Fisherman’s wife’s sure cure for smelly ‘fish hands’

So, have you met my husband yet? Just stroll over to our outdoor section  and you can take a gander at the man with whom I decided to share the roller coaster ride that is life. He is, in a roundabout way, finally back doing what brings him the most joy: fishing.

I’ve used this space before to discuss the life of a fisherman’s wife. Whether it was his full-time job or his part-time love, it has always been a full-fledged obsession. I suppose I should have been prepared for the life to come when at both our engagement party and my bridal shower, I was gifted an inordinate, and excessive, amount of fish-related items.

I received matching fish platters and bowls, crab towels and lobster aprons, sea themed blankets and cod fish pillows. There was even this fabulous photo album, chronically his life, including our early days. The entire things had been lovingly wrapped in large mouth bass fabric. Yes, apparently bass fabric is a thing. As is shark fabric and other assorted aquatic life. I know because I have a whole box of it. Another gift from a loved one who, I think, was subtly letting me know that this was to be the flavor of the life that lay ahead.

Not being obsessive about anything since I abandoned my last stuffed animal when Brian and I moved in together (oh come on, like you – or some woman in your life – didn’t have a minimum of 42 stuffed creatures as a child. It’s a rite-of-passage to own and display completely useless, fluff filled items. As grown women, we call them throw pillows. But don’t kid yourself, on occasion, when properly placing the smallest of the 15 bed pillows, we are momentarily taken back to that plush bunny rabbit with a carrot-adorned blouse and matching booties), I was unprepared for the true nature of this beast. What else, other than an unhealthy relationship with fish, gets one out of bed at 3:30 a.m., on one’s day off, to join a bunch of other half-awake lunatics, in February, to endure sub-zero temperatures, on a boat, in the ocean, on purpose?

This isn’t Survivor. No one wins a million dollars for living through the horror. On the contrary, you pay an even crazier son of a gun for the torturous cold that is the only guarantee when you set foot on that boat. These trips are anticipated with the excitement of a child at Christmas, or a mom with a full bottle of wine.

If I leave for more than 18 hours, I have to write detailed itineraries for each task, chore and child-related appointment. But a fishing trip? There are several hours worth of self-driven preparation. He disappears into the fish cave (aka the basement) as a normal man and returns with arms full of fishing rods and reels, bags of lures, jars of bait and outerwear that appears to have been stolen from the crew of the Deadliest Catch.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been pulled away from some lesser important task to help spool a reel. Thankfully, I bore children and this is one chore they can’t claim is beyond their skill set. Just stand there and hold the pencil. The spool of line will spin on its own. Honestly, if I wasn’t pretty sure he’d eat the pencil, I’d ask the dog to do it.

How many reels are required for one day of fishing, anyway? Shouldn’t one be sufficient? Even I can contain myself to one pair of shoes per outing. Well, usually.

Oh, and it turns out, there is more than one type of fish hook. There are literally hundreds. That seems excessive. How different does each hook need to be? It has one job: to stick in a fish’s mouth and not come back out. Until you want it to come back out. The intricacies of hooks are so complex that my husband has a hook tattoo. For real.

Last week, I got a call as he was headed home from work.

“What’s going on this afternoon?”

“Umm, the same thing that goes on every Friday.”

“That’s great, so we have no plans. OK. I got a message that the bunker are piled up in the river (people message him about schooling fish – ’cause that’s not weird) and I want to get on the water for a little bit.”

This sounds like a normal conversation (to fish wives, anyway) but the desperation in his voice made me a little uneasy. It was like a crack addict telling me he was just going to catch a cup of coffee with his dealer. Sure, and I went to the shoe store to admire the box of peds. Even my video-gaming junkie kid can come up with a better story than that, “No mom, I’m not playing a game, I’m reading the game wiki.”

Sigh. Well, like Brian always says when I point out some ridiculous thing he has done that makes me shake my head in wonder (and not a good wonder), “Hey, you married me.”

Indeed, I did. And I guess that about says it all.

If you’ve ever had the pleasure of welcoming home someone from a fishing trip, you’ve been privy to the stench that comes with fish hands. It’s a smell not quite like any other. And it is wildly persistent. Many years back, we bought this amazing stuff called Captain Crazy Soap. It cost less than $5 and nearly two decades later, we still have it. From what I can ascertain, this longevity has put the company out of business. It’s a shame, because it really is the best stuff. We now hoard the remnants and only allow its use in the most dire of circumstances. For all other situations, we rely on vinegar.

Fish stench remover

Vinegar
Water (optional)

Dilute the vinegar with water (or use it straight) and pour over hands. Rub it in and then rinse. If the smell lingers, soak hands in the vinegar. After getting rid of the fish smell, you may want to eliminate the vinegar smell. Just use a mild soap and wash your hands. But I can promise that vinegar hands are a marked improvement over fish hands.

Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.

[contact-form-7 id=”29293″ title=”Write to Laurie”]