Gone Fishing
By John Lamberg and Mark M. McNabb
Whenever we find ourselves grim over a broad worldwide decline; whenever
it is a drizzly September or October in the market; whenever we find ourselves
wanting to knock the hat off of the next broker who greets us with a
"you're filled at your price, sir"; then we consider it high time to
go fishing.s traders, we're always on the lookout for rules that hold true in
the market's high tides as well as its low tides, and we are especially partial
to lessons from patient partisans of the pastime practiced on placid streams
and lakes. We were therefore delighted when John Lamberg and Mark M. McNabb
sent us the following rules, together with market interpretations.
1. Be on the lake when the fish are feeding. Know what sectors the
market likes.
2. Don't go fishing when the lake is packed with tourists. You probably
won't be able to get near your favorite fishing hole, and even if you do, all
those churning propellers will scare the fish away. If everyone is playing the same stock idea, the easy money
has been made.
3. Come prepared with well-maintained fishing equipment, an adequate
supply of bait, lures and sharp hooks, and an extra supply of patience.
Give your best ideas time to work, but don't use margin to see them out.
4. Don't make noise; you will scare the fish away. Fidelity never
speaks; why should you?
5. Don't fish where there are no fish. Know the structure of the lake and
the habits of the fish you are trying to catch. Electronic fish finders can
help you locate fish, but it won't make them bite. If no one else is
buying, why should you? Catching falling daggers can kill a dip-buyer.
6. Despite your best preparations, sometimes the fish just won't bite.
Don't be discouraged; go back to shore and enjoy the day, then come back
another time. Even the best traders are only 60% right. Just make the
winners big ones.
7. Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of a school of feeding fish.
Keep your hook baited and in the water. Correct equipment problems quickly, and
get the bait back in the water. When your stocks are running up, stay with
the trend.
8. When a big one takes your bait or hits the lure, set the hook firmly,
keep tension on the line at all times and play the fish until it tires.
Keep the landing net out of sight. Don't sell winners too soon.
9. When a really big one breaks your line, take it in stride. He may
still be in the area, so always have a backup fishing outfit aboard. If a
market decline washes out a group, get ready when the group takes off again.
10. Know when to come back to shore, particularly when whitecaps start to
appear or there are storm clouds in the distance. If the market gets crazy,
go to cash while you figure things out.
Mark M. McNabb, a Chartered
Financial Analyst, can be found teaching in business schools in the south such
as Virginia Tech and Tulane University when not driving a classic Olds Cutlass
convertible in pursuit of blues and barbecue.
John Lamberg, Minnetonka, Minnesota.
Engineer, student of the market and valued contributor to Vic and Laurel’s
columns, John earned a master’s degrees in electromagnetics and holds six
patents. Imagine, if you can, a married version of Fred MacMurray of My Three
Sons fame enjoying Monty Python reruns, and you’ve a reasonable picture of John.
Hobbies include gardening (thanks to his mother Jean’s patience and love of
gardening), fishing (thanks to his father Raymond’s love of the solitude of a
lake in the early morning) and blackjack (thanks to his uncle Stanley who would
occasionally let John pick the daily double). Having grown up in a blue-collar,
risk-averse family environment, John did not pay much attention to the stock
market until one fine day when Executive Life went belly up, taking his
"guaranteed return" and most of his life’s savings with it. (Most of
the money was eventually repaid, minus lost interest.) This started John on a
journey to understand the market, trading, and ultimately himself.
The Angling Angle
By John Lamberg
We've found that in turbulent times sometimes it's best to just go
fishing. Mr. Lamberg, sharing our predilection, recommends bobber fishing, a
back-to-basics technique that requires just enough bait to judge conditions,
but not enough to be upset if the bait is stolen.
Lamberg, who learned his fishing technique from his father, Raymond,
shared the following rules:
1. Use a bobber just big enough to float the bait and weight.
Market application: Be judicious when committing assets.
2. Wait for the bobber to go under before setting the hook.
Market application: Pay close attention to how the stock acts when you enter
a position, to see whether it's a big trade or merely a small one nibbling on
your bait.
