishing involve killing animals with devices (such as guns) for which the animals have not evolved natural defenses. No animal on earth has adequate defense against a human armed with a gun, a bow and arrow, a trap that can maim, a snare that can strangle, or a fishing lure designed for the sole purpose of fooling fish into thinking they have found something to eat

...Grandpa's mind had left us, gone wild and wary. When I walked with him I could feel how strange it was. His thoughts swam between us, hidden under rocks, disappearing in weeds, and I was fishing for them, dangling my own words like baits and lures.

The Voyager We are all lonely voyagers sailing on life's ebb tide, To a far off place were all stripling warriors have died, Sometime at eve when the tide is low, The voices call us back to the rippling water's flow, Even though our boat sailed with love in our hearts, Neither our dreams or plans would keep heaven far apart, We drift through the hush of God's twilight pale, With no response to our friendly hail, We raise our sails and search for majestic light, While finding company on this journey to the brighten our night, Then suddenly he pulls us through the reef's cutting sea, Back to the place that he asked us to be, Friendly barges that were anchored so sweetly near, In silent sorrow they drop their salted tears, Shall our soul be a feast of kelp and brine, The wasted tales of wishful time, Are we a fish on a line lured with bait, Is life the grind, a heartless fate, Suddenly, "HUSH", said the wind from afar, Have you not looked to the heavens and seen the new star, It danced on the abyss of the evening sky, The sparkle of heaven shining on high, Its whisper echoed on the ocean's spray, From the bow to the mast they heard him say, "Hope is above, not found in the deep, I am alive in your memories and dreams when you sleep, I will greet you at sunset and with the moon's evening smile, I will light your path home.. every last lonely mile, My friends, have no fear, my work was done well, In this life I broke the waves and rode the swell, I found faith in those that I called my crew, My love will be the compass that will see you through, So don't look for me on the ocean's floor to find, I've never left the weathered docks of your loving mind, For I am in the moon, the wind and the whale's evening song, I am the sailor of eternity whose voyage is not gone.

His thoughts swam between us, hidden under rocks, disappearing in weeds, and I was fishing for them, dangling my own words like baits and lures.

Thousands of beautiful women? Yes. Thousands of insects whose only purpose is to lure fish? No.

Did you ever get the feeling that everything was too perfect? Like the moment was so good that something had to be wrong? Kind of like the way a fish sees that bright, shiny lure just before it chomps down and gets hauled out of water to become someone's lunch.

If Mike convinces a woman to date him because he is dominant, the resulting relationship will be entirely different than if he had inspired this same woman to date him by convincing her that, through dating him, she could improve herself (though such dynamics might be ameliorated through therapy). One of the core reasons why people either end up in one bad relationship after another—or come to believe that all members of a certain gender have very constrained behavior patterns—is that they do not understand how different lures function (in male communities, this often manifests in the saying “AWALT,” which stands for “all women are like that”). These people do not realize that the lure they are using is creating those relationship dynamics and/or constrained behavior patterns. Talking with individuals who say guys or girls always act like X or Y feels like talking to a fisherman who insists that all fish have whiskers. When you point out that all the lures in his tackle box are designed specifically to only catch catfish, he just turns and gives you a quizzical look saying, “what's your point?

A politician, a man engaged in party contests, must be an opportunist. Let us give up saying that word as if it contained a slur. If you want to win in party action, I take it for granted that you want to lure the majority to your side. I never heard of any man in his senses who was fishing for a minority.

It is easier to lure a fish than to hit it over the head with a club.

Awash with trepidation, he was suddenly on the mattress, lured like an errant sailor onto a siren’s rocky shore.

I never thought I’d see the day you retreated from anything, least of all a mere slip of a woman. (Simon) And never did I think I would find a woman I wanted so badly. Beauty, you’re a treacherous lure with a deadly hook, and this fish has no choice except to flee before it gets caught. (Draven)

On my drive from Salt Lake City to Moab, Utah, I passed an eighteen-wheeler with mud flaps on the rear tires. The flaps were black and featured the silver silhouette of a very statuesque naked woman. I’m sure you’ve seen this artistic expression in your travels. I wondered: has this ploy ever worked, like some kind of perverted fishing lure?

