All fishermen have from time to time pricked themselves...

All fishermen have from time to time pricked themselves with a sharp hook. What one must remember about hooks is, when one feels the point, do not jerk. However, this can be difficult when one is a jerk. I use myself as a case in point.

I have on occasion felt the sharp stick of a hook. Most hooks will penetrate the skin by a mere fraction and are easily removed. For those not easily removed, a more drastic action may be required. I prefer surgery at the nearest clinic. I have from time to time heard the story of some brave sole breaking out the pocketknife and performing surgery on themselves. I find this hard to believe. It has been my experience that a well-placed hook is usually followed by a small quantity of warm liquid down the inside of one leg. I can hardly see how cutting and hacking with a dull “uncle henry” could result in anything other than two wet legs, adding insult to injury when I arrive at the nearest clinic to finish the job.

However, arriving at a clinic with a hook, or as in my case often times, hooks, imbedded in ones skin is not always as comforting as one might think. More often then not doctors and nurses have not been specifically trained in the art of hook removal. What the doctors and nurses do have is the all-important drugs. Thus avoiding a second wet leg. With a little instruction most doctors will be sufficiently trained to perform the extraction. I have, over the years become well qualified to instruct them in the procedure, having been trained by my father who was trained by his father as I hope to train my sons.

Case one: Apprenticeship

As an eleven years old boy, I often accompanied my father to set jug lines for catfish in a favorite private lake. This was before the world was made of plastic. Growing up behind a neighborhood theater, we had ready access to one-gallon glass jugs for liquid syrup used to make soda drinks. These were sturdy reusable jugs with a little glass ring handle near the mouth. Perfect for attaching hook, line and sinker. Holding the hook between index and thumb, a good swing of the heavy jug would send it flying to the chosen spot.

One day, having grown tired of turning over flat rocks and catching crawfish in the shallow water along the shore, while my father was bass fishing in and inner-tube float across the lake, I decided to set out the jug lines myself.

This lake had some very large fish. This called for extra sturdy equipment. In this case, fifty-pound test line with a single trotline hook that had not only one barb on the point but also five barbs up the shank. Knowing that this area was very shallow, I knew I would have to give it an extra heave-ho to reach deeper water. Winding up like an Olympic discus hurler, I let fly. There was an immediate sharp pain and hard jerk on my left biceps, followed by a stream of liquid down one leg. Squinting my eyes against the paint, I opened one eye, and I could see the jug, flying through the air. Behind the jug trailed three feet of line with no hook.

Opening both eyes, I made a quick inspection of my left biceps. Here I discovered the hook, buried well beyond the sixth barb. This caused me to tightly re-close both eyes and fight off additional liquids down my leg.

Being across the lake, a distance of about one-quarter mile, my father had no idea the time had come to pass-on our time honored family tradition of the art of hook removal. With one wing wounded, and therefore not able to fly, I walked around the lake, about three-quarters of a mile, and told my father what had happened. He momentarily winced and had he not already been waist deep in water, I am quite sure one leg would have been slightly damp. Then with what I am sure was a slight tear of fatherly glee he simply smiled at this milestone of manhood and said “See you back at the car.”

Three-quarters of a mile later, I arrived back at the car. My father calmly loaded the gear and drove to town to the nearest clinic.

The doctor was obviously not prepared to handle hook removal. My father’s training, and experience kicked in and instructed the doctor that the first thing to do was to deaden the pain. Not a squeamish child I intently watched the whole procedure at close range. The first needle full of clear liquid was injected about one half inch from the penetration point of the hook. This liquid somehow made its way beneath the skin and squirted out the hole around the hook and into my face. My father suggested the next injection might be better placed a little further from the hole. This injection was successful and soon my arm and my face were both quite numb.

The doctor then dug around in his drawer and came out with a scalpel. My father suggested it might be better to cut the eye off and push the hook on through. The doctor agreed and produced a pair of scissors. When asked what he was going to do with the scissors he replied “I’m going to cut the eye off and push the hook on through.” My father replied “I don’t think your going to cut that steel shank with a pair of scissors.” The doctor informed him that he often cut plaster casts with these scissors. My father agreed that these were indeed a fine pair of scissors but not likely to cut steel.

With this, my father went out to the car and retrieved a pair of hardened steel side cutters, which I am sure were sterile, having spent the afternoon inside a greasy metal toolbox in what was probably a 200 degree trunk on an August afternoon. After close examination the doctor agreed that these were indeed a fine set of side cutters and proceeded to pull the hook out far enough to nip off the eye. Using the side cutters to firmly grip the hook he wrestled it around, pushing the point ever closer to the skin. With what was obviously the point of the hook pushing the ever-tightening skin skyward, it eventually burst through the skin. Taking hold of the exposed hook with the side cutters, the doctor gave a twist and jerk and the dirty deed was done.

He finished the job with a fine gauze bandage, neatly wrapped around my bicep. I wore the bandage for several days as a white badge of courage. Lastly, the doctor carefully wiped the side cutters with a clean cloth and with obvious admiration handed them back to my father who returned them to their place of honor in the trunk of the car.

To be continued...

Gridleak

 

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