3. Make the leader light and long enough so fish won't be spooked by it.
Market application: Don't bid in size, or you'll find you have an immediate
loss.
4. Use bait that sinks.
Market application: Don't place limit orders at round numbers.
5. Use sharp hooks.
Market application: Sharpen your reflexes.
6. Adjust bait level below bobber so it's close to the bottom but not on it,
where it will attract only bottom-feeders that aren't the most desirable for
eating. But don't fish in shallow waters where you find only little fish that
aren't worth keeping (and are forever stealing your bait.)
Market application: Look for big trades after a decline.
Fishing in the Black Canyon
By Duncan Coker
I just returned from a four-day trip, rafting and fishing
down the Black Canyon of Gunnison National Wilderness. It is a spectacular
canyon with the Gunnison River winding down many miles until it joins the
Colorado. Once you are in, you are committed for at least several days. My friends and I have done this trip before,
so we go on our own, unguided.
This time it is my turn to row. We pack the gear in, set up
camps, travel the river, fish most of the day, cook meals, make campfires,
talk, play cards -- things typical of any camping trip. What is unusual is the
change in state of mind and awareness that results.
Part of this change is in the use of time. Events revolve
around nature's schedule, not mine. It is an unconscious adaptation. I awake
when the sun is up, fish during the early morning when it’s still cool, row
down river at midday, fish again in the afternoon, make camp and reach bed
early. If the weather changes we adjust our plans. I always feel my timing is just right -- on a trip like this.
Rhythm is everywhere in nature. On a river trip it is the
constant flow of the water. I hear it
when sleeping, when arising, all day long. When rowing there is pace to the
flow of the water, a tempo, and measure.
It is musical in many ways. There is a connection to the river, to
nature. I can't fight the river's current for long, or bend it in a new
direction. But the river will power the raft to my destination if I am aware of
its conditions.
Fishing embodies these qualities: timing, rhythm, awareness,
and connection. While fishing, catching fish is not the focus. Fishing is the focus, and catching them a
welcome reward. And those times when all things merge, the perfect cast or
drift, the gentle set, a long run from the fish, bringing the trout in
skillfully and unharmed, those are times when I know I am performing at my
best. This is a state of mind that nature brings.
Fishing and nature also serve as a link to the past.
Children love to fish, and I did as a child.
My memories are of a great uncle and I fishing and napping on a sunny
bank. The bass nip at the bobbers on the ends of cane poles. And deeper, there
is a connection to the ancient races who came before. They fished and stared
into campfires just as I do now. Or as
Norman Maclean has written "Eventually, all things merge into one, and a
river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's
great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks
are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words
are theirs."
Market Lessons I Have Learned While on a River With a Rod in Hand
By Duncan Coker
Casting upstream into a fast current, mending the line,
taking in slack and waiting for that dramatic strike of the trout (preparation
and expectations).
Hooking a giant, as he rises five times above the surface
(200-day moving average), only to dive into the depths, wrap around a rock and
break free (volatility).
Finding the right fly, knowing the knots, leaders, when and
how to cast and the all-important presentation. It is not easy to fool a fish
or the markets.
Peaceful serenity of bringing in a fish to the bank in the
red dim of sunset, only to let him go to fight another day (the reward for a
long-term perspective).
Saltwater Flyfishing for Bonefish
By Duncan Coker
To catch bonefish on the flats, there are numerous variables
to factor in, wind, temperature, sun, water clarity, season (relative market
information).
But none is more important than the tides. Bonefish are
predictable in when and where they will move into fishing waters, based on the tides.
A rising low tide is usually the best. By tracking the tides you can find the
bonefish (indicator).
When fishing, radical departures can occur from the intended
result of catching fish (risk).
Bonefish are incredibly “spooky.” When spooked they move at speeds up to 30mph in a highly volatile
way, making sharp turns to avoid prey or anglers (panics).
The trigger can be internal, aquatic predators or external,
anglers (market shocks)
But invariably they return to the same cycle of following
the tides and can thus be caught every now and again (market cycle).
The catching part takes practice, research and a methodical
and disciplined execution. Of course it is a lot of fun and challenging
(performance).
