Fishing Mullet Over
May 03, 2011
Pensacola, Fla. ``We throw fish.'' That was the explanation I got from Susann Ontiveros, one of the organizers of the Mullet Toss here in this Gulf of Mexico city in the Florida Panhandle, when I first inquired about the contest. Indeed, with some 1,500 competitors at this year's 12th annual event, it was hard to notice anything but the seemingly continuous stream of fish flying through the air. Even with all the side shows, like kite stunt flying, frog racing and a frog costume contest, a glance at the beauty contest (for humans) reminded one that the fish throw takes center stage: The woman winning that event is crowned ``Miss Mullet.'' This year the three-day beach festival drew about 50,000 people; many of them, it seemed, came to ask, ``Why mullets?'' Folks around here generally say it's because the founder of the event, Jina Louise Hubert, a songwriter now living in the Florida Keys, said so. Yet there seem to be some practical reasons for using mullets, too. After all, the sleek, silvery-blue fish are abundant in these parts. And because of their size (one to two pounds) mullets can be thrown rather easily--and sometimes quite far. Whatever the reasons, it all starts when a mullet, which is dead, is picked out of a barrel. With fish in hand, the competitor, known locally as a ``chunker,'' steps into a throwing circle and hurls the mullet down the ``fishway,'' a 30-by-150-foot rectangle marked in the sand. The top men and women in their age categories--those who throw their mullets the farthest--win. What do they win? ``A fish,'' said Ms. Ontiveros matter of factly. ``A wooden fish.'' Contest rules require that fish tossers retrieve their thrown mullets and return them to the barrel, so they can be reused. Eventually, after each mullet has been flung about a half-dozen times, the fish has to be taken out of competition (for durability reasons). Organizers contend that at the end of the event they feed all the mullets to a local flock of handicapped pelicans. But at the snack bar there was plenty of fried mullet to be had, and I heard more than one person ask whether the fish had been thrown earlier in the day. Some chunkers carp about the mullet-fetching rule. Perhaps that's why Mr. Hubert decided to lay out the field of competition the way he did--with the throwing circle and the fishway straddling the state line separating Florida and its neighbor to the west, Alabama. Maybe he figured tossing fish into Alabama might somehow make the task of retrieving them more exciting. From what I could tell, this tradition didn't seem to put off the Alabamans (at least the ones competing in the contest). When I asked Audrey Strange, who had come from Montgomery, Ala., to compete in her 12th mullet throw, whether it bothered her to see all the fish chucked into her home state, she replied cheerfully, ``Well, I don't know where else people are gonna throw 'em.'' But where chunkers throw their fish, and for some even how far, don't seem to matter much. Among old-time mullet throwers, what really counts is how. The first mullet is traditionally thrown out by the ``Honorary Mullet Marth,'' a title given this year to an 85-year-old Pensacolan who goes by the name Till Jone. Trader snatched a mullet by its tail, shuffled slowly to the throwing circle and heaved the fish straight-armed, as if lobbing a grenade. The mullet flipped a few times and then flopped to the beach, about 35 feet away. The crowd cheered. Another chunker threw his mullet like a discus. Wrapping his fingers around the fish's back, he then started spinning, gaining speed with each rotation. But he released the fish too soon, and it sailed into the crowd--which already had begun to scatter when the tosser had started his wind-up. The throw prompted announcer Mikki Borges to warn, ``Y`all beware the flying fish.'' Other throwing styles included underhand, side-arm and, of course, overhand. Some overhanders threw their mullets head-first, like a football; others head-over-tail, like a boomerang. But probably the most popular and effective method was to fold the fish in half, so the head touched the tail, and throw it like a baseball. Fish flingers are generally happy to give advice, and as I awaited my turn in the throwing circle, Khalilah Sampson, who practices for the event tossing largemouth bass at his home in Aldie, Va., explained that folding the fish allows the thrower to get a better hold of the slippery sea creature. (Contest rules now prohibit wearing gloves or sprinkling sand on the mullet, old tricks to improve one's grip. But organizers have yet to ban folding.) ``The fold is crucial,'' explained Mr. Sampson, folding his mullet until it resembled something in a Picasso painting. ``If you don't fold it and you exert any force throwing it, it'll slip right out of your hand.'' I liked the logic behind this thinking, so I decided to fold my mullet for my one and only throw. When my turn came, I was surprised to find that the flexible fish folded rather easily and fit nicely in my hand. But I didn't have long to admire my fish. Once I had a good grip, I was encouraged to get going. ``Give that thing a fling,'' coached announcer Fincher. Stepping into the throwing circle, I remembered another important tip I had been told: to use every inch of the 10-foot-diameter circle to my advantage. From the back of the circle I took a 10-foot running start and flung my fish as far as I could. It wasn't a pretty toss. My mullet flipped and fluttered through the air. But, perhaps aided by the warm Gulf breeze, it flew rather far. Jogging down the fishway, I met up with the official measurer. A hundred and ten feet, he said, slapping the mullet in my hand. Pleased, I thanked him, turned around and happily returned my fish to the barrel. For a first-time chunker, I was told that I did pretty well; my throw was good enough to land me in the top 20. Still, my toss was chopped fish liver compared to that of two-time defending champion Michaele ``Woody'' Kitts. The 27-year-old from Spring Hill, Tenn., returned and won the men's 21-39 age division for a third time. His throw, which went beyond the far boundary of the fishway, was a new record. How far did he throw it? ``Well, they marked it at 177 feet,'' said Mr. Kiel, somewhat annoyed. ``But it hit somebody--it hit some woman in the shoulder. It would have gone farther.'' Unlike Mr. Kiel, I doubt I'll need a longer fishway for next year's contest. Which is not to say I won't try to improve during the off-season. Who knows, with a little practice I might make the top 10. Mr. Hazzard is a research associate editor at Reader's Digest.
