Russian fish story

So I go for a hike and end up at the base of the spillway at the Croton reservoir. (Croton on Hudson, NY)

It’s here:

From the bottom of the spillway you see this:

From the top of the dam you have this view: Note: That first tree on the far side is where the following story took place.

On this particular day there are three guys leaning on the fence. They’re fishing. Being the nosy curious type I go stand not far off and watch the action.

One fellow is older. He’s scruffy and wiry. He’s fishing with one eye and watching me with the other. The next is in his twenties. He’s scruffy and wiry too. He’s baiting a giant hook with (of all things) niblet corn. He has the hook all neatly covered. Of interest to me was that the row of corn extended two inches past the hook onto the leader. There was a big weight about four feet up.

The last was a teenager. Red hair, on the big side and had a smile. I talked to him.

Me: What’re you guys fishing for? There’s nothing big enough in there to take that hook.

Red: (heavily accented) Big fish.

Me: Where you from?

Red: Russia.

Me: Where you live now?

Red: Brooklyn.

Me: How long you been here?

Red: Two months.

Me: What kind of fish you think you might catch in these waters?

Red looks at me and then pulls back some bushes to show a pile of ice with a monster carp on top. More than two feet. I guessed at least ten pounds. Fat. Still breathing a bit.

Me: Jeepers! That’s a hell of fish. Is it good eating?

Red: Fresh. The best fish.

At this point “old scruffy” (who I now figured was the father) rattles off a bunch of words that I didn’t get. But the message was clear.

Father: “Stop talking to this idiot and get back to fishing. I want to catch three more and leave before the police come!”

With this Red goes to the rail. Studies the water for a bit, and then launches the weight and the niblits. He smiles; I watch.

Sure enough. Bam! Something big hits and the nearby water foams up. He’s using heavy line and a short rod. In seconds Red has the fish to the base of the wall. Dad and older brother jump over the fence and hand pull the big fish up the 20-foot wall. I doubt it lasted more than 30 seconds. More like a pit stop than fishing. This was practiced.

Not long after the three are back at it and I ask the old guy where in Russia did he come from. He looks at me then back to the water.

Red: My father and brother do not speak English. We come from a small city.

Me: What are you going to do with all that fish?

Red: We sell it in Brooklyn; 15 dollars a pound. Yesterday my father caught three. So far today, two more.

At this point "scruffy brother" jumps in with a few snappy words. I took it to mean, “shut up”. I got the message. I held up my hand to signal I understood and then asked the last question:

Me: You are only two months in this country. You live 40 miles from here. How did you find this place with all of these fish?

Red: We use the Google images. My father knows what water to look for.

I left with that. Who says fisherman don't know how to get it done?