I think anyone that has fished for any species for a long time and obsessively followed their movements and patterns, uses the term “those fish” to describe an expected body of stripers or groundfish or bluefin or fluke… or whatever species you like. And while it might be a bit of stretch to assume that we know for a fact that “those fish” are the same fish or that “those fish” will do what we expect them to do. I’ve realized that this is kind of a term of endearment.
I feel like we think of whatever body of fish is our own personal version of “those fish” is a timestamp of a moment of reset, and something like an old friend to welcome back. Like a friendly rivalry of sorts, although I don’ know if “those fish” would agree. For me, as each seasonal segment passes, it feels like a small relief that the next body of “those fish” shows up where I expect them to. And on those seasons when they don’t, the feeling falls somewhere in the overlap between panic, worry and sadness.
It’s almost like we seek to throw a blanket of personality onto different bodies of fish that we expect to find in specific places during the season. You might hear or even say things like, “Those fish won’t be here until the new moon in June” or “Those fish don’t like it when tide runs high and dirty.” Or it might be something that comes out in a fit of frustration, “Those fish hit wouldn’t anything!” Or, “Those fish didn’t show up this year!”
Sometimes this phrase is gilded within words of wisdom, “Don’t bother, after a wind change like this, those fish will be long gone.” Or, “I’ve gotta get home, but those fish were all over a black Super Strike Darter, I’d put one on if I were you!” The concept that a mob of stripers or bluefin or albies might show a definitive collective preference for size, action or color is baffling, since we – as humans – are all so individual in our thinking and preferences. Even if we were standing in line for ice cream with 100 other humans, you might get 100 unique orders, but “those fish” so often, just aren’t like that.
The hardest part, for the average angler – meaning those who aren’t blessed with the time or profession that keeps them out tracking the movements of “those fish” on a daily basis – is that 90% of the time, you’re fishing for something that you can’t see and that can disappear without a trace without you noticing. For me, this is at the center of why I have found myself so universally enthralled with fishing since I fell in love with it at age 7. This isn’t tracking deer who leave footprints, scrapes and rubs, they’re not birds that fly and have to land somewhere where a keen-eyed hunter or birder can visually log their movements. Those fish are shielded by the mirrored surface, suspended in a liquid that affords a full sphere of directions and they can move undetected in whatever direction they want to.
I’ve always said that it takes imagination and a willingness to be wrong to be anything more than just someone who likes to fish. By now, we all know that “those fish” can be patterned and they really can be figured out… at least most of the time. But I can tell you this, those anglers who always seem to know where “those fish” are before everyone else does, have gotten there by being wrong dozens, if not hundreds, of times. It’s a hard-headed approach of guess and check, and finding the joy in doing the work.
The concept of “those fish” and their movements like battalions on a mapped-out reconstruction of some famous battle, is an oversimplification that gives us all the confidence we need to push off the dock or walk the beach into a shrouded watery environment that changes every single day. And while we may affectionately tip our caps to “those fish” each day, whether we succeed or fail. I don’t think I’d like to know how they might refer to us… “Those _______!” I’ll let you fill in the blank.
