TIGHT LINES
FISHING FOR INFORMATION
with Andrew Spencer
Every once in a while, Shep (everyone's favorite sports editor) and I have what we like to call an editorial meeting. These meetings are pretty casual affairs, rarely announced in advance, and usually revolve around my doing something wrong. In the case of our last editorial meeting, I happened to be in The Independent office because I wanted to buy a copy of the paper - nothing like inflating the sales figures to ensure job security, you know? - and Shep happened to be there. Since we were both there and we both had five minutes to kill, we had an editorial meeting. While I didn't have a tape recorder with me, seem to recall the meeting going something like this:

Shep: Andrew, how are you?

Andrew: Great, thanks, you? It was scintillating stuff, this meeting was, but got kind of bored after that witty exchange, and my

mind began to wander, as it is prone to do when lose interest. But I was jarred back to reality when heard Shep mention the word "eels."

Your honor, the prosecution would like this labeled as the first segue.

I'm not a huge fan of eels. I hate to sound like non-hyper-masculine sort, but they actually kind of gross me out. And they look enough like snakes that they kind of give me the heebie-jeebies. You see, as a younger man in Texas, I had a bad experience with a diamondback rattlesnake. And by "bad," I mean one of those see-your-life-flashing-before-youreyes kind of bad experiences. Suffice it say, to this day, I have trouble going into the snake house at the zoo. But I digress.

Shep thought it would be an interesting column if I were to write about those who go out in search of eels. I'm not an eel-er by training, so I really know little of the practice of acquiring the little darlings. But, never one to let reality deter me from my task, I decided to do a little research. And what better place to do a little research than through that Web arena set up by my fellow Independent columnist Grant Sanders, YACK.

So I dutifully sat down at my computer and went to www.yackon.com, and posted my query. I was sure that these helpful folks would be lining up to help. In a way, it was kind of like casting a line and waiting for a fish to bite.

Your honor, I object. The prosecution is clearly embarking on nothing more than a fishing expedition.

Overruled, counselor. That's just a segue.

In the world of YACK, there is a definite hierarchy of power, kind of a "who's who" of Internet society. Suffice it to say, I'm one of the "little people" in that whole caste system, but my naiveté was such that I was hoping to get a little help with my cause. But, alas, such was not the case.

Rather than someone volunteering to take me along or, at the very least, even volunteering to explain to me the process - even as an anonymous poster - I got all kinds of information on cocktails, freshwater clams, Al Gore, and, in a strange twist of linguistic gymnastics, chicken gigging.

But no real enlightenment on the process of catching eels.

At that point, I was truly wondering what a tourist might think of this island if they came across the YACK group and mistook it for a friendly kind of place where information about the island was shared with those who were interested in finding out about it.

But then, in an act of compassion, one kindly soul came to my rescue, sort of, by telling me that "fishermen are fiercely protective of their livelihood here." So that, as you no doubt already guessed, got me to thinking. Are anglers really that clandestine? Do we really feel that strongly about our own proprietary information that we zip our lips and force others to sign Non-Disclosure Agreements? Are we really that cloak-and-dagger, just like the anonymous people on YACK?

And with that final segue, your honor, the prosecution rests.

Friends and neighbors, we all learned our trades and pastimes from someone else. Where'd you learn to cook like that? From my mother. Where'd you learn to write like that? From my teachers. Where'd you learn to fish like that? From my father. The list goes on. And, just as that list goes on, so, too, should the practice of teaching future generations.

There is so much ringing of hands and gnashing of teeth that goes on this time of year, with people telling us all how the "true spirit" of Nantucket has been swept away by the money and the people and the Hummers. People wax poetically about the "good old days," back when they were kids and things were good. Back when the summer season started with the Fourth of July and ended with Labor Day. Back when the "Nantucket limo" was a fourth-generation Jeep CJ-5. And back when people were willing to share information with each other and didn't instead respond to legitimate questions with sarcasm and an air of superiority. Ah, the good old days.

Tight lines. I