Search
Categories
Archives
Store Categories
|
The story of Clay Dyer
“The main reason I tournament fish,” said 24-year-old Clay Dyer of Hamilton, Ala., “is because my life has always been a competition with the situation I’m in, being the way I was born. To me, it’s the fact that I know I’m competing against the best anglers in the nation. By no means am I at that level. My main perspective is that it’s such a challenge to fish at that level. I don’t want to do it for a year or two and then have the fire burn out.”
Indeed, Dyer has a fire inside. Dyer was born without legs and without a left arm. His right arm extends to his elbow. Nevertheless, Dyer flings a bait-caster by clenching it between his cheek and collarbone, cranking the reel with his right arm.
“I can make any cast I need to make,” Dyer said. “I can cast left or right. I can pitch and flip – I do that a lot. I can pitch and flip as easily as I can throw a big crankbait. It took a lot of practice – a year or two – to learn a lot of the casts.”
Dyer started fishing at 5 years old and began tournament fishing with older friends at 12 years old. By 1996, when he was a senior in high school, Dyer was fishing full time, and since then, he has won 30 team and regional tournaments. His next goal is to fish FLW Tour and EverStart Series events. Dyer’s hopes are buoyed by a full roster of sponsors, including Yamaha, Minn Kota and Plano. He also splits fishing time with inspirational speaking engagements.
“When you meet the guy and see how determined, how outgoing and how willing to tell his story he is, it’s that much better,” said David Simmons, field promotions coordinator for Yamaha Marine Power Group. “As far as his marketing and promotional abilities, they’re excellent regardless of his abilities or disabilities.”
Another angler with determination and ambition is Brett Ketchum of Little Rock, Ark. Last year Ketchum fished the National Bass Association of the Deaf circuit and the full BFL Arkie Division, taking seventh at Lake Ouachita. “I don’t think (my lack of) hearing affects my fishing at all,” Ketchum said. “That’s why I chose fishing rather than hoops or baseball, which required hearing. I only need help from my partner for the flight call.
“My events for 2003 should be the same with the BFL,” added Ketchum, a cabinet maker with Raytheon Aircraft. “I’m still looking forward to the EverStart Series. If I get a chance, I will go for it!”
Going for it – it’s a common theme among anglers with disabilities. In a way, their fishing is not unlike any other aspect of their lives, with day in, day out obstacles to overcome. The way they look at it, one of the most crucial components of any aspect of their lives is the mental edge.
“I’ve always had a lot of willpower,” Dyer said. “I’m not trying to brag or boast. When something gets in front of me, I’m going to go 110 percent until I accomplish it.”
By Chuck Scales
Reflecting back to my first GreenWater experience would have to be the memory of my dad and I fishing offshore in the Gulf of Mexico. I do believe that this is why I became a fly fishing guide in Texas, and enjoy it so much today.
I remember my dad leaving on Saturday mornings before sunrise and not coming home until after dark when he would go fishing offshore. I would always be waiting for him to come home with a big fish, and when he did, all my friends would come running down the street to see the catch of the day. When dad would go bay fishing I got to go with him as he taught me how to catch sand trout, croakers and speckled trout, but these were not the same as the big fish that would catch in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. I always asked if I could go with him, but the answer was always the same “not until you are bigger”.
Then the day came in the summer of 1960; my dad came home on a Friday from working at the refinery and that night at dinner he asked if I wanted to go offshore fishing with him the next day. “YES SIR!!” My reply was immediate. I couldn’t believe it, whit a grin from ear to ear, I was going to the Ocean, the Big Lake, GreenWater, The Gulf. As I glanced towards my mom, she must have seen the smile on my face and the desperate look of “please let me go” as she nodded her approval.
After dinner, dad and I started getting the boat ready for my first offshore trip, putting rods, reels and all the essential tackle on the boat and hooking it up to the truck. That night, the anticipation of how big a fish I was going to catch was like trying to sleep on the night before Christmas.