Duncan Coker,
Telluride, Colorado, is “an investor who speculates from time to time.”
Bird Economics
By
Jack Tierney
One of the joys of our home is the wraparound porch.
Depending on my mood and the weather, I have rockers positioned to enjoy or
avoid the sun, wind, or rain. Around five every afternoon, armed with a Dr
Pepper, a pouch of tobacco, and some rolling papers, I avail myself of the
vistas one can only appreciate when living in the middle of nowhere. Since my
manual dexterity is roughly equivalent to Shaquille O'Neal's eloquence, I get
little smoking done. But I do get a lot of bird watching accomplished; and as
contrary to my Irish heritage as this notably British pass time might be, I
find it both engrossing and instructive. To satiate this enthusiasm we have
installed, erected, or hung a variety of feeders and provided no fewer than 47
bird houses.
The hummingbirds (ruby throated) are, by far, the most
ferocious. Last year we started with one feeder; we're currently up to four.
All require refilling every other day as opposed to every three days in early
April. As added sops, we have hung two baskets overflowing with petunias and
planted large numbers of honeysuckle. Despite this apparent largesse, there are
constant battles, much reminiscent of WWII dogfights, over ownership. Each
bird, it seems, exerts a territorial imperative over every feeder and plant.
These contests begin before 6 a.m. and last until well after
8 p.m. Apparently, each gets his or her fill, but by the end of the day they
must feel much like a day trader in a volatile market.
The Goldfinch feeders, long cylindrical devices filled with
thistle and featuring no fewer than six feeding perches, affords a different
style of combat. Not content to settle for any of the six available spots,
fights rage all day over the bottom two perches. All have apparently learned
that those two openings continue offering rewards well after the diminishing
level has made the upper four non-productive. These bright yellow warriors cease
their struggles only when a single slightly larger house finch arrives. This
sudden loss of fighting interest and temporary withdrawal to nearby bushes is
remarkably similar to the stillness that comes over the bond pit just prior to
a Fed release. Nevertheless each wants to be on the “ground floor” even if it
means being subjected to the droppings of the others.
Then there are the standard feeders available to all comers:
jays, cardinals, cow birds, blackbirds, sparrows, and the occasional
woodpecker. At first we filled them with sunflower hearts. We quickly
discovered that not only was this expensive, but the blue jays and cardinals
exerted their authority and dominated the scene. For financial reasons as well
as the desire for more diversification we switched to sunflower seeds, with
little change. The bigger, stronger birds still drove off the others. We
eventually stepped down to the bottom and used a generic mix consisting mostly
of millet and other cheaper grains with the occasional sunflower seed thrown
in. As a result we have a host of different species feeding throughout the day;
admittedly, the product offered is inferior and, in some cases, not the least
nutritious. But we certainly get a lot of action and can depend on even the
unfulfilled returning the next day. Drawing a parallel would be superfluous.
Reflecting on this, I turned to those who display
indifference to our blandishments: the doves, robins, and bluebirds. All are
primarily ground feeders dependent solely on the weather's whims, nature's
never assured bounty, and their will to squeeze as much as possible from what's
available. They then adjust their feeding regimen, nesting sites, and family
size to what's self-securable, refusing to become dependent on a rich though
potentially capricious source of sustenance. Apparently, they find less risk in
the natural course of events than in an outside planned and promised source of
uninterrupted bounty. Their approach, though apparently more tenuous, is highly
individualistic, conservative in approach, and, though minimally rewarding,
almost always successful. Like individuals who find their greatest financial
comfort in those frequently disparaged safe havens, CDs and treasuries, ground
feeders find solace in succeeding slowly; and proclaim that ethic to their
progeny.
At last I pondered my favorite and most fascinating visitor,
the nuthatch. Found most frequently flaying nuts of their hardened skins, the
nuthatch spends an equal amount of time scurrying from trunk to limb feasting
on spiders and other arboreal insects. After three summers of drought, though,
both the quantity and quality of nuts has diminished substantially. And while
most birds at the standard feeder seemed to have adopted a tolerant, if not
collegial, attitude towards each other, the nuthatch remains aloof. His
infrequent visits seem carefully planned to occur when his potential rivals
seem most disinterested. Thus left alone, he diligently combs through the
available options, satisfied with nothing less than the sporadic sunflower
seed. When satisfied that his search is complete, or when others arrive to
dispute possession, he promptly departs and patiently awaits another
opportunity.
