My Childhood Memory of Fishing

Have you ever seen a slimy sandworm up close? I took great delight when I rolled over a rock and underneath it was able to extract a sandworm from the sand as it tried to escape. Sandworms are grayish green, long and fat. They make good bait to catch fish. At 12, this was a memory of mine, a weekly adventure. This was one of a few bonding experiences every Saturday morning during our fishing trips to Mukilteo in the 1960s.

My sister's godfather, Uncle Ignacio, owned Casino Café in Seattle's Pioneer Square. One of his popular dishes on the menu was Sinigang na Isda, a sour Philippine fish stew flavored with tamarind. Since my father came from a fishing background, he must have relished the opportunity to provide fish for the restaurant. Every Saturday morning, we drove north to Mukilteo on I-5 and took the exit to Paine Field, at that time a U.S. Air Force base. The road was a two-lane highway, unlike the busy Mukilteo Speedway it is now. The highway winded through farmland and woods, where houses were few and far between. Then, it eventually ended at the Mukilteo ferry dock.

At the dock, which stood near the ferry terminal, my brother and I would throw our line and hook over the railing down deep into the water and patiently wait for a nibble. It was particularly exciting when the ferry arrived and left, as the displaced water would hopefully push the fish toward our baited lines. What a thrill to feel a slight tug. I would jiggle the line, and another tug, finally, a distinct pull from a fish! Mom and Dad didn't provide us with a fishing pole, so we had to quickly pull up the line to reveal our prize. Would it be an ugly bullhead or a healthy perch? Mom and Dad were adept at taking the hook from the fish's mouth as it wriggled in their hands. I took great pride adding a perch to the bucket and liked to receive compliments about the size and weight of the fish.

Later on, during low tide, we would pile into the car with our bucket(s) of perch and head to the rocky beach about a half a mile away on an unforgettable dirt road. Boy, that was an eventful drive full of potholes. There were lots of squeals and laughter, but numerous bumps took a toll on our behinds and on our car. But the challenge did not prevent us from heading toward the beach. There, my brother, Ted, and I were given empty soup cans. Our task (which seemed to take "forever!") was to look under the rocks for sandworms, while Mom and Dad cast the lines of their fishing poles far into the water of Possession Sound.

Ted and I had to be light on our feet and cautious, as it seemed to be the rockiest beach, sometimes slippery and slimy, too. We picked up or rolled over rocks looking for sandworms. Sometimes, the worms were quick and difficult to grab. Sometimes there would be more than one worm under one rock. It was a major feat to find a fat, ugly sandworm — perfect bait. Ted and I would compete against each other as to who would fill up their tin can first. Sometimes, we would keep the worms moist by adding seaweed — the green flat type and the brown spindly type. It was back-aching work to dig for worms, and we soon got bored and begged for a break. Now free from our tasks, we would amuse ourselves by scaring away seagulls, by looking for an occasional crab or by investigating the underside of a dead starfish.

When Mom and Dad were satisfied with their haul, we'd have some free time to run up and down the beach, collect sand dollars or pretty rocks and shells. Sometimes, we would find a piece of driftwood and write our names in the sand.

One time a lady asked Mom if she would be interested in taking the dog the lady had on a leash. The dog was a lively, tan-and-white colored, mixed breed. After consulting with my dad, Mom surprised us all by accepting the dog. He was our pet for over 12 years. Guess what we named the dog? Perch!

On the days we had a successful catch, Dad would celebrate at the McDonald's in Lynnwood. Ted and I were rewarded with a cheeseburger, fries and a shake. That was when a McDonald's meal was a real treat. It was also an incentive to go fishing again the next Saturday.

When we returned home, Mom and Dad assessed their catch. Then they spent the rest of the day gutting and cleaning the fish. Sometimes, I was allowed to scrape the scales off the fish and trim down their fins. It was a time-consuming and messy job. Stinky, too! But Uncle Ignacio paid well for the fish, which we delivered to the restaurant the next day after going to church. It was a way for the family to work together as a unit to earn some extra cash. We know the Filipino customers loved eating his Sinigang na Isda, of which we played an important part: providing the key ingredient!

Such are my fond memories of fishing with my parents and worm-hunting with my brother in Mukilteo, Washington, almost 60 years ago.

My childhood memory of fishing