Before we got to the boat ramp we made a stop at the bait camp as you cross the bridge to Galveston Island. I still remember the stench of dead fish that hung in the air as I walked in wiping the sleep from my eyes. As dad was going to pick out some lures and ribbon fish, he asked me to grab something to eat. I didn’t realize how well you eat when you go offshore. I walked up to the counter with a couple of sandwiches and chips; dad began to chuckle and asked “What are you going to eat son?” Apparently, I did not quite understand what all day fishing offshore meant. “Follow me” he said, and with my arms cradled he started filling them up with vinnie winnies, sardines, crackers, and cookies until I couldn’t carry anymore.
When he cranked up the old 60-horse SeaKing and the fresh salt air hit my face I knew this feeling would be in my blood forever. As we ran the 5 miles across the bay, the excitement ran through my body. I was six years old and ready to catch the biggest fish in the gulf. Dad put the boat into neutral and asked if I wanted to drive the boat. Another first! “Who me?” A “yes” came out of my mouth before I could even thin. Barely able to see over the bow, I took the wheel like I had practiced so many time sin the driveway of our home. With the boat heading east, the compass pointed the way as I watched the sun literally rise out of the water. At the sped of maybe two miles an hour (wow!), dad set the rods out and stowed everything in its place. Eventually, he took the wheel from me and explained my job.
My job was to watch the rods and when something took the bait I was to yell out “FISH ON” so dad could slow the boat to set the hook. Trying to watch all the rods can be hard on your eyes. I watched until my eyes started watering from not blinking. It was like having a staring contest and first to blink loses. The rod won. An hour went by while I wondered about when we were going to catch a fish. Then hours went by without even one strike. This is when I learned why dad took all that food; you eat when the fishing is slow. With my sandwich just about finished, I noticed that the rod looked like it was going to be pulled out of the boat. My job was finally here! I yelled out, ‘WE GOT A FISH, STOP THE BOAT, DAD FISH! FISH!” I am sure at some point I would have got “fish on”, but not this time. Dad grabbed the rod out of the holder, set the hook and handed me the big fiberglass rod and said “Hold on!”.
I had my Moby Dick on the end of my rod and it was him or me. The instructions from dad were to not reel until he stops running. Dad stood behind me to hold me in the boat, I think we were both a little afraid the fish was going to pull me overboard. As the fish started to slow down I started to reel in line as my dad had taught me the night before by pumping the rod back and reeling as I came down with the rod. Five minutes, ten minutes, my arms quivered live Jell-O. Fifteen minutes later (it felt like hours) my dad was grabbing the gaff in one hand, the leader with the other in one stroke he gaffed and lifted Moby Dick (aka king fish) into the boat. Just when I though my eyes could not get any bigger, they did. My first king fish was big as me, my little arms ached, my heart raced and I could not have been prouder.
Arriving back at the boat ramp I held the boat while dad backed the trailer down the ramp to load the boat. I reflected back on the fish we had caught that day, and as we started home I was already thinking about the next rip offshore, and my new found admiration and love for my dad. After falling asleep in the front seat of the truck, the next thing I remember is dad waking me as we pulled in to the driveway. “Would you like to go again next Saturday?” dad asked. I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth fast enough “YES SIR!”
Thanks dad.
Another Story from the G. Loomis Archives…..
“A FEW EAGLES AND BIRDIES.THEN STRAIGHT TO THE FISH”
By Johnny Miller 
(In the mid – 70s, Hall of Famer Johnny Miller shot the lowest-ever final round score to win the U.S. Open. Nowadays, when he isn’t out on the water with one of his GLX rods, he’s a network television golf commentator.)
Back in my early days on the PGA tour, I actually planned a lot of my tournaments around how good the fishing was.
Now, you might think admitting such a thing would bring into question my devotion to the sport of golf, but in fact I think it’s quite the opposite. It removes any question as to my devotion to the sport of fishing.