It doesn't seem at all unnatural, then, to exit markets that
have provided substantial bounty. In doing so, they create an inordinate amount
of competition -- so much, in fact, that even the least attractive equities
find themselves in demand. I'll ground feed for a while on bills and notes and
search the corporate Sequoias for the meatiest bonds. And, when the mob seems
to have sated itself and, out of digestive necessity, is forced to rest, I'll
occasionally revisit the market in search of the overlooked or disgorged kernel
of value.
Afterword:
With limited merit, I've been accused of introducing an
artificial level of abundance into an otherwise well balanced system. Yet, as
illustrated, each offering provides the opportunity, not a guarantee, of a
richer diet. Were I indifferent to this subtle distinction I would encourage my
dogs to ravish the numerous box turtles inhabiting our property; their
carcasses are an irresistible magnet to the area's largest and most striking
bird: the turkey vulture. Similarly, I refuse to provide for the Purple Martin.
A voracious consumer of insects, its presence would be notably beneficial.
However, after years of having their housing (which is quite expensive)
provided by humans, they no longer are able or willing to construct their own.
Additionally, unwilling to do the work themselves, they will
not return to their previous home the following year unless it has been
thoroughly cleaned. These two examples, I believe, highlight the difference
between providing an incentive to those willing to avail themselves of it
(investment), and providing a support system to those incapable or unwilling to
build and maintain their own (welfare).
Jack Tierney, Dickson,
Tennessee. Philosopher, humorist and star stock-picker, Jack retired from a
post as creative supervisor in the ad department of a major newspaper company.
Another Day
By Paul Lewis
I wrote Laurel a couple of weeks ago of my sighting of a
sidewalk San Fran jig dancer and later of corner crooners huddled together,
blankets and shopping carts in tow, belting out some form of chant. Tribal
messages. Before I left Maine there were the plump squirrels and ducks, well
fed from another friendly winter (and our feeders)…but a stalking fox kept her
watch.
That mistress of mischief was lurking, awaiting her chance
to nourish herself and her pending brood on the fat, dumb and happy prey. I
call the prancing cherubs in “Fantasia” while the gods above held their
lightening bolt lances, ready to bust up the party.
Well, the party got busted, the fox got fed (one male
mallard is nowhere to be seen). The street folks are being rousted away from
the turistas. And, we had our tech crash.
It is another day, and we trade again.
(May 2, 2000)
The Red Fox
By Paul Lewis
We have a red fox pair in our woods, and the female was
getting comfortable enough to come close enough so that Suzanne could offer her
food for her kits. She had just gotten the female to take some leftover lamb a
couple of days ago.
Today, Suzanne told me that she saw two of the kits dead on
the side of route one, near the Nurembega Inn down our road. She was not happy,
needless to say. The fox's territory unfortunately crossed the highway and
extended to the bay. They just had no fear of cars.
I have not found any market parallel in either the street or
the country scenes since the big market blow up really took hold last winter.
For some reason I respond more to a bull market, as I think of bullishness as
positive, idealistic, flourishing times. Bearishness I find to be a time of
withdrawal, reflection and even sadness, in a way. That may be why things as
the two fox kits disturb me, while others, especially local Mainers, would just
shrug them off as part of life.
Some people thrive in either up or down markets. They make
the most of any environment and can more readily shrug off setbacks. I have not
been able to find a strategy on the short side that I can relate to. My only
bearish tactic is to raise cash and deploy it when I feel bullish. I envy those
that can see down as up; I need to stand on my head to achieve that
perspective. I'm not that acrobatic.
I can almost find an analogy in the film “Three Days of the
Condor.” True strategists are as the Max von Sydow character, as he even finds
a peace in his role as an assassin. I am much more the Robert Redford character
from that film. I am way more driven by the heart than from the head for my own
good, it seems.