1 The summer our marriage failed we picked sage to sweeten our hot dark car. We sat in the yard with heavy glasses of iced tea, talking about which seeds to sow when the soil was cool. Praising our large, smooth spinach leaves, free this year of Fusarium wilt, downy mildew, blue mold. And then we spoke of flowers, and there was a joke, you said, about old florists who were forced to make other arrangements. Delphiniums flared along the back fence. All summer it hurt to look at you. 2 I heard a woman on the bus say, “He and I were going in different directions.” As if it had something to do with a latitude or a pole. Trying to write down how love empties itself from a house, how a view changes, how the sign for infinity turns into a noose for a couple. Trying to say that weather weighed down all the streets we traveled on, that if gravel sinks, it keeps sinking. How can I blame you who kneeled day after day in wet soil, pulling slugs from the seedlings? You who built a ten-foot arch for the beans, who hated a bird feeder left unfilled. You who gave carrots to a gang of girls on bicycles. 3 On our last trip we drove through rain to a town lit with vacancies. We’d come to watch whales. At the dock we met five other couples—all of us fluorescent, waterproof, ready for the pitch and frequency of the motor that would lure these great mammals near. The boat chugged forward—trailing a long, creamy wake. The captain spoke from a loudspeaker: In winter gray whales love Laguna Guerrero; it’s warm and calm, no killer whales gulp down their calves. Today we’ll see them on their way to Alaska. If we get close enough, observe their eyes—they’re bigger than baseballs, but can only look down. Whales can communicate at a distance of 300 miles—but it’s my guess they’re all saying, Can you hear me? His laughter crackled. When he told us Pink Floyd is slang for a whale’s two-foot penis, I stopped listening. The boat rocked, and for two hours our eyes were lost in the waves—but no whales surfaced, blowing or breaching or expelling water through baleen plates. Again and again you patiently wiped the spray from your glasses. We smiled to each other, good troopers used to disappointment. On the way back you pointed at cormorants riding the waves— you knew them by name: the Brants, the Pelagic, the double-breasted. I only said, I’m sure whales were swimming under us by the dozens. 4 Trying to write that I loved the work of an argument, the exhaustion of forgiving, the next morning, washing our handprints off the wineglasses. How I loved sitting with our friends under the plum trees, in the white wire chairs, at the glass table. How you stood by the grill, delicately broiling the fish. How the dill grew tall by the window. Trying to explain how camellias spoil and bloom at the same time, how their perfume makes lovers ache. Trying to describe the ways sex darkens and dies, how two bodies can lie together, entwined, out of habit. Finding themselves later, tired, by a fire, on an old couch that no longer reassures. The night we eloped we drove to the rainforest and found ourselves in fog so thick our lights were useless. There’s no choice, you said, we must have faith in our blindness. How I believed you. Trying to imagine the road beneath us, we inched forward, honking, gently, again and again.

Perhaps others, cut from different cloth, could pick and choose their conquests. Live their lives as patient fishermen, searching with intermittent success within a vast sea full of alluring fish. If the circumstances of one catch proved inconvenient, these fictional fishermen need only toss back the lure and wait for another. Not so for me. I vehemently rejected this belief that our souls could thrive with any number of partners, a good-enough rodstvennaya dusha. One. One half of one soul. It is popular to say that one must find love within oneself before knowing how to love another. I rejected this statement outright, as both imbecilic in theory and impossible in practice.

The boats bumped against the side of the ship, the sailors and passengers shouted lustily, and somewhere a child, as if crushed to death, choked itself with screaming. The damp wind blew through the doors, and outside on the sea, from a reeling boat which showed the flag of the Hotel Royal, a fellow with guttural French exaggeration yelled unceasingly : '* Rrroy-al ! Hotel Rrroy-al ! " intending to lure passengers aboard his craft. Then the Gentleman from San Francisco, feeling, as he ought to have felt, quite an old man, thought with anguish and spite of all these " Royals," " Splendids,' 1 " Excelsiors," and of these greedy, good-for-nothing, garlic-stinking fellows called Italians. Once, during a halt, on opening his eyes and rising from the sofa he saw under the rocky cliff-curtain of the coast a heap of such miserable stone hovels, all musty and mouldy, stuck on top of one another by the very water, among the boats, and the rags of all sorts, tin cans and brown fishing-nets, and,remembering that this was the very Italy he had come to enjoy, he was seized with despair. . .

(From Chapter 4: Young Man’s Fancy) How many acceptable young girls has she trailed discreetly before him, like feathered fishing lures? She arranges them, always, next to a vase of white flowers. Their morals have been irreproachable, their manners candid as spring water; their minds have been presented to him as unbaked pieces of dough which it would be his prerogative to mound and form [...] But his mother has always confused youth with malleability.

I applied a lot of what I knew about fishing to the dating world. I thought that women were a lot like fish in that they travel around in packs. They even go to the bathroom together--even if some of them don’t need to go! The key to catching a lot of fish is to get the pack caught up in the frenzy of trying to be the one to capture the lure. When fish feed, they are motivated by one another. I have watched fish go crazy when my lure splashes across the top of the water. I have even caught two fish on one lure several times in large schools of feeding fish. However, I eventually learned the hard way that women are not like fish at all. For one, fish do not have the ability to slap your face because you’re trying to land two at once. Second, fishing is relaxing and relieves stress, while dating a lot of girls at the same time is maddening. Luckily for me, I always had the woods and water to escape to when things got crazy, which seemed to happen a lot. Nothing tells a girl that you’ve moved on quite like a dead deer in the back of your truck or ducks on the grill.

