By Doug Humprheys

Vacation is a relative term. Before I was married a vacation was a week spent hunting or fishing with friends. After marriage, vacation became a quiet beach, a good book, and romantic evening walks. Now, with two small children, vacation is moving madness from Shepherdstown to a beach town on the Outer Banks.

During our last vacation in Kitty Hawk, I was eating breakfast with a restless three-year old and a teething one-year old and was thinking that we needed a change of pace for that particular day. The beach was great; but I needed a break from diapers full of sand and eyes burning from sunscreen.

I had spotted a fishing pier from the beach—the constant presence of anglers dangling bait in the ocean was hard not to notice. I decided to take the kids on a little scouting trip to see if those wetted lines were producing fish.

As we walked down the pier I was surprised to see a pile of fish by every angler. We watched for a while as everyone on the pier pulled a fish up 20 feet to the deck every few minutes. A grizzled old timer gave my little girl a wink while he re-baited a hook. We introduced ourselves and asked if we could watch. Visibly pleased that we’d asked, he invited us to stay.

As he dropped his rig of squid over the railing he caught me looking at his pile of fish. “Know what those are?” he asked.

“Nope,” I said, “but I’m pretty sure it’s the ugliest fish I’ve ever seen.”

A raspy laugh slipped through his toothless smile, and he replied, “It’s a trigger fish, and it’s only ugly until you eat it.”

As he set the hook on his next fish he added, “They also fight like the devil.” I’d already noticed that for myself.

We watched him catch three fish in a short 15 minutes, shook hands with our new friend, and headed back to the house for nap time. As soon as the kids were in bed I was in the car and headed to the local tackle shop.

I had noticed an old surf rod hanging beneath our rented house, so I found a reel that was on sale, some fishing line, a few bottom rigs, and some fresh shrimp. Forty-six bucks later I was armed and ready to take my little boy fishing. Oren is an ace with a push button rig on the Potomac, and I was anxious to see his reaction to bigger tackle, bigger water and, hopefully, bigger fish.

The next morning there was a stiff wind out of the east; the day before the wind had blown from the west. The result was that the pond-like ocean that allowed a clear view of passing schools of bluefish had turned into an angry, white-capped sea.

The piles of trigger fish were gone, and I feared that my little boy might not have the day of fishing that I’d hoped. Not to be discouraged, we made our way to an open bench near the end of the pier and assembled our rod.

As we dropped our rig of shrimp over the edge I noticed that the rods around us were still bending, but there was a new fish I’d never seen being pulled over the rail. We kept the bail open until we felt the weight hit bottom; then we waited. The fishing gods immediately sent a fish to grab our hook and head for the open sea.

Oren immediately recognized the strike, and pulled straight back on the rod. More than one old timer on the pier noticed that a three-year-old knew to set a hook, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t beaming with pride. The railing helped Oren keep the rod tip up, and though the reel was bigger than what he was used to, he was able to pull the fish to the bottom of the pier and then grab his net as Daddy pulled the remaining few feet of line in by hand.

When the fish was above the boardwalk, the net was promptly stuck between the railings and the trophy was quickly “landed.” Again, Daddy beamed. We held the fish, looked it over thoroughly, then released it back to the sea. This was the same fish the other anglers were catching, and apparently the fish did not hold the same dinner-plate value as the trigger fish.

As we spoke to the fishermen around us, we learned that we were catching spade fish. Smaller than the trigger fish by several pounds, but much prettier to look at; the spade fish appeared to be a cousin to the fish in our tank at home. They took bait readily and fought hard with the couple of pounds they carried. During the two hours we were there, we caught nine; plenty to keep Oren’s attention.

I learned a lot about pier fishing on that trip. I learned that what might appear to be merely a group of individuals dangling a line is actually a community of people who take their angling seriously. So serious, in fact, that bloggers track what is biting, when it’s biting, and on what. Tweets are sounded in real time when the fishing gets hot. I learned that there are ways to fish at the beach without spending large sums of money on boats, captains, and mates.

Most importantly I was reminded, as I am every time I fish with my little boy, that there is no better day than a day spent fishing. I’m already looking forward to our vacation this year, even more than last year now that Oren and I have discovered pier fishing.

I’ll be looking for a day with a west wind in hopes of catching a trigger fish or two. But if that day never comes, Oren and I will gladly take our ace of spades.