I’ve been hooked on fishing most of my life and tournament season is no different. As soon as I finish my round for that day, win or lose, good or bad, I grab my rod and head for the water. You’d be surprised at how simply fishing till dark can completely relieve the pressures of the tour and the crowds.
Who knows? Maybe professional fishermen feel the same way. Maybe after a grueling, fight-to-the-bitter-end bass tournament they like nothing better to relax than nine holes on the links. But somehow I don’t think so. There’s just something special about fishing. Something about the scenery and the solitude and memories you share with family and friends that are worth their weight in gold.
One of my fondest memories of childhood was fishing for trout with my father and my brother, Ronnie, on Lake Merced. I was probably all of about five years old and after that trip, my fate was sealed. I fell in love with fishing.
As I got older, I continued to fish, trying to follow in my brother’s footsteps.
See, Ronnie wasn’t just your run-of-the-mill fisherman. He was the absolute fishing nut of all time. He fished every day.
I lost Ronnie to a drowning accident when he was just sixteen. And I miss not having him around to fish with now, battling over who caught the most, or the biggest, or the best. But I’ll never forget those memories of fishing with him as a kid. And I m grateful for all the new memories I make every time I go out today.
FISHING WITH NORMAN
(from the G. Loomis Archives)
By Jerry McKinnis
(Jerry McKinnis has been the host of “The Fishin’ Hole” for over 30 years, perhaps the longest – running fishing show in history. Look for him and his boatload of G.Loomis rods every week on ESPN)
Fishermen have probably had dogs as long as they’ve had, well, fish. And this is a story about a fishing dog like no other.
It all started with a fishing show I began putting together about three years ago. I’d put a lot of effort into developing a “made-for-television tournament series” called the FLW Tour, and I got to thinking: Why not get in on the action myself?
Well, first there was a little technicality. I had to qualify.
So now it’s around Thanksgiving of 1998. I’m all signed up for the first event in January and suddenly it dawns on me: I have no idea how to flip or pitch into cover. Sure, I’d watched countless hours of videotape where Gary Klein or Denny Brauer made it look easy, but Id never actually done it myself.
So I get on the phone to Bruce Holt at G. Loomis. Bruce says. Jerry, I’ve got the perfect rod for you. It’s an FSR905X GLX (now a BCFR954 GLX). I say, sounds great. Coulda’ been an F-l6 IBM for all I knew.
Well, one day not long after that I took my little dog Norman for a walk, and I happened to bring along the new GL-FS-90-whatever-it-is. So we’re walking along, when suddenly, without even thinking about it, I pitched a little jig out in front of us. And then I pitched it again. And then a third time. I’m starting to get the hang of this.
So after a few more pitches here, a few more flips there, I start looking for a new challenge. You know, something to aim for.
Something like . . . Norman.
Well, long story short, by Christmas time 1 can drop a 3/4 ounce black & blue jig on any dog’s back in the neighborhood. I mean, no canine is safe. I can target a Chihuahua in a laurel bush from twenty-five feet. A schnauzer behind a fire hydrant from across the boulevard. If we fished for dogs instead of fish, I’d be on the cover of ”Fishing World” instead of writing a story inside it.
So finally, it’s January and I’m at the tournament. I’m in about 45th place and so far I’ve caught ten keepers. The best five might weigh all of ten pounds. In other words, I’m in deep trouble.
Suddenly, it comes back to me: Norman. The flippin stick.
So I move in towards the brush, just like I’m droppin’ one onto Norman’s back. BAM! A three pounder! Now I’m at twelve pounds and I only have half an hour to fish. Ten minutes later, BAM! Another three pounder! Now I’m at thirteen pounds. Ten minutes left. I pitch another into the heavy cover. BAM! The best bass of the whole day! A four pounder! I’ve got fifteen pounds of bass and its time to head in.
Now comes the part in the real good stories where the story’s author wins the tournament.
Well, that’s not exactly how it went. But I did come in 3Ist place, just two measly ounces shy of making the cut. But not bad at all for my first attempt. And I owe it all to G-Loomis and my loyal fishing dog, Norman.
|