He suspects she’s flirting with him. It’s far from disagreeable, but, perversely, it makes him think of his mother. How many acceptable young girls has she trailed discreetly before him, like feathered fishing lures? She arranges them, always, next to a vase of white flowers. Their morals have been irreproachable, their manners candid as spring water; their minds have been presented to him as unbaked pieces of dough which it would be his prerogative to mould and form. As one season’s crop of girls proceeds into engagement and marriage, younger ones keep sprouting up, like tulips in May. They are now so young in relation to Simon that he has trouble conversing with them; it’s like talking to a basketful of kittens.

Sound waves, regardless of their frequency or intensity, can only be detected by the Mole Fly’s acute sense of smell—it is a little known fact that the Mole Fly’s auditory receptors do not, in fact, have a corresponding center in the brain designated for the purposes of processing sensory stimuli and so, these stimuli, instead of being siphoned out as noise, bypass the filters to be translated, oddly enough, by the part of the brain that processes smell. Consequently, the Mole Fly’s brain, in its inevitable confusion, understands sound as an aroma, rendering the boundary line between the auditory and olfactory sense indistinguishable. Sounds, thus, come in a variety of scents with an intensity proportional to its frequency. Sounds of shorter wavelength, for example, are particularly pungent. What results is a species of creature that cannot conceptualize the possibility that sound and smell are separate entities, despite its ability to discriminate between the exactitudes of pitch, timbre, tone, scent, and flavor to an alarming degree of precision. Yet, despite this ability to hyper-analyze, they lack the cognitive skill to laterally link successions of either sound or smell into a meaningful context, resulting in the equivalent of a data overflow. And this may be the most defining element of the Mole Fly’s behavior: a blatant disregard for the context of perception, in favor of analyzing those remote and diminutive properties that distinguish one element from another. While sensory continuity seems logical to their visual perception, as things are subject to change from moment-to-moment, such is not the case with their olfactory sense, as delays in sensing new smells are granted a degree of normality by the brain. Thus, the Mole Fly’s olfactory-auditory complex seems to be deprived of the sensory continuity otherwise afforded in the auditory senses of other species. And so, instead of sensing aromas and sounds continuously over a period of time—for example, instead of sensing them 24-30 times per second, as would be the case with their visual perception—they tend to process changes in sound and smell much more slowly, thereby preventing them from effectively plotting the variations thereof into an array or any kind of meaningful framework that would allow the information provided by their olfactory and auditory stimuli to be lasting in their usefulness. The Mole flies, themselves, being the structurally-obsessed and compulsive creatures that they are, in all their habitual collecting, organizing, and re-organizing of found objects into mammoth installations of optimal functional value, are remarkably easy to control, especially as they are given to a rather false and arbitrary sense of hierarchy, ascribing positions—that are otherwise trivial, yet necessarily mundane if only to obscure their true purpose—with an unfathomable amount of honor, to the logical extreme that the few chosen to serve in their most esteemed ranks are imbued with a kind of obligatory arrogance that begins in the pupal stages and extends indefinitely, as they are further nurtured well into adulthood by a society that infuses its heroes of middle management with an immeasurable sense of importance—a kind of celebrity status recognized by the masses as a living embodiment of their ideals. And yet, despite this culture of celebrity worship and vicarious living, all whims and impulses fall subservient, dropping humbly to the knees—yes, Mole Flies do, in fact, have knees!—before the grace of the merciful Queen, who is, in actuality, just a puppet dictator installed by the Melic papacy, using an old recycled Damsel fly-fishing lure. The dummy is crude, but convincing, as the Mole flies treat it as they would their true-born queen.

You were just trying to figure out if I'm one of you?" Of course, stupid. When has anyone like Galen ever paid you any attention? When has there ever been anyone like Galen? Still, I'm surprised how much it hurts when he nods. I'm his little science project. All the time I thought he was flirting with me, he was really just trying to lure me out here to test his theory. If stupid were a disease, I'd have died from it by now. But at least I know where he really stands-about his feelings for me anyway. But what his intentions for me in general are, I have no idea. What happens if I can turn into a fish? Does he think I'll just kiss my mom good-bye, flush all my good grades-all those scholarships-down the toilet so I can go swim with the dolphins? he called himself a Royal. Of course, I don't know exactly what that means, but I can sure guess-that I'm another subject to him, someone to order around. He did say I had to obey him, after all. But if he's a Royal, why come out here himself? Why not send someone less important? I'm betting the U.S. President doesn't personally go to foreign countries looking for missing Americans who might not even be American. But can I trust him enough to answer my questions? He already deceived me once, faking interest in me to get me out here. He lied to my face about having a mother. He even lied to my mom. What else would he lie about to get what he wants? No, I can't trust him. Still, I want to know the truth, if only for myself. I'm not moving into some big seashell off the Jersey seashore or anything-but I can't deny that I'm different. What could it hurt to spend a little more time with Galen so he can help me figure this out? So what if he thinks I'm some sort of pheasant fish who has to obey him? Why shouldn't I use him the way he used me-to get what I want? It's just that what I want is holding me in his arms, acting like he's concerned that I'm not talking anymore.