(June 6, 2001)
Paul Lewis, San Francisco,
California. A longtime systems consultant to Silicon Valley’s software firms, Paul
has an eye for good tech investments. Paul divides his time between homes in
Maine and San Francisco, and his timely observations on East Coast wildlife and
West Coast street characters were a valued part of Victor and Laurel’s columns
right from the start.
(Editor’s Note: In
our “Daily Speculations” columns, Vic sometimes assumes the persona of a Maine
fisherman who wrote Laurel with stock tips and market systems.)
Message Found in a Bottle
By Devon Malori
Last night I heard my grandpa and my dad talking about the
stock market. They said something about reading about a bottle that had
messages about the market. So I went down to the beach and looked for bottles.
I didn’t find very much. But there was one interesting one.
It had a piece of paper in it. I copied the message down. It said:
“We fishermen follow the schools of fish, to maximize our
catch. A few fish (usually the weak and dying) always swim away from the
school. But every so often, the strongest leader fish break away from the
school. Wise fishermen follow the strongest lead fish because they know that
the school will soon follow.
I don’t know what that means, but I thought I should tell
you. There are letters at the bottom of the page underneath the words “5-day
break away from the school.” The letters read CSCO, QCOM, LU, ORCL, T.
I hope that helps you. I’ll tell my dad about it too. Bye,
bye.
(May 9, 2000)
Devon Malori was 10 years old
when she first wrote us. She is the daughter of Brett Steenbarger, Ph.D., who after writing numerous guest columns
for us became a commentator in his own right for MSN MoneyCentral and various
broadcast shows. His book on market psychology for John Wiley & Sons, The
Psychology of Trading: Tools and Tactics for Minding the Markets, will be
published in early 2003. Both a trader and a licensed clinical psychologist, he
is assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at the SUNY
Upstate Medical University in Syracuse, New York.
The Hoodoo Man
By Peter Daniels
I’ve just finished Victor’s book, “The Education of a
Speculator,” which I enjoyed very much and particularly the part about the
“hoodoo man.” Here is the story about the greatest hoodoo man I ever met:
Between the ages of 8 and 10 (circa ’42 to ’44), I spent
almost every sunny day with one of the greatest men that I ever met. He was
over 6 feet tall, straight as a stick and by all accounts was over 100 years
old. His name was Uncle Stone and every sunny day during the summer he walked from
somewhere in Pittsylvania County, Virginia, across the Staunton River bridge to
Campbell County in order to fish. He dressed the same way every day in a black
suit, frock-tailed coat and fedora hat. He carried a cane and two bamboo
fishing poles.
When I first met him, I was completely mesmerized because he
could catch more catfish than one would think was humanly possible. Some days
these strings of fish were only 3 feet long but on other days he could catch a
string of fish at least 14 feet long. I saw him hold a string of fish (in the
middle of the string) with arms extended over his head and both ends of the
string touched the ground. He used the same equipment that everyone else used
but his results were phenomenal.
When I asked him how he was able to catch so many fish he
replied that he had “hoodooed” the fish.
After that I became obsessed with fishing because I wanted
to catch a string of catfish that would reach from my arm, extended over my
head to the ground and I wanted to learn the “secret of the hoodoo.” I started
going fishing every sunny day with Uncle Stone and it took me three summers to
catch that long string of fish.
In the meantime, I listened as Uncle Stone told me many
stories about his long, wonderful life, including the time when he had been a
slave (I know this part is hard to believe, but it’s true). But he would never
tell me the secret of the hoodoo, no matter how hard I tried to get the answer
out of him.
After I caught my long string of fish, I became uninterested
in fishing and on our last day on the river bank Uncle Stone told me that he
had just turned 105 years old and that he was thinking about getting married
again, to a “yella gal this time” (and he did!). He also showed me a large
tumor on his right side that he kept covered with his frocktailed coat, and he
told me that it would never hurt him because he had “hoodooed” it.
