I love reading the newspapers. You never know what story you might run across -- especially in the Keys where we specialize in news of the weird. Today, a Keys Sunday supplement trumpeted the headline Most Fish Trophy Mounts are Replicas. True skin mounts don't last.
If you've read my second book Key of Sea, you know that a mounted trophy-sized tarpon (a popular target for sport fishing) plays a key part in the beginning scene. Naturally, a news item about big dead fish would catch my eye. Trophy animals hung on walls are an obvious manifestation of the "mine is bigger than yours" mentality. It comes with the big, powerful, hunter imprint of the Y chromosome.
C'mon, men, I'm not picking on you -- well, maybe just a little -- but you know that this is primarily a guy-thing. When women compare size we either do it with a great deal of whining and moaning, as in, "My butt looks so big in these jeans and yours doesn't", pouting envy like, "Why couldn't I be a C cup, too?" or third-party scorn as in, "Look at her. Those can't be real."
We do not display butts, breasts or bras on the family room wall.
According to this article, the 'art' of taxidermy might have been introduced by prehistoric ancestors who used animal skins to make likenesses for rituals. The practice got popular as a design feature in 1800s Europe. Today, get this, people spend billions of dollars each year to display trophy kills. Billions of dollars!
When it comes to fish, taxidermists previously used the real thing, but the article reports that true skin mounts don't last, so about 95 percent of those startled fish you see on restaurant walls are now fiberglass replications. These are more durable, require less maintenance, and promote conservation.
I applaud that conservation part because the fish get to live. The angler just needs to haul it to the boat, get its length and weight measurements and let it off the hook to swim away. (I know the fish was probably terrified during the whole hooking/fighting/catching process, but I'm not going to debate that here. Sport fishing will never die as an activity and at least we can promote catch and release over catch, clobber and kill.)
That's always been my philosophy because I grew up with a father and grandfather who liked to fish and hunt. However, we ate whatever they brought home. When my Dad was a boy, those hunting excursions helped feed the family as a supplement to my grandfather's meager income.
I loathe trophy hunting where people shoot magnificent animals with no intention of eating what they've killed. You want to demonstrate your tracking/hunting prowess? Get close enough to the big bear or that longhorn sheep to take a picture without using a 200X zoom lens and I'll still be impressed. I don't need to see the furry skin on your floor or the head with the curled horns on your wall.
For all his years, my father only caved into the trophy thing once. Decades ago, when he was in his mid-50s, he went on a fishing trip with male friends and caught his first ever sailfish. I know that it was a huge rush and a testament to his skill and strength that he got this seven foot long, powerful fish to the boat. There, for a couple of minutes, the adrenaline rush must have clouded his judgment and the back-slapping congratulations from his buddies momentarily rattled his common sense.
My brother and I were both home from grad school and college respectively for the Christmas holidays and Dad regaled us with the entire story of the battle. I'll admit, it was an exciting fish tale. "Don't you have any pictures, Dad?" I asked.
"I have better," he answered, grinning. "The fish is at the taxidermist getting mounted."
Silence fell over the table as we absorbed the announcement that a large, dead sailfish would soon join the family home. I glanced at Mom while she struggled to swallow her food without spewing in horror. I looked at my brother and then quickly focused on my plate because I knew that it would only take a little nudge for the two of us to start howling with laughter.
Mom, who was not one to openly argue with anyone, especially Dad, spoke very quietly and carefully. "Honey, that's nice, but please don't say you want to hang it in the living room. What are you going to do with it?"
He figured it would perfectly fit in the sunroom, which was sort of our family room. My brother and didn't really hear that part, because we'd locked onto the "what are you going to do with it" question.
Together we offered up practical uses for Dad's new prize. Keep in mind that sailfish have a long, slender bill protruding at the front of their faces. Bro and I opined that it would make a great shish kabob skewer. We could prop the fish in a corner as a hat & coat rack. Half a dozen suggestions later and the two of us were laughing our smart-ass butts off, and not noticing that Dad's mouth had tightened to a thin line. I sent him over the edge when I said we could stick the bill in the ground and use the tail to prop up Mom's clothes line.
He clenched his fists and gritted out, "This is my damn house and I'll put my damn fish anywhere I damn well please."
Gulp. Self-preservation instincts kicked in and we stopped laughing out loud, although our shoulders continued to shake and tears leaked from our eyes.
The following month, an 18-wheeler truck backed down our street and the men offloaded the crate. We opened it up in the living room while he was at work, so he could admire it when he first walked in the door.
Our dog barked at it for half an hour like it was a dangerous intruder.
I inspected it closely, tapping its body here and there. "Is this thing real? It feels plastic. Oh my God, they laminated Dad's fish!"
The sad thing is that, proud as he was of his trophy, even he had to admit that it didn't quite fit on the wall space he'd imagined in the sunroom. People sitting on either side would forever have risked impalement on the bill or a poke in the head from the sharp tail points. For the rest of its time in the house, the fish held the place of honor upstairs in the office.
Years later, after Dad's death, Mom had a meeting with her attorney to update her will. Discussing the details with my brother and me, her only heirs, she said that everything would split 50/50, but that she had not itemized belongings for each of us. She trusted us enough to believe that we wouldn't fight like scavengers over things.
She was right, we assured her, except for one unnegotiable sticking point. Neither one of us wanted that fish.
Thankfully, we were saved a battle over unwanted ownership. Years before her passing, she gave the thing to a family friend who owned a fishing/hunting cabin somewhere. He was delighted. I can still remember the reverence in his eyes and touch when he carefully wrapped it in soft blankets to transport in the back of his truck.
As far as I know, he still has it -- hanging in all its plastic glory -- the one that didn't get away.
I was watching the comedy channel and saw part of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. One of the comedians in the group was talking about how he, unlike other members of his family, does not like to hunt. The story that cracked me up the most was him scoffing at his brother's proud description of a high-powered deer rifle that could shoot bullets at 2000 miles per hour. He said he had accidentally killed a deer while driving a van and commented that he had managed to do so in a vehicle that only went fifty miles per hour, had headlights and a blowing horn. Killing a deer with a 2000 mph bullet didn't seem like much of a feat to him!
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