Back in 1947, a west Texas watchmaker named R.D. Hull designed the world's first closed face spinning reel for fishing. But he could not raise the necessary funding to purchase the equipment to manufacture his revolutionary design.
About that time a company in Oklahoma had stagnated, unable to expand their business because they only made one simple device, an electrical bomb triggering device. The Zero Hour Bomb Company pretty much covered the market in the oilfields and that was it!
Executives at ZHBC were intrigued with Hull's design and especially liked the idea of a spinning reel that would not backlash under any circumstance. They worked up a prototype that fulfilled their greatest expectations and a partnership was formed! By 1949 they were selling ZEBCO fishing reels.
About 1970 my father bought me a classic black Zebco 202 set on a solid fiberglass 2 piece 5 ft fishing rod. Early the next morning he took me to the city reservoir, tied on a wire leader and red and white Dare Devle spoon. He gave me the basics of how to cast and reel back in.
Now I was a terminally clumsy kid, absolutely no hand to eye coordination. And for the most part, no stick-to-itiviness either. Dad sat in the car listening to the radio and reading the Sunday Paper. Every now and then I would succeed in getting the lure out into the little 3 acre pond, mostly ending up with me screaming "I GOT A FISH" only to find a mess of pond weeds tangled around the treble hook.
For once I was laser focused. I was getting the hang of throwing that lure. Catching weeds didn't even dampen my optimism and I kept hucking that ol' spoon.
Once again I snagged pond salad. I did like I was told, raise the rod tip and crank it in because no fish is gonna bite on a salad! Only this time it pulled back. What the....
And the line was shaking! Reel as I might I was losing ground! My first shrieks were probably so high pitched no one except every dog for miles heard it. I hollered that I had a fish, but my dad's bored voice responded that it was just weeds again. Weeds, my skinny white butt!
When I lifted it out of the water it was simultaneously the most beautiful and frightening thing I had ever beheld. Vibrant green with horizontal chains of white dashes and a slavering, snapping, gaping maw filled with long dagger-like needle sharp teeth that I could imagine chomping onto my little feet swimming in the self-same pond a mere day before! It was huge (to my 8 yr old eye).
This was back before catch and release was a thing so when you caught it you kept it. Dad showed me how to safely grab a northern pike. I spanned hand across the top of the head and stuck thumb and middle fingers into the eye sockets. We removed the lure and put the fish on the stringer. While I caught a fish, I WAS THE ONE HOOKED.
From then on, that Zebco and I were inseparable. If I wasn't buried up to my eyebrows in a book I was either at the city reservoir on the edge of town or else a couple short miles south of town on the narrow and shallow dam impounding the Little Knife River. I fished like it was my JOB. On my own I figured outhow to disassemble and reassemble that reel using nothing but a nickel for the two slotted nuts. I hoarded meager allowances of a few coins that came my way once in a while to buy precious lures, hooks, bobbers, highly necessary wire leaders, and new line. I NEVER bought candy. Candy was gone in moments, but tackle was what I came to see as "durable goods". Maybe that's why to this day I rarely splurge on a candy bar?
Sadly, I cannot remember what ever became of that first rod and reel combo. I just know an identical copy fell into my hands a few weeks ago. I tore it down to individual single parts and lovingly cleaned out every bit of old grease, dust, and dried up gunk. I polished metal parts including down into the teeth of the meshed gears. I used a polishing wheel at low speed on my Dremel for the plastic housing until it shined glossy black. I bought high quality 8 lb test mono and spooled her up. Last Tuesday morning I took the dog and my beloved new-to-me Zero Hour Bomb Company Model 202 out to Pactola. I tied on steel leader in case of a northern pike and snapped on a brand new small 1/4 ounce red and white genuine Eppinger Dare Devle (no cheap generic knock offs now!) for the initial cast. I have fished open faced spinning reels and bait casters exclusively for 46 years, but the muscle memory never left me. I was casting like a pro and dropping that lure wherever I wanted it.
Not 5 casts into the session I was slammed. I picked the rod tip and stopped reeling. I felt tremendous head shakes as the fish sounded for the depths. When it slowed I dropped the tip and gained back a yard or two line. Off it tore on a reel smoking run as the drag cut loose wit an agonizing wail of protest. I'd gain line, lose line, rinse and repeat! Whooyeahhh! Resistance suddenly disappeared and I reeled madly while lifting the rod tip as high as possible. SHE BREACHED! She came up and got air like a whale on a National Geographic special. Blue back, silvery belly, and blush pink down the sides, this was a prime Pactola rainbow trout and a hog fat sow if ever there was one. Another wild leap followed by a tarpon tailback ensued before she rolled into the net, both of us gasping and spent.
All told I netted 11 'bows that morning, keeping 4 deeply hooked fish that maybe wouldnt survive, including that first and biggest fish. The tale of the tape on her was 3.24 lbs at a 20.5" draw.
I remember very little of my childhood due to alternating violence and neglect. But in the last few days memories of fishing have been popping up randomly. I remember getting to the lake one morning and some guy with out of state license plates in "my spot". He asked if I had worms in the coffee can I pulled out of the raggedy Boy Scout canvas backpack I had found in someone's trash. I said no, my lures were in there. And they were. One horrible tangled mess of sharp rusty invitations to tetanus. I hung my head in shame when he said a coffee can is useless and how a real fisherman needs a real tacklebox and to keep it clean, orderly, and organized. Then he dug out a battered green enameled steel tackle box from the back of his pickup and told me to sort my sh__ out. We talked all day. Turns out he grew up here and left after schooling was done. This was "his spot", too. We caught nothing, but I figured out what kinda man I wanted to be some day.
Turns out I happen to have some very good memories from when I was a kid, thanks to the Zero Hour Bomb Company. I am gonna work on sifting those out, leaving the rest buried where they belong.
