When it comes to fishing, my friends and I are extremely superstitious. We have been fishing together so long that we are set in our ways to a certain extent.

What else can you expect from a bunch of old goats? Capricorn that is. Yes, we were born in December, we study the effects of the zodiac on our fishing success and failures and we believe in our almanacs.

A lot of folks do not believe in the almanac, but I do. The almanac tells me the moon phases, and our moon is powerful, governing many things on this earth.

The moon rules the tides in the ocean. It affects the way we feel and our attitudes for that particular day. I firmly believe the moon also affects the way fish feel and dictates when they should feed during a given day.

Our almanac has a fisherman’s calendar, and there are not many times when we plan to go that I do not glance at those pages.

The blacker the fish, the better they are supposed to bite. The whiter the fish, the poorer the day for catching.

Before last Saturday, the fish symbol was white as a ghost all week.

Only on Saturday did the very tip of the fish’s nose turn black. We knew it could be tough on the water.

Sure enough, the fish were finicky from the get-go. In places where we caught rockfish only a week earlier, there were none to be found.

We managed to catch a few by trying new tactics, but the fish were tight under the cover of fallen tree laps. We stayed hung up until it got really frustrating.

Then the thin crescent moon rose in the east and contrasted with a robin’s egg blue sky. Fishing was finished at that point, as dozens of turkey vultures circled overhead. We left the river early that day.

When we are fishing, we keep up with the number of fish we catch throughout the day. When we are blessed to catch a dozen of something, that 13th fish rules the superstitious part of our minds.

We do not take a break, do not talk on the cell phones and fish in a frantic pace to escape 13 and put the landing net under No. 14. When No. 14 is caught, we all breathe a huge sigh of relief.

During the years, I have developed a fondness for one of our local bait shops. Very rarely will I buy a bait of any kind from anywhere else.

The bait shop caters to the serious fisherman, and they stock just about everything I need from fresh to brackish to salt water.

I have become good friends with the owners. When I purchase a bait and get my change back, I make an unusual special request.

“How about bless these baits,” I beg the owners. They pat the brown bag with their hands, lay their heads back, and mumble something in an unknown tongue.

It works for me, because an unblessed bait just ain’t going to produce many fish of any kind.

One day last summer during trout season, I bought a bunch of baits, shoved them into my tackle box, and left the bait shop in a hurry.

The next day was miserable out on the Pamlico. Even the lowly pinfish would not bite.

In the afternoon my friend asked me if those baits got blessed. I replied, “No, I was in too much of a hurry.” He said, “Well, we just as well go on home then right?” Superstitiously, I reluctantly uttered, “Yep.”

King