A few years later, the most interesting and upbeat person
that I have ever met died. But I know that Uncle Stone died happy because he had
beaten the stock market of life, and even George Soros hasn’t done that! A few
years later, I was walking past a black cabaret one night and stopped to
listen, because I loved their music. I’ll never forget the song that was
playing that night. As I listened I heard the refrain over and over again. It
was “Somebody Done Hoodooed the Hoodoo Man,” and I said to myself, “Nobody can
hoodoo a real hoodoo man!”
At night in Altavista, we used to play a game of tag called ring-a-le-bo.
We played all over the downtown area with about 10 guys. Well, one night we
were playing and a black man appeared, as out of nowhere, sitting on the steps
of the post office by himself in the glow of a far-off streetlight. When the
guys saw him they became really excited because this was another famous hoodoo
man.
Well one of the guys asked him to perform the hoodoo and he
readily obliged us. He took a harmonica out of his pocket and began to play the
spookiest music that I had ever heard. Then he put it away and took a small
harmonica, about an inch-and-a-quarter long, out and continued the music on the
same theme. Then he put the harmonica entirely within his mouth and continued
to play. Next he took the little harmonica out of his mouth, took off his hat
and placed the harmonica under it. Then things really got spooky.
The little harmonica under the hat started to cry in its
little reedy harmonica voice. “Let me out,” it sobbed over and over again, but
the hoodoo man didn’t say anything. The little harmonica continued to sob and
cry out (scaring the pants off of all of us, ‘cause the voice was so spooky and
it sounded like it was coming from under the hat, which was about three feet
away from him). After some considerable back-and-forth repartee, the little
harmonica began playing the most soulful music I have ever heard at a volume
only slightly louder than a whisper. Every time the little harmonica would
stop, the hoodoo man would say in a stern voice, “Play some more,” and the
little harmonica would oblige with its soulful tune. Finally the hoodoo man
said, “OK, I’ll let you out,” and he picked up the hat and there on the
concrete was the little harmonica lying on the ground. He picked it up, kissed
it and put it in his pocket.
I knew he was a ventriloquist because I’d seen all of the
Charley McCarthy movies, but this was much different and it sounded so darn
real that it was mind-boggling.
Someone then asked him the secret of the hoodoo and he told
us. He said that you had to catch a solid black cat (emphasizing no white
spots) during the full moon and put it (alive) in a pot and boil it till the
meat came off the bone. You were then to take the left legbone to the top of
the Staunton River Bridge, toss the bone over the side into the muddy water and
dive in after it. If you couldn’t find the legbone, the Devil would take you
straight away to hell, but if you did find the bone and kept it, you would have
the power of the hoodoo for the rest of your life.
You’d be amazed how hard it is to find a solid black cat on
the night of a full moon. Furthermore, I did know a couple of people who jumped
off that bridge to their deaths, but I don’t think the power of the hoodoo had
anything to do with it.
Bluefish
By Peter Daniels
There is a strong similarity between the mindset of surf
fisherman and stock traders. Here is a story about surf fishermen. The stock
trader analogies are in parenthesis.
Before Jimmy Carter was president, big schools of bluefish
roamed the Outer Banks.
These schools could be immense. Miles long and God knows how
wide they were.
I once saw a single school that stretched from Rodanthe to
Nags Head, which is roughly 20 miles.
I hated them because I just couldn't get away from them, to
catch anything else, when I was fishing. A three- to five-pound fish almost
every cast! No one couldn't catch
them! You didn't dare use bait because
then you'd catch two at a time as fast as you could reel them in.
When they started to run, the word got out and surf fisherman
from everywhere came here to participate in their feeding frenzy (investors
moving into the bull market). Two "Island Boys" could make
thousands of dollars with a gill net and a rowing dory just fishing from shore (old-time
traders reading the tape and scoring big). You didn't even
need a pole when the
blues were "blitzing." Tourists would just ride down the beach and
pick up beautiful gray trout, still alive and
flapping, that had beached themselves in their frenzy to escape being
eaten (stock tips making money). One day I caught a blue that was so
large that for a long time, I actually thought that I had caught a large shark
which were also common near the shore at that time (gap up big-time on good
news when you are long). God how I
hated those bluefish!
