In my 42 years, I have miraculously avoided being gifted a Billy Big Mouth Bass. I wear this like a badge of honor, because even when they hit the scene in 1999, I thought they were utterly stupid and a complete waste of money. Sadly, fishermen that would likely prefer a simple spool of the best braided fishing line instead of this novelty item must still feign laughter and appreciation on Christmas morning, because nearly 25 years after they were released, old Billy is still being produced. Most of them, at least as far as I can tell, will end up in thrift stores within six months of opening. They’re usually in the bric-a-brac section.
Read Next: The Best Fishing Gifts
Seeing that I’ve been fishing since I was 3 years old, most of my Christmases from then until now feature me asking Santa and the family for tackle. And both the big man in the North Pole and those closest to me understand that going rogue for gear is too much of a gamble, which means I get exactly what I want. Though I’ve eluded Billy Bass, this doesn’t mean I haven’t gotten my share of Guy Harvey socks and fishing lure jigsaw puzzles from those peripheral family members who don’t have much to go on other than, “Well, Joe likes to fish.” At least they kept my feet warm and gave me something to do when grandma came over. But there are a handful of fishing Christmas gifts that shine brighter—and in some cases turned out to be very dull duds—that have always stuck with me. Here are the biggest hits and misses ever found under my tree. Perhaps you’ve found a few of them under yours over the years.
The Best Fishing Gifts
Eagle Claw Featherlight Fly Rod
In the spring of 1992, I was 9 years old and a ravenous trout fisherman. That season I had finally moved away from fishing nothing but mealworms and PowerBait, learning and harnessing the potency of an in-line spinner. Feeling myself after limiting out two trips in a row, I decided that since I had this whole lures thing figured out, it’s time to master fly fishing. As soon as my and dad starting asking what I might like for Christmas months later, I said a brand new fly combo, please.
What I got was a 6-foot, 6-inch Eagle Claw Featherlight rod and a Cortland reel. In a separate box were all the accoutrements—flies, tippet, floatant, and fly-line cleaner. The thing is, when you’re 9 you just assume your dad knows everything, therefore I was sure I’d been gifted the crème-de-la-crème of fly gear. But my dad knew nothing about fly fishing, which is why there were no tapered leaders, and the flies were mainly moths, poppers, grasshoppers, and whatever else they stuck in those pre-made K-Mart fly packs. Still, after suffering through the long, cold winter staring at the rod, spring finally returned, and I caught my first bluegills and stocked trout on that $18 rod and junk flies my first time out.
You can still buy those screaming yellow Eagle Claw Featherlights, though thanks to inflation, they’re $36 dollars now. But I’ll tell you what: They can take a beating. My first reel has been lost in the shuffle of life, but I kept that rod, and my son used it to catch his first bluegill on the fly in the summer. Perhaps my grandkids will use it, too.
“Striper” Pattern Bomber Long A
Older, wiser me understands that mullet—a favorite forage of gamefish up and down the Atlantic Coast—have stripes. When I was 11, though, I was convinced the 7-inch Bomber Long A plug I swooned over every time I was in the local tackle shop was supposed to look like a tiny striped bass. Something about that vivid pattern and its bright orange eye captivated me and I had to have that lure. But every single time I begged for it my dad would say, “What the hell are you gonna do with that thing other than put three treble hooks in your hand?”
He wasn’t wrong. At that time my saltwater fishing consisted of fluke and little snapper bluefish. Furthermore, in the 1990s, striped bass were in such trouble in the Northeast that they felt like something mythic that I might never have on the end of my line. Lo and behold, though, Santa Claus must have been listening, because there was the striper/mullet pattern Bomber in my stocking that Christmas.
All I knew of striped bass at that age was that you targeted them in the fall. So, barring the occasional fondling of the lure in my tackle box, it sat unused until October. We had a family boat in Atlantic City, New Jersey, and on our very last weekend visit of the season prior to winterizing the old girl, I convinced my dad to bring down his one and only surf rod. The next morning, I walked alone all the way to the Brigantine Bridge with visions of striper glory racing through my brain. Despite the reel being spooled with crusty 20-pound mono, that Bomber sailed across Absecon Inlet on the very first cast…right into the wooden fender on the first bridge piling. And there it stayed. Tears were shed.
