Fishing with Nick Gainey

MONCKS CORNER — Forty-eight bass boats bob about in the waters of the upper Cooper River, waiting for the signal.

Rangers, Skeeters, Stratos and Tritons. Sleek, low-slung boats that bubble with big-old Mercury, Evinrude, Yamaha and Johnson outboards on the back.

Every Thursday afternoon a convoy of good-old boys in muscle trucks appears from every direction, backing their boats down the ramps, down into the brown water where the big-mouth bass play hide and seek beneath the surface.

The parking lot at Cypress Gardens Landing is choreographed chaos, a showcase of boy toys, single-purpose machines made for finding fish, in a hurry.

I'm sitting in one of them, a 21-foot Ranger piloted by Nick Gainey, a professional fisherman from Charleston. I know this because his name is on the side of his boat.

At exactly 5:30 p.m., one by one, the boats are sent off in order. When each number is called out over the megaphone, a boat suddenly squats in the water, you hear the noise of the engine and see men waving as they tear out up-river, or down-river, depending on where they think they can find fish.

We are No. 41.

Cheek-flapping fast

When our number is called, Nick pushes his boat out of the pack, up-stream, nose high, water boiling up behind us.

Within seconds the big boat planes out, we see the river stretching out in front of us, the trees along the banks a blur as we lean into the wind.

The 250-horse power Mercury does its job. We go from sitting still to 60 miles per hour in seconds. I quickly stash my hat under the seat before it flies away. I look over at Nick. He's stoic. Sunglasses hide his eyes. A red hat sits tight on his head.

I wonder how he keeps his hat on, but asking questions is out of the question. We're flying. Cheek-flapping fast.

To my amazement, another boat suddenly appears alongside, starboard, and passes us.

Nick stares straight ahead. Everybody has his own destination. Nobody blinks.

Ten minutes later, after carving our way through a maze of unmarked channels, he lets up, the boat relaxes in the water, giving way to the out-going tide.

It's time to fish.

Time is money

Nick Gainey is 63 years old and makes his living in property management. His avocation, however, is fishing, fulltime.

He dosn't drink, smoke, or chew. He fishes.

Eleven months of the year he's on the road, pulling the Ranger to bass tournaments from Alabama to Canada.

He laughs when he tells you the truth. Last year he earned $35,000 fishing and spent $40,000 doing it. He considers that success because he's doing what he loves.

This Thursday afternoon tournament on the Cooper River is strictly local. A working man's tournament. Show up after work, toss 50 bucks in the hat, fish for three hours, see what happens.

The boat with five fish that weigh the most gets a check. Biggest fish also gets paid.

So time is money.

Fishing is serious business.

Old rice fields

We head up the east branch of the Cooper, back where old rice fields stretch for miles and egrets and alligators pay little attention to fast boats flying up and down the river.

Our first stop is near an old stump where a pelican is perched, watching us with amusement. Nick hands me a rod with a brown plastic worm on the end of the line. He's working a spinner bait close to the bank.

The number of fish I've caught in my lifetime wouldn't feed an osprey for a day. But I understand the concept. Fishing is about fooling the food chain. We are, after all, supposed to be the smart ones.

Nick stands on the bow of the boat, casting, reeling, casting again.

I manage to get my bait wet a few times, but nothing happens.

A steady breeze out of the south ripples the water and makes the fishing hard. At least that's what Nick keeps mumbling.

By the time I get the hang of it, it's time to move to another spot.

Brown plastic worm

At the second spot we float deeper into a rice field, careful not to disturb another boat nearby.

Within minutes Nick hooks a fish that bends his rod, flaps on the water and glistens in the slanting sunlight as he lips it up and drops it into the box onboard. A two-pounder. Maybe more.

He switches to a top-water plug and catches another, smaller fish. I keep dragging my brown plastic worm through the water. Determined. Dogged. Undeterred. Fishing is all about patience. Sort of.

We're fishing against the clock. Three hours. Not much time when the sun is setting and the livewell is empty.

Nick is working hard, racing from one spot to another, changing baits, sliding us left and right with the trolling motor, looking for fish.

Once I toss my tackle too close to a big blue heron who squawks and flies away, seemingly annoyed by the presence of a rookie on his beloved river.

Can't say that I blame him.

Fish stories

Landlubbers are always amazed at how much water there is around here.

What we see from the bridges hardly fills a bait bucket compared to the vast river reaches of the Lowcountry.

Whether you catch a fish or not, the scenery is worth the trip into the wild waters that wind for miles and miles into a world we seldom see.

All you need to do is spend an afternoon with the river rats up in Berkeley County to get a renewed appreciation.

With the sun setting, Nick guns the boat back home. Soon we are joined in the main channel by other boats, running lights on, riding in each other's wake, making our way home as darkness draws down on the day.

As we all converge on the landing at the same time, the traffic is heavy. Fish are being weighed. Boats are being hauled out of the water, fast and furious.

It's no place for a man who can't back a boat trailer.

All told, Nick and I combine for two fish at just over three pounds.

He caught two. I caught none.

A couple of guys sluice their slippery catch into the bucket and tip the scales at 17 pounds. We wish them well, load up and head home as fish stories fill the evening air behind us.

Reach Ken Burger at 937-5598 or kburger@postandcourier.com.