Well one night, I looked out of my door and thought that
someone had built a city behind my house. It was the lights of large trawl
boats, fishing right in my back yard as far as I could see in both directions. The
next morning, when I got up, I heard on the radio that Jimmy Carter (Greenspan
solving the irrational exuberance problem) had invited foreign commercial
fisherman to fish, not within the 10-mile limit or the 3-mile limit, but almost
in the surf in my back yard. They were so close that I could have recognized
individuals
for a police lineup. For days the small boats would come out
and encircle the fish with purse nets and haul them on board. Day after day,
this occurred. Jimmy Carter just gave the place away (Greenspan raising
rates).
Well, the word was out to the commercial interests both
foreign and domestic. The foreigners came and commercial fisherman came from
other states and they cleaned up the place, except for the minnows. They took
the blues and the gray and speckled trout. They decimated the red drum (it
became commercially endangered) and the flounder (tech, communication and
Internet stocks all decimated).
They left the
whiting and the croakers (Dow 30). When it was all over and the trawlers left,
the people complained to the US Fish and Wildlife Service. But these sweethearts said, "That ‘s because of normal ecological
conditions, fish were just in a down
cycle right now….We are working on it and the solution is conservation by limiting the catch
and raising the legal size limits until
the fish return (Fed lowering the funds rate).”
For a few years, fishing on the Banks was like fishing in
the Sahara desert (stock pickers bottom fishing). Eventually, fishing
improved a little but if you wanted a fish to eat, you had to break the law
because the size limits were at the extremities of the bell curve (insider
trading increasing). Well, I don't fish anymore because I don't want to
harass fish that are mostly under the legal limit. I’m just hanging back waiting for the big fish to return (trader
waiting for a higher low and a higher high). And I've been waiting for over
20 years (traders after the crash of ‘29).
But what does the average surf fisherman do: Buy a bigger
surf vehicle (one or more faster computers). Install a CB radio (subscribe
to a live data and news wire sources, buy books on fundamental and technical
analysis). Put a rod rack on the top and sides of his truck so he can carry
and fish with 15 different rods at the same time (swing and day trading with
multiple entries) and all paid for with plastic (margin account).
I passed on buying the latest fishing paraphernalia, but boy
did I bite on the trading trash. I
haven't made any money to speak of since I bought it all. In the old days I
could make 15% to 20 % just watching CNBC. Now I have so much data to digest
that it takes me all day and night. I've been waiting over 20 years for that
chop on the water and great flocks of gulls, circling and diving and picking up
tidbits, to tell me that the blues have returned. When that happens, I will
know that the other big, delicious fish are back and the blues are moving in
for their part of the feast.
Frankly, I'm not sure what I'm waiting for as far as this
market is concerned but one thing is certain. Surf fisherman and traders are so
much alike primarily because of their positive expectations.
Peter Daniels is a retired
aerospace engineer who trades stocks from his home on a barrier island in North
Carolina.
Fishing and Risk
By Patrick Boyle
I don’t claim to be much of a fisherman, but most weekends
in the summer I go in hunt of Stripers, Bluefish, or anything stupid enough to
bite my bait off the shore of Cape Cod.
The one thing I learned quickly as a novice fisherman was how important
it is to set the drag on your reel right. It is probably more important than
choosing the right bait, or spot to fish, as the location of fish, or what they
wish to eat on a particular day can be pointless to forecast.
The drag on a reel is what sets the strength with which the
fishing line is held. If set too tight, the line will snap when a fish pulls
hard; if too loose, you will not pull anything in.
There are many parallels between this and life. Like a speculator
deciding on the level of risk he should take on a trade. It’s important to
strike a balance, and not hold too tightly to things, be they our beliefs and
ideas or our wealth. It is also
important not to leave things too free so that you find yourself with no
control. It is important to use
experience and science in order to set this balance, to give the fishing line a
jerk to see if it feels right.
Patrick Boyle lived most of his life in
Ireland, where he attended the University at Trinity College Dublin. He now
works with Vic in Connecticut. He tries to go fishing most summer weekends on
Cape Cod.
