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FISHIN'
FOR JUSTICE-Proudly hosted by
Fishing Stories
By Roger Dean Kiser
It was a nice day as I drove
through South Carolina.
Being hungry, I stopped at a
McDonalds and ordered a breakfast
meal. Because I had driven almost
thirty hours, I decided to stay
over for a few days and rest.
After I ate, I checked into a
local motel, bathed, went to bed
and slept for almost twenty-four
hours.
The next morning I walked across
the street and asked the bait
shop owner where the nearest fishing
hole was located. After getting
a detailed map, I purchased a
three day fishing license, bait
and headed to the lake.
Opening my trunk, I carefully
took out my fishing gear, ice-chest,
chair and tackle box. I put them
on the lake's edge, baited up
and began to fish. Within an hour
the sun became rather hot and
the air humid. I took a rag, dipped
it in the water and placed it
over my head to try and cool down.
"Good morning," said
someone, walking up from behind
me.
When I turned around, I saw a
Game Warden with a clip-board.
"Good morning," I said,
as I nodded my head.
"Catch any fish?" he
asked.
"No sir, just relaxing and
wasting a little time." "Can
I see your fishing license?"
I reached in my shirt pocket
and handed him the three day license
I had purchased at the bait shop.
"Can I see you driver's
license also," he requested.
"I see the name on the driver's
license is spelled Kiser and the
name on the fishing license is
spelled Kaiser," said the
warden.
"The gentleman at the bait
shop must have written it wrong,"
I told him.
"Well, I am afraid I am
going to have to write you up
for fishing with an invalid license
and I am going to have to confiscate
your fishing gear."
"You've got to be kidding,"
I told him, with a surprised look
on my face.
Sure enough I was written up
and all three of my fishing rods
and tackle box were taken and
placed in his truck. I was told
that I would have to pay a fine
and that my fishing gear would
be sold at auction.
I stood there almost in tears
as he drove away. Those rods and
reels were very special to me.
They had been used to teach my
children to fish. They had been
used, for more than twenty years,
fishing with all my friends, and
relatives, who were now all dead.
All my memories of fishing the
California Delta were held in
those three fishing poles and
tackle box.
After returning to my home in
Georgia, I telephoned South Carolina
trying to explain the situation,
but no one would listen. I was
told that the Department of Fish
and Game had a "zero tolerance"
for fishing and hunting violations.
Finally, in tears I paid the
fine and gave up the fight.
About nine months later, I received
a letter in the mail. I have no
idea who it was from as there
was no return address. On a plain
piece of notebook paper read "Auction
for the Department of Fish and
Game held this Saturday at 11am."
On Saturday, at six in the morning
I drove out onto Interstate 95
headed to South Carolina. By ten
o'clock I had found the auction.
As I looked around there were
hundreds of rifles, bicycles,
several trucks, numerous boats
and piles upon piles of fishing
equipment.
All at once, there it was --
my wonderful stuff all thrown
in a pile as if it were worth
nothing.
I reached down and untangled
my three fishing rods from the
large pile. I removed my shirt
and t-shirt. After putting my
shirt back on I took my t-shirt
and I began wiping down the three
Daiwa rods and the three Ambassadeur
reels. The tackle box was no where
to be found.
As the auction began I took my
seat. In my wallet was twenty-seven
dollars. For more than an hour
I waited for my property to be
brought to the auction block.
"We have three identical
rods and reels here. I guess we
will sell this as a unit,"
said the auctioneer.
"Fifty dollars," yelled
someone in the crowd.
"Fifty one dollars,"
yelled another man.
I rose from my seat and I walked
out of the auction.
"Sixty dollars."
"Sixty-five dollars."
"Sixty-six dollars,"
I heard as the bidding continued.
"One hundred dollars,"
came another bid. The auction
became silent.
"One hundred dollars once,
one hundred dollars twice, one
hundred dollars three times. Sold
for one hundred dollars,"
went the auctioneer.
I walked to my truck, got in
and placed my head forward onto
the steering wheel and just sat
there.
I jumped as I heard something
hit the side of my truck.
I turned around and saw the back
of a man putting my three rods
and reels, and my tackle box into
the back of my truck. When he
turned around I saw it was the
same Game Warden who had written
me the ticket almost a year ago.
As I got out of the truck he
stuck out his hand and said, "I
wasn't wrong. It's the law that
is wrong."
I shook his hand, thanked him
and drove away with memories in
tow. I cried as I crossed the
South Carolina-Georgia state line.
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