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Fishin' with Howell

There is no such thing as a casual fishing trip with Howell Raines as far as I know.

By JEFF KLINKENBERG
Published April 30, 2006

There is no such thing as a casual fishing trip with Howell Raines as far as I know.

Last time we wet a line together, about a decade ago, we waded for hours in the shallow water of Pinellas Point. With the Sunshine Skyway as our backdrop, we fly fished for redfish and trout but soon settled for anything foolish enough to bite. It was one of those days I write off as a lost cause, as a reason for going home early.

But not Howell, who kept changing lures and wading into deeper water. He was on vacation, damn it, and sooner or later the reds were going to eat.

I tried not to whine as I made my excuses.

"Listen, I have an appointment and have to go,'' I shouted at him. "But if you want to stay out here my son will fish with you.''

At the time, Howell was about 50. My son, 17, was the only person on Earth I knew who might match Howell's passion and energy for angling. It was a hot, windless spring day, but they remained on the flats for another five hours. I don't remember if they caught anything or not, and I'm positive it didn't matter to either of them.

Howell, who was the St. Petersburg Times political editor from 1976-78, was my first friend when I moved to St. Petersburg in 1977. He therefore was the first to know my dirty little secret: The new outdoors writer got seasick almost every time he encountered water outside of a paper cup.

At the time, Howell was known for his take-no-prisoner profiles of politicians. "Saved from handsomeness by a weak chin'' is how he described one hapless, chinless candidate who, alas, failed to become governor.

I had no political ambitions and we got along fine despite my motion sickness. At lunch we'd head for Big Tim's, the premier barbecue joint in the city, and devour pork sandwiches. Then we'd beeline to Bill Jackson's, a sporting goods store that had a location at that time in St. Petersburg. As I wandered the aisles, Howell interrogated the legendary fishing tackle monger we knew as Bud about what was biting on what kind of lure, on what phase of the tide and on what phase of the moon.

When Howell left the St. Petersburg Times, he told his friends, "I want to see if I can hit big-league pitching.'' He covered the South for the New York Times, then managed bureaus in London and Washington before becoming editorial page editor. If Bill Clinton had been better at casting flies, and less adept at lowering them, Howell might have been kinder to him.

In 2001, when Howell became executive editor of the New York Times, his old friends were delighted for him. But those of us with a piscatorial bent wondered how he'd find time for the important business of throwing a Royal Coachman at those persnickety trout.

His new memoir, The One That Got Away, reflects the Howell that many of us know, the witty Howell, the profane Howell, the ribald Howell.

"It often happens that when the fish are not showing I find myself thinking about fornication,'' Howell writes. A former fishing companion might add: He liked talking about fornication between bites, too.

"You feeling a little rocky?'' he asked me once. My green pallor and cold sweat had nothing to do with the shock of hearing Howell's latest theory on what men and women could do to enliven their dates. It was my old friend, mal de mer, doing me wrong.

I admitted that the inhospitable waves spanking the boat on their way to Egmont Key were making me long for terra firma. I also knew enough to expect no sympathy.

The reds and trout were biting.

No way on earth we were headed back to shore.

Jeff Klinkenberg is a Times staff writer. He can be reached at 727 893-8727 and klink@sptimes.com

[Last modified May 2, 2006, 10:25:45]