The Desert News (excerpts)
By Hobo Keeley
Surprisingly much occurs in two months here in Sand Valley.
These journal entries are for February-March 01.
WELL, WELL
Nothing’s the matter with Sand Valley that a rise in the
Pacific won’t cure, but that hasn’t happened and most precious in the desert is
water. This is especially true since the two wells that ordinarily supply the
30-odd residents recently closed. One disgruntled owner dismantled his, and
then this month the second owner similarly unhooked Midnight Well, leaving us
dry. Now folks drive three miles weekly for water hollerin’ all the way. I’m
the parsimonious user at 1.5 gallons per day (for drinking, bathing and
washing) with a year’s store in 100-gallon containers.
The first step in potential retribution to the belly-up
wells began with, “I hear Midnight’s going to burn this summer,” and it spread
like wildfire. One of two things will happen: The owner reconnects the pump; or
gossip lays the way for an untraceable deed. Normally the statement instigator
lights the match, but no one knows who it is, the sheriff’s handcuffed, and the
desert code lives on.
More likely though, well be drawing water from Midnight
Well. Just in case, one neighbor has gained a key to a secret well and I’ve
paid him 10 cents a gallon to haul me another 500 gallons to conceal under my
semi-truck trailer. This water’s so salty one perspires white, but it’s dandy
for dishes, bathing or a Kool-Aid stand.
Desert code resembles cowboy law in the early West.
Initially there was no law and the cowboy made his own rules that men of the
same saddle observed. When these were broken, scenarios like those in this
report erupted and were romanced in dime paperbacks that gripped Eastern
readers. My stories are true and free. Differences back then were settled when
cowpokes took matters into their own hands or recruited avengers. Popular
disputes ranged from property to water to machismo, just like today.
NEW EGG DIET
My neighbor at two miles has a leaky chicken roof and Old
Martha, full of wrinkles where the smiles have gone, is penniless. I take a
half-day to spread tin and tar, finish and the lady starts giving me ten eggs
every other day, in addition to a similar collection down the road. All life’s
an experiment, so why not eggs? I eat a mean of eight daily for a month
(topping at 16 in a sitting) and the results are in: I crave eggs but am perturbed
by the dirt scratching.
FINANCES
I’m considered a tycoon as a sub-teacher in this sandbox
where others survive by odd jobs among themselves, Social Security and SSI
(disability). Here, as in other remote necks, money rarely changes hands
because it isn’t in hand. Moreover, its illegal for a SSI recipient to accept
the "green", so money is left in cupboard teacups to be discovered
later. Or barter is made.
A hint of the latter came when I first moved here. "One
day maybe you’ll join the circle," I was told. It took a year to figure
this means becoming part of a circular barter among trusted folks. It goes this
way: X pulls a motor for Y who has nothing X needs in return, and later in the
week Y sinks fence posts for Z who knowing the previous debt writes letters for
X, and the circle is complete. It works, I’m part of it, and try to visualize
how extensive in terms of people and time the circle becomes. The system flows
well enough among folks within a confidence (hence my own wait before “joining
the circle”) where each link stays honest for fear of being discarded. The
vicissitudes for a newcomer are the initial waiting period for acceptance,
joining and watching that his neighbor
doesn’t cheat him, then a day comes when he worries about
not cheating his neighbor because what goes around comes around. My preference
is the immediate and exacting cash transaction, however in these parts circle
is stable normally.
Why does the circle hold? Legitimacy describes, as I
understand it, why a given system deserves the allegiance of participants.
Three usual reasons are: 1) Custom - certainly that holds since people began
migrating here in the 70s; 2) Legal not applicable; and;
3) Member charisma -
this is stellar as enumerated under “New Candidate.” I add the reason of necessity for I discovered early that Sand
Valleyites utter the vilest reciprocal slur yet cooperate financially out of
pressing need. The circle is forced to form and hold.
Sadly, the circle was broken once this month and it just goes
to show ya. A year ago, I bought some trailer steps for $20 from a
schoolteacher in town and asked the Quicks to haul them to Sand Valley on their
next trip. They dropped them instead at a kin’s with