4x4 Beach Permit
When the state of New Jersey decided I was responsible enough to drive a car at age 17, my fishing world changed. Instead of relying on grown-ups to drop you and your buddies off at the lake or trout stream, you could explore and find your own water. At that time, the striped bass population had rebounded in a big way, which meant I learned the route to Island Beach State Park in short order because I was addicted to surf fishing for striped bass.
For $7, you could drive down the road on this piece of uninhabited coast, park in a designated area, and walk out onto the beach. But that wasn’t good enough for me. I wanted to drive my new used 1993 GMC Jimmy on the sand, cruising the break line looking for blitzing fish like the old sharpies that fished Island Beach. There were just two problems: I wasn’t old enough to buy a 4x4 access permit and my truck and its insurance were in my mom’s name, not mine, which was also a barrier to entry.
I understood that the park made these rules to stop kids like me from tearing up the dunes and drinking on the beach, but that wasn’t my M.O. I was a “serious” surfcaster. Luckily, my mom knew it and trusted me, and that Christmas she made me a deal. She would submit the paperwork by mail and pay the $150 to get a 4X4 permit on that Jimmy for the following season. After all, once the sticker was on your bumper, the guys working the toll booth at the entrance paid no attention to who was driving. It was one of the greatest Christmas gifts I was ever given. The only downside was that the entire next year I drove around with the biggest head acting like I was the greatest striper angler in the state when I was a neophyte that skunked more than scored.
The Worst Fishing Gifts
Humminbird SmartCast Watch
Fishing technology, in my opinion, is getting out of control. Livescope, sidescan, and downscan sonar systems do such a phenomenal job that fish almost have no place to hide. Likewise, portable sonar technology—even for shore-bound anglers—gets better and better every year. But while I may sound curmudgeonly when talking modern tech, there was a time when I wanted the latest and greatest, too. And when I was about 15, that was the Humminbird SmartCast.
I don’t recall where I first saw this item, but I remember being flabbergasted. You clipped what looked like a little green submarine to your line, cast out, reeled back slowly, and a sonar reading transmitted by the mini sub would display on the accompanying wristwatch. With my mind blown, begging commenced. The caveat was that this product sold for north of $100 at the time, so it was made very clear that if this is really what I wanted for Christmas it was my “big present.” I eagerly confirmed that I understood.
Fast forward to that spring where I’m sitting on the end of the dock at the marina where we kept our family boat. Yes, the watch weighed about 3 pounds and made me look like a complete dork, but so what? I had technology nobody else around here did, right? I fired that little sub out and looked at the watch expecting to see gobs of fish. What I saw was an error code. Then, suddenly, it started working. Then it stopped. Then it said the depth went from 10 feet to 60 then back to 9. There were no fish on the screen, which scrolled across the fat face of the watch so slowly you had no idea what was happening where. I felt so guilty that it sucked I told my dad it was awesome but never used it again.
Banjo Minnow Kit
If you were a kid in the '90s that fished, strong chance you asked for a Banjo Minnow kit. Back then, you couldn’t watch Bill Dance and Hank Parker on TNN on Saturday mornings and escape the Banjo Minnow infomercials loaded with monster bass hammering these soft-plastic baitfish. Of course, those fish were in a tank and had been starved for a week prior, but if it sounds like I’m about to crap on the Banjo, I’m not. The truth is these lures were revolutionary and paved the way for many of the modern swimbaits we used today. The issue, however, was that they were a terrible gift for a 12-year-old that had to wait months to use any of the fishing gear he got for Christmas.
Where the Banjo fell short was in ease of rigging. The kit came loaded with itty-bitty rubber bands, tiny nail weights, beads, and all kinds of other intricate little pieces. To fish them effectively you had to actually read the instructions which neither you nor I felt like doing at that age. By the time spring rolled around, I’d messed with and shuffled that kit around so much during countless tackle box reorganizations that most of the tiny pieces were M.I.A. I had to resort to just sticking the baits on jigheads, and while that worked, I never felt like I truly got to harness the power of the Banjo and make Bill Dance proud.
