Stafford: World’s worst fisherman lives up to his billing

It’s been a long search.

But I finally found something I’m worse at than golf.

Fishing.

Of course, if you can’t fish at all, it doesn’t matter what kind of fishing you do.

So, I’m tempted to up my status by saying I’m particularly bad at underwater spear fishing or deep sea fishing. And I’m confident I would be, if some fool were to offer me the chance.

But last weekend, I was focused on being the worst walleye fisherman on Lake Erie, if not the entire Great Lakes — including watershed as defined by various international treaties.

I drove the night before up to Coldwater for the three-and-a-fraction hours of sleep before my brother-in-law Jon knocked on the door at 2 a.m. and suggested I rise and shine.

I rose but did not shine.

A truly nice guy, he had invited me on the trip to replace someone who had planned to go on an earlier charter boat expedition called off because the lake had been too angry. Jon and I rode in the front seats, and in the backseat was my son-on-law, Jason, a true fisherman, and Dean, who married my wife’s niece, and is a serviceable fisherman.

Both stuck up for me when I spilled part of an iced tea in Jon’s spotless pickup truck. Because a worried Jon told me not to worry about the spill, I didn’t tell him that coffee stains cover the carpet on the driver’s side floor of my van like a bizarre full sleeve tattoo.

At the end of a three-hour drive to Port Clinton, we passed by several restaurants open before 5:30 a.m. for the likes of us, then found the shop we were looking for adjacent to the docks and across the street from a fish-cleaning place and a store that sells 30 flavors of popcorn.

After checking in, we took turns using a bathroom in which I found myself able to use the wall in front of me to rest my head while remaining seated, a rare opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

While in that thinking position, I came up with a name for it: The Sardine Can.

And I had to wonder how many fishermen over the years had struggled to rise from the seated position in such close quarters and whether I should suggest the installation of a rope.

On Jon’s advice, I’d brought along a light jacket against the morning cool. I also followed his lead in downing my Dramamine at 4 a.m., 90 minutes before we were supposed to head out.

The spray off the bow added a little chill as we started, but the air was more fresh than cool and watching the sun rise through the trees on Kelly’s Island was a treat. The Dramamine worked well enough that the only thing I had to throw back into the water was the single perch I caught in the first hour of fishing.

Although it was all lost on me, each time we stopped at a new spot and the boat motor coughed to silence, our captain issued a series of instructions about how we should fish based on the depth and the rockiness of the bottom.

I should have paid closer attention to what he said about how not to tangle my line. Because I didn’t, I spent the better part of the day trying to unknot fishing line too thin to see while dodging hooks and trying to yank a metal sinker the size of a shot put through slender gaps in the line.

And that brings to mind the recent passing of Ron Popeil and the realization that in a truly just world, I wouldn’t be issued anything more sophisticated than a Pocket Fisherman.

Despite my haplessness, others were having, if not a brisk day, a satisfying day of hooking into walleye and other less desirable fish Jon called “farm animals” ( sheepshead and catfish).

Each time a line grew taut and the pole bent, “fish on” was called out and we all turned our heads like fish on a hook while the captain scurried for the landing net.

One of the fishing team lost a couple of good ones by lifting the line of the water before the net arrived. I avoided that problem, of course, by failing to catch any.

While the smaller fish were released immediately upon being unhooked, we all took time to marvel at the handsome specimens that measured as keepers. After taking time to appreciate them, they were tossed into a dark, icy box to breath their last.

I gave up fishing for the day when I didn’t have heart to make another worm writhe in pain by piercing it with a sharp barb only so I then could drown it for nothing.

I’ve seen enough movies like that.

For me, the highest drama of the day involved struggling to stand up when the wind-blown waves created troughs that rocked the boat to the extent that it seemed I had one foot on each side of a teeter-totter being operated by twin sumo wrestlers.

Back at Jon’s place, I helped carry the cleaning table into the yard and marveled at his skill with an electric knife. A slice near the gills and one down the middle halved the fish and a single pass sliced the skin from the outside of the fillet.

Then it was a matter of making a small v-cut to undermine a blood vein, which Jon was able to remove from the fish flesh like a zipper.

He also trimmed a scallop-size piece off each cheek of the fish, tossing into the finished dish a prize that was like the raw buffalo tongue Wind in his Hair offers to Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves.

The others in the boat were kind enough to send walleye home to me on a day when I could have earned the nickname “Hook with Nothing.”

But the filets my wife rolled and pan fried in a mix of corn meal and Italian seasonings went down easy.

So, I haven’t quite given up on myself as a fisherman without one more try.

I’ve promised myself to spend another $100 for my share of a charter trip — and next time a tip of more than $10 to the captain, if I catch more than one fish.

At the very least it will keep me off the golf course.