This is going to be part of a larger series of stories I have stuck in my brain from when I would fish with my dad and grandfather at Garden Island Lodge.

So one time, sometime in the time frame of 2007 until 2015, when it was just my dad and I fishing, we were trolling and drifting around Long Island.

The bite was good in certain locations. I’m at the front of the boat and I hear my father mumbling behind me.

“That tree.”

“What?”

“That tree right there at this distance is where they are and where they are hitting.” He was right. After we crosed a certain point the bite was off.

“Which tree?” There were literally hundreds.

“That one.”

“Which, fucking tree. There’s a hundred here.”

“The one with the white shit on it.”

Now I’m getting frustrated. “Dad. There’s alot of those too.”

“That one.” He uses his rod to point at the tree he was talking about. I shake my head and continue fishing because I still couldn’t figure it out.

Later in the week we were by Wolf Island and the Goal Posts shoal, and I hear him mumble again.

“That tree right there.”

“Jesus I’m not going through this again.”