It was George the Mailman’s last day on the job after 35 years of carrying the mail through all kinds of weather to the same neighborhood. When he arrived at the first house on his route, he was greeted by the whole family who congratulated him and sent him on his way with a tidy gift envelope. At the second house, they presented him with a box of fine cigars. The folks at the third house handed him a selection of terrific fishing lures. At the fourth house, he was met at the door by a strikingly beautiful blonde woman in a revealing negligee. She took him by the hand, gently led him through the door, which she closed behind him, and took him up the stairs to the bedroom where she blew his mind with the most passionate love he had ever experienced. When he had enough, they went downstairs and she fixed him a giant breakfast: eggs, potatoes, ham, sausage, blueberry waffles, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. When he was truly satisfied, she poured him a cup of steaming coffee. As she was pouring, he noticed a dollar bill sticking out from under the cup’s bottom edge. "All this was just too wonderful for words," he said, "But what’s the dollar for?" "Well," she said, "Last night, I told my husband that today would be your last day, and that we should do something special for you. I asked him what to give you. He said, “Screw him. Give him a dollar.” The breakfast was my idea.

One finds oneself surprisingly supplied with information. Outside the undifferentiated forces roar; inside we are very private, very explicit, have a sense indeed, that it is here, in this little room, that we make whatever day of the week it may be. Friday or Saturday. A shell forms upon the soft soul, nacreous, shiny, upon which sensations tap their beaks in vain. On me it formed earlier than on most. Soon I could carve my pear when other people had done dessert. I could bring my sentence to a close in a hush of complete silence. It is at that season too that perfection has a lure. One can learn Spanish, one thinks, by tying a string to the right toe and waking early. One fills up the little compartments of one’s engagement book with dinner at eight; luncheon at one-thirty. One has shirts, socks, ties laid out on one’s bed. But it is a mistake, this extreme precision, this orderly and military progress; a convenience, a lie. There is always deep below it, even when we arrive punctually at the appointed time with our white waistcoats and polite formalities, a rushing stream of broken dreams, nursery rhymes, street cries, half-finished sentences and sights—elm trees, willow trees, gardeners sweeping, women writing—that rise and sink even as we hand a lady down to dinner. While one straightens the fork so precisely on the table-cloth, a thousand faces mop and mow. There is nothing one can fish up in a spoon; nothing one can call an event. Yet it is alive too and deep, this stream. Immersed in it I would stop between one mouthful and the next, and look intently at a vase, perhaps with one red flower, while a reason struck me, a sudden revelation.

Speech in the Sportpalast Berlin, January 30, 1942 They say, “you sail on your KdF ships; we cannot allow them to land here; that would corrupt our laborers.” Now, why would that corrupt their laborers? I cannot see why. The German laborer has worked more than ever before; why should he not have a rest? Is it not a joke when today the man in the White House says, “we have a program for the world, and this program for the world will give man freedom and the right to work.” Mr. Roosevelt-open your eyes! We have already done this in Germany a long time ago. Or when he says that the sick ought to be taken care of. Please leave the garden of our party program-this is National Socialist teaching and not yours, Sir! This is heresy for a democrat. Or when he says, “we want laborers to have a vacation.” It is a little late to want this, since we have already put this into practice. And we would be much further along now if Mr. Roosevelt had not interfered. Or when he says, “we want to increase prosperity for the masses of laborers, too.” All these things are in our program! He might have seen them through, if he had not started the war. After all, we did all this before the war. No, these capitalist hyenas do not have the slightest intention of doing this. They see us as a suspicious example. And now, in order to lure their own people, they have to get in on our party program and fish out a few sentences, these poor bunglers. And even that they do imperfectly. We had a world unanimously against us here. Of course, not only on the right, but also on the left. Those on the left feared: “What are we going to do, if this experiment succeeds and he actually makes it and eliminates the housing problem? What if he manages to introduce an educational system based on which a talented boy, no matter who his parents are, can attain God knows what position? And, he is capable of doing it, he is already making a Reich protector out of a former farmhand. What if he really introduces an old-age pension scheme covering the whole Volk? What if he truly secures a right to vacations for the whole Volk, since he is already building ships? And he is bringing all this up to an ordered and secured standard of living. What are we going to do? We live by the absence of this. We live by this and, therefore, we must fight National Socialism.” What the others have accomplished-that, our comrades were best able to see in Russia. We have been in power for nine years now. Bolshevism has been there since 1917, that is, almost twenty-five years. Everyone can judge for himself by comparing this Russia with Germany. The things we did in these nine years. What does the German Volk look like, and what have they accomplished over there? I do not even want to mention the capitalist states. They do not take care of their unemployed, because no American millionaire will ever come into the area where they live, and no unemployed man will ever go to the area where the millionaires live. While hunger marches to Washington and to the White House are organized, they are usually dispersed en route by the police by means of rubber truncheons and tear gas. Such things do not exist in authoritarian Germany. We deal with such problems without such things-rubber truncheons and tear gas.

Any fish with a closed mouth can avoid trouble, but a wise fish warns of the lure of trouble.

