Not everyone gets to know their grandparents, but 50 years ago I learned how fortunate I was to know Grandpa Marks, and how fortunate to stand at his grave with my Navy uncle at the Fort Snelling National Cemetery in Minneapolis, help fold the American flag into a triangle and present it to Grandma.
One event had changed everything between my grandfather and me.
He was hard to know. Most of my youth I knew him as the old relative with a hearing aid that made funny noises as he buried himself behind a newspaper in his easy chair. His shoes were always polished and his clothes crisp. He rarely spoke. When he did, it was in a low voice with authority and few words — probably from years at sea, giving orders as a first engineer who always sat at the captain’s table.
In World War II he sailed Liberty ships across the Atlantic through German U-boat wolfpacks on the deadly Murmansk, Russia, convoy run, one time silently drifting and hiding behind an iceberg in the fog to avoid being torpedoed. He could hear German submariners on deck talking, just on the other side of the iceberg.
Rarely home, after the war he worked ore boats on the Great Lakes, and sailed around the world on cargo ships. Grandma said he was much beloved by his crews, also loners of the sea.
A kid like me hardly fit into that world. I could not even swim. The closest I could come to sea life was a boy’s love of fishing. So I was surprised one morning when Grandpa said he would take me fishing. It was the last day of our family reunion on a Minnesota lake where we had rented some resort cabins and boats. I did not know what it would be like to be alone with him.
He motored us across the lake to a bay he knew where we might be able to catch some pike. The wind came up a little, so we decided to just drop anchor and hold our position. That position became one of the cornerstones of my life.
Scudding wind clouds rolled in. Grandpa started the small outboard motor and kept our bow pointed into the wind while saying I should quickly reel in my last cast and pull the anchor. That’s when the big pike hit.
I played the fish for a while but couldn’t get it to the boat. Waves splashed over the bow and gunwale. Over the wind, I yelled that I would just have to break the line. We had to get out of there. I put my whole weight into the line, but it didn’t break.
I finally muscled the fish alongside. But how to get a fish that was still fighting into the boat? It was longer than my arm. I read that if you use your hand to pinch the fish in both eyes, that would paralyze it and you could lift him into the boat. I thought I would try it. It might impress my grandfather.
It almost worked, but not quite. I began to drag the big fish over the sidewall. The pike didn’t like fingers in his eyes. It flopped violently, my grip slipped and the fish drove dangling treble hooks into my hand.
There I was, attached to an extra arm, only it was a twisting fish. While keeping one hand on the tiller to keep us from capsizing, Grandpa reached as far forward as he could and grabbed the pike by its belly in a death grip behind his gills to keep the fish from ripping my hand apart.
I could not reach the bow to pull the anchor, and Grandpa could not release his grip on the fish or the tiller or else we would capsize. I had this nightmare that Grandpa would be found drowned, and I would be found drowned, dragged down to the bottom and attached to a big pike.
I told Grandpa that I would have to cut the hooks out; there was nothing else to do. I pulled out my somewhat dull pocketknife. Grandpa nodded OK, he could keep the fish paralyzed in his grip. I got a hold of the big treble hook and pulled it out enough that I could start whacking it away from the muscle and tendon that I had pulled out from the web between my thumb and the rest of my hand.
The cold lake water numbed my pale hand to some degree, but that didn’t last long. I was surprised at the lack of blood.
Finally free of the fish, I leapt forward and pulled the anchor. With Grandpa’s seamanship, we pitched our way across the lake as I bailed water. I was relieved to see that muscle I had pulled out was receding back into my hand.
Our party stood on the dock watching us with binoculars. They feared we would not make it in the storm, and wondered why we had not come in sooner. They didn’t know I had operated on myself, and that Grandpa’s arm had gone numb from his grip on the fish. We came close to disaster.
When we reached the dock, Grandpa told me to go take care of my hand. He would take care of everything at the boat. I wobbled getting out of the boat and walking to the cabin, where I crashed. Embarrassing.
Grandma later told me how proud Grandpa was of me, hoping I might apply to the Merchant Marine Academy. The fishing trip cemented our bonds forever on the sea of life.
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