For 1000 years after the Crucifixion the apostles and their bold followers had fervently spread the message of Christ. Then some kind of indolence had set in. Why had the Great Commission stopped? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he, William Carey, could go to some tropical island like Tahiti and convert the heathen? “Oh, Tahiti!” he enthused to his students, regaling them with the facts that lured him there. “Four hundred square miles of lush, green paradise. Cold weather and hot weather are unknown. Breadfruit, bananas and coconuts hang everywhere for the eating. Bays and lagoons are choked with fat, lazy fish. And most important, lads, there are thousands of pagans! Pagans! Oh, they are most fastidious. They bathe three times a day. They are polite, yet as ignorant of the ten commandments as beautiful tropical birds...

STEP up—step up, ladies and gentlemen! The greatest bargain at the carnival! For a few cents, ninety-nine to be exact, less than a dollar, you can buy the lures that catch the biggest fish! Step up —step up! Fine handmade flies!” Chet Morton, red-faced and beaming, paused for breath. Then he blew a loud blast on a bugle. When the startled people attending the Southport carnival jumped and looked his way, he held aloft a handful of bright-colored flies and went into his speech again. “You risk no money. You merely make an investment in a fish dinner. Every fly guaranteed to pay for itself in fresh trout!” Few of those who stopped to look had any intention of buying flies. But they drifted closer, attracted by the boy’s sales talk. Many of them laughingly parted with a dollar bill. Several men said, “Keep the change, son!

People thought that a magic like that was like calling a well-trained dog to heel, certain of obedience. She and Cyrus both knew better. It was more like luring a cat with a bit of fish and hoping the cat would deign to do as you wished.

On the first lure above the lead, some trollers sometimes put a golf tee in a hoochie without a hook to give unwanted bottom fish something to chew on in hopes the second leader up might catch a coho or king salmon.

I hate to tell you, honey, but this won't snag you a striped bass." I take my change, grab the binoc strap, and stuff the squishy pink lure into the pocket of my jeans. "Oh, I know. This is for something else. I wouldn't use anything but a topwater plug for catchin' stripers." I'm not even sure how I know this. There's a change in the shopkeeper's face. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Worth the $2.75 I've just spent on this silly lure.

And the average person needed to be coaxed, prodded, and lured in like a fish on the line. That’s what made evenings like the one she had planned so important. Desire had to be invented.

Whoopee!” Michael said as his barbecued fish arrived. “Look at that! Amazing.” A meal was never just a meal; with Michael Foot it was a celebration. Nearly every mouthful got its own cry of satisfaction. I remembered, though, that on the boat he had been excited about the fishing and then sobered by seeing the fish pulled on board. He was going to eat it, but for that moment he did not like staring death in the face. Now, even with the whole fish—head and all on his plate, he devoured his delicacy without a qualm. While we talked, Michael put his head down and dug in. All he managed to utter, again and again, was “now, now, delicious.” Later I questioned him, “You’re not really against fishing, are you Michael?” “Well, not really, but every now and again I’m shaken.” Even after what I told you about Benjamin Franklin?” “Yes,” he insisted. I had told Michael the story from Franklin’s autobiography. Although he was a vegetarian, Franklin had been lured by the wonderful smell of sailors cooking fish aboard ship and had forsaken his principles, pointing out that he had watched the fish opened up and saw inside them smaller fish. He reasoned that if the bigger fish could eat the smaller fish, he could eat the bigger fish. “Good excuse that is,” Michael conceded, but he had read Brigid Brophy’s brief in favour of vegetarianism and been persuaded (mostly). “My father was a seaman,” I said to Michael gravely, “and it would be hard to convince me.

Beckers, with his scanners, would surely have seen in her brain an area that didn’t light up in anyone else when confronted with a scene of violence: that of pleasure and reward. Not that she felt any pleasure; she pretty much felt like puking at each new investigation, vomiting to the death before the horrors that humans were capable of inflicting. But an invisible lure snared her every time. A hook that ripped out her throat and destroyed her inside, but she couldn’t get rid of. This time, it wasn’t a little fishing gear that had titillated her. No, the line was much heavier than that. Perfect for going after sharks.

“Remember that time you dumped out a whole box of bait?” I almost smile. It was the summer before eighth grade. Dad bought crickets at the bait shop. “They were screaming for help.” *** “And your dad,” Jeb continues. “He didn’t get mad that you turned the bugs loose. He just pulled out the aluminum lures, and that’s what we used from then on. I never knew a father could be like that. Forgiving. Kind. He’s the best guy I know. Pretty sure he saved my life a time or two.”

Well, here’s a quick summary of my archery adventures:   1) The Gobbling Grass: Dad set the target up in a big open field, and he gave me his old wooden arrows to start out with. I scored a hit with every arrow—if you count the ground as a target.  Result: We lost half of the arrows in the tall grass.   2) The Ruthless Rocks: This time Dad set the target up on the side of a hill so we could use it as a backstop. My arrows hit every time—the hill, not the target. Unfortunately, the wooden arrows broke when they hit rocks hidden under the dirt. (For the record, it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t put the rocks in the hillside.) Dad mumbled something about keeping my eyes open while aiming. Result:  We ran out of wooden arrows, and Dad switched me to aluminum ones.   3) The Luring Lake: This time I used the same target on the hillside but Dad’s aluminum arrows. He told me to aim a little higher because the aluminum arrows were heavier. So I drew the first arrow back as far as I could, aimed up, and fired. The arrow flew beautifully—way over the target, clean over the hill, and PLUNK into the pond. My next two arrows came much closer. The last one even almost hit the hill. Result: Dad decided we’d done enough archery, and we should try fishing instead. (And we all know how well that worked out.)

61 LITTLE BOY FISHING   Little boy with pole so new Walking down the road Whistling on a song or two Stops to shift his load.   Takes his shoes off and his socks Barefoot – oh how grand! Opens up his tackle box Sitting in the sand.   Now I’m ready, fish beware My how far I cast. I’ll retrieve with utmost care Slowly first, then fast.   What is that, it reels so queer Could it be a bass? But maneuvering it near Found ‘twas just some grass.   Here’s a fancy lure I’ve found I’ll have luck, you’ll see. But in whirling it around Snarled it in a tree.   Then quite hungry, also wet, Trudges on his way Better luck will always come On another day.     Arthur T. Elfstrom November 1974

I always wondered about men who spent their time trying to anticipate and know a fish in a world where man’s knowledge of each other could only be called scarce. It just seemed to be gratuitously ignorant for any man to think that he could think like a fish. Then there was the high deceit of the artificial fly; subtlety, guile, and sly deception created and instilled only to lure a cautious and tentative fish to its death. They were as bad as drug fiends, living in their shadowy world of aquatic intrigue. I

She tied him a fly, using a pattern she’d designed, one that had given her untold luck with those silvery fish, those fighting steelhead. She was anxious for his return. “Does it have a name?” he said, when she gave it to him. “The Predator.” She smiled. A little embarrassed. His eyes turned dark, and her heart beat faster. His voice dipped low. “It’s a fine name.” He regarded her for several heavy, silent beats. She felt an atavistic pull, the hairs on her arms rising toward him, as if in electrical attraction. He leaned closer and her mouth turned dry. And he told her about the wild blueberries. Down by the bend in the river. She took the lure. She went in search of the berries. She never came home.

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ANTLIONS, LACEWINGS, AND RELATIVES: ORDER NEUROPTERA The net-winged insects are an order of beneficial predators with interesting appearances, habits, and names. Though the adult antlion feeds on nectar from flowers, it gets its name from the predatory habits of its ravenous larva, which can consume large quantities of ants. Antlion larvae live in sandy areas where they dig pits. The antlion, or doodlebug as the larva is sometimes called, buries itself in the sand at the bottom of the cone-shaped pit with only its jaws exposed. When an ant or other hapless insect approaches the edge of the pit, the sand begins to crumble and the insect tumbles into the waiting jaws of the doodlebug. The name doodlebug is thought to be a reference to the tracks the larva makes in the sand while searching for a perfect location for its pit. The tracks look as though something had been doodling in the sand. Young children often chant “Doodlebug, doodlebug, come out of your hole,” and it is believed that the expiration of breath in proximity to the pit will lure the larva from its subterranean refuge.Children also fish for doodlebugs with blades of grass, pulling the insects from the sand when they grasp at the blade.

If she and her sister were fishing lures, Sabrina would be a bright green and orange one with flowing dangly things behind her and a hidden treble hook, and would decorate the front display case of a store, and probably cost a load of money. Kelli was a bait worm in a muddy cup they kept in the back mini-fridge.

Looking back, I see that encountering that lone and revered Islander Owen Rabbitt was an omen, an announcement, a heads-up. He was telling us two things that proved to be most true: 1. Come correct. Fishing here takes knowledge. Fish the right lure the right way at the right place. 2. What you catch in this place will enrich you far more than fish. The lone elder on that rock up in Gay head made it clear: This place has the ability to show you things deeper than fishing: things seen and heard in liminal space.

I continue to train. The depths still beckon me. On that dive in 2016, when I turned 102 metres down, although my eyes were closed I could feel the pull of untold volumes of water yet below me. What am I still chasing, one might ask, in that submerged realm? Shakespeare spoke of the lure of ‘unpathed waters, undreamed shores’. If George Mallory, who perished somewhere near the summit of Everest in 1924, had been a freediver, he would have justified himself with the words ‘because it’s everywhere’. My first teacher, Umberto Pelizzari, dived to ‘look inside’. These concepts have all rung true for me, too. As did the insight of the elderly Bahamian lady who was asked why she thought I dived, and replied: ‘He wants to see what he is.’ I don’t have to go deep — sometimes I dive just to be, as Mervyn Peake says, ‘at one with every swarm of lime-green fish, with every coloured sponge’. Long after my final record or my final competition dive, I will continue to frequent that ‘world of wavering light’ where it all began, for me and for life as we know it. I dive to go home.

A Protein Is Not a Protein Companies are touting protein as a cure-all and for weight loss/muscle gain. They’re selling protein shakes, protein cookies, protein snack bars, even protein coffee. It’s true that protein is neither carbohydrate nor sugar nor fat, and you need it to maintain normal growth. However, your kidneys have a limited capacity to excrete the metabolic by-products of protein metabolism, and overexcretion can cause kidney damage. Therefore, protein quality is as important as protein quantity. For example, eggs and beans both contain protein, but are very different in quality. Dietary protein is made up of twenty separate amino acids strung together in different combinations and amounts. One of those amino acids, tryptophan, is rarer and therefore more important than others, because it’s the precursor of serotonin, an important brain neurotransmitter (see Chapter 19). Eggs, poultry, and fish are the best sources of this amino acid, while beans have very little. On the other hand, additional protein is needed if you’re building muscle, especially branched-chain amino acids (BCAAs; leucine, isoleucine, valine), which are 20 percent of muscle (see Chapter 18). BCAAs are in high concentration in corn products, and are what’s in those tubs of protein powder at the health food store. If you’re a bodybuilder, you need them; if you’re not a gym rat and consume excess BCAAs, your liver will take the amino groups off and turn them into organic acids, which will either be diverted into liver fat (through DNL) or into excess glucose, either of which can generate hyperinsulinemia and drive chronic disease. The goal is to get more tryptophan and less BCAAs in the protein you consume.

I rang out a couple more customers as I thought about it, and...he slowly walked up to the counter and set down two spools of line. I should really figure out what the point of one being thicker than the other was. “Hi, Mr. Rhodes,” I greeted him with a smile. He’d taken his sunglasses off and slid them through one of the gaps between the buttons of his work shirt. His gray eyes were steady on me as he said in that same uninterested, stern tone from before, “Hi.” I took the first package of fishing line and scanned it. “How is your day going?” “Fine.” I scanned the next package and figured I might as well go in for the kill since no one was around. “You remember that time you said you owed me?” A day ago. He didn’t say anything, and I peeked up at him. Since his eyebrows couldn’t talk, they formed a shape that told me exactly how distrustful he was feeling right then. “You do, okay. Well,” and I lowered my voice, “I was going to ask if I could redeem that favor.” Those gray eyes stayed narrowed. This was going well. I glanced around to make sure no one was listening and quickly said, “When you aren’t busy… could you teach me about all this stuff? Even if it’s just a little bit?” That got him to blink in what I was pretty sure was surprise. And to give him credit, he too lowered his voice as he asked slowly and possibly in confusion, “What stuff?” I tipped my head to the side. “All this stuff in here. Fishing, camping, you know, general knowledge I might need to work here so I have an idea of what I’m doing.” There was another blink. I might as well go for it. “Only when you aren’t super busy. Please. If you can, but if you can’t, that’s okay.” I’d just cry myself to sleep at night. No biggie. Worst case, I could hit up the library on my days off. Hang out in the grocery store parking lot and google information. I could make it work. I would, regardless. Dark, thick, black eyelashes dipped over his nice eyes, and his voice came out low and even. “You’re serious?” He thought I was shitting him. “Dead.” His head turned to the side, giving me a good view of his short but really pretty eyelashes. “You want me to teach you to fish?” he asked like he couldn’t believe it, like I’d asked him to… I don’t know, show me his wiener. “You don’t have to teach me to fish, but I wouldn’t be opposed to it. I haven’t been in forever. But more about everything else. Like, what is the point of these two different kinds of line? What are all the lures good for? Or are they called flies? Do you really need those gadgets to start a fire?” I knew I was whispering as I said, “I have so many random questions, and not having internet makes it hard to look things up. Your total is $40.69, by the way.” My landlord blinked for about the hundredth time at that point, and I was pretty sure he was either confused or stunned as he pulled his wallet out and slipped his card through the reader, his gaze staying on me for the majority of the time in that long, watchful way that was completely different from the way the older men had been eyeballing me earlier. Not sexually or with interest, but more like I was a raccoon and he wasn’t sure if I had rabies or not. In a weird way, I preferred it by a lot. I smiled. “It’s okay if not,” I told him, handing over a small paper bag with his purchases inside. The tall man took it from me and let his eyes wander to a spot to my left. His Adam’s apple bobbed; then he took a step back and sighed. “Fine. Tonight, 7:30. I’ve got thirty minutes and not one longer.” What! “You’re my hero,” I whispered. He looked at me, then blinked. “I’ll be there, thank you,” I told him. He grunted, and before I could thank him again, he was out of there so fast I had no chance to check out his butt in those work pants of his.

A month had passed since Roz left the island. According to her calculations, she had traveled hundreds of miles, but she still had hundreds more to go. The tireless robot continued north, on and on, toward the waters where the Ancient Shark roamed. If you travel far enough north, you’ll reach an area where the sun never sets in summer. And Roz had traveled far enough north. Up at the surface, there was constant daylight, all day, every day, until autumn. However, our robot was at a depth below the reach of the sun. And yet there were occasional glimmers. Certain deep-sea fish had glowing fins, while others had glowing teeth, and still others had spindly glowing lures that dangled from their heads. Jellyfish came in every shape imaginable, and many of them gave off a ghostly light. Most gleaming creatures kept their distance. Roz would see a flicker, and as her headlights swept toward it, the creature vanished into the murky haze. She was marching down a long slope that descended to the deepest trenches of the ocean when she felt her Survival Instincts tingling. The weight of all the water above was becoming too great. If she went much deeper, she’d be crushed from the pressure. So Roz stopped marching downhill and started swimming at a safer depth, and the ocean floor quickly faded from view. The robot’s limbs paddled automatically, which left her mind free to wander. Specks of debris floated all around, like a gentle snowfall, and suddenly she was recalling the snowfalls she’d experienced on land. She thought

What is a human life? Is it designed? Is it accidental? The latter, I think, but I do sometimes wonder if we are subsumed in something much larger than our senses can perceive. What if we are to greater beings what the fish in the river is to us? When it is hooked on a lure and hauled through the upper limits of its world into a higher realm, does it wonder at the naïveté of its brief sojourn in the water?

Give a man a fish,' he said, 'and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and for the rest of his life you can sell him rods and reels and hooks and leaders and flies and lures and God only knows what else.

Between catching and cooking, each fish was measured, its length jotted in a little spiral-bound logbook that Willie had encouraged me to start: date, length of fish, lure or bait used, any special notes such as food found in the mouth or stomach. Though he had spent much of his life in cities and still lived in the Boston area, Willie observed the world with a naturalist’s eye. He knew that keeping track of details would help me understand the fish we hunted and the ecology of the place.

There are many brands to choose from and I have brought to you only the best ones & worth buying. Lets Go Bass Fishing brings you the best and honest fishing gear reviews. I cover from fishing reels to rods and lures. Fishing is an activity I have been doing since I was young and I encourage everyone to practice it.

A fishing life changes and everyday offers the promise of a new experience. To the dedicated angler, fishing is not sport or recreation. It is discipline, serious and ever changing. Sure, there are basic rules to follow, but understanding and developing the necessary skills isn't dependent on strict adherence to convention. Fish are moving feast, a shimmering smorgasbord of life trying to eat in a harsh environment that is both different and the same @ goarticles.com/article/The-Fishing-Fo...

Enchantment Name Maximum Level Objects Effect Protection IV All armor Reduces physical damage Fire Protection IV All armor Reduces fire damage and burn time, includes damage from lava Blast Protection IV All armor Reduces damage from explosions Feather Falling IV Boots Reduces fall damage Projectile Protection IV All armor Reduces damage from all projectiles Thorns III All armor Damages attackers based on enchantment level Sharpness V Sword/ ax Increases damage of item Smite V Sword/ ax Increases damage to undead mobs Bane of Arthropods V Sword/ ax Increases damage to spiders and silverfish Knockback II Sword Pushes mobs back when hit Fire Aspect II Sword Sets target mob on fire Power V Bow Increases damage done by arrows Punch II Bow Pushes target back Flame I Bow Arrows set mobs on fire Infinity I Bow One arrow can be used infinite times Unbreaking III Most weapons tools and armor Increases durability of tools, armor and weapons Respiration III Helmet Extends underwater breathing time and improves vision Aqua Affinity I Helmet Increases the speed of mining underwater Depth Strider III Boots Increases the horizontal swimming speed inside water Looting II Sword Increases the number of drops as well as the chance of rare mob drops Efficiency V Tools Increases the mining speed. Correct tools must be used with a block to get the boost Silk Touch I Tools Mined blocks drop themselves instead of dropping the usual items. (For instance mining ore block will drop ore block) Fortune III Tools Increases the number of items dropped by a mined block Luck of the Sea III Fishing Rod Reduces the chance of catching junk Lure III Fishing Rod Increases the rate at which fishes bite the hook

It was the mailman's last day on the job after 35 years of carrying the mail through all kinds of weather to the same neighborhood. When he arrived at the first house on his route he was greeted by the whole family there, who congratulated him and sent him on his way with a big gift envelope. At the second house they presented him with a box of fine cigars. The folks at the third house handed him a selection of terrific fishing lures. At the fourth house he was met at the door by a strikingly beautiful woman in a revealing negligee. She took him by the hand, gently led him through the door, and led him up the stairs to the bedroom where she blew his mind with the most passionate love he had ever experienced. When he had had enough they went downstairs, where she fixed him a giant breakfast: eggs, potatoes, ham, sausage, blueberry pancakes, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. When he was truly satisfied she poured him a cup of steaming Colombian coffee. As she was pouring, he noticed a dollar bill sticking out from under her bra cup's bottom edge. "All this was just too wonderful for words," he said, "but what's the dollar for?" "Well, last night, I told my husband that today would be your last day, and that we should do something special for you. I asked him what to give you. And the jerk said, 'Fuck him, just give him a dollar.' The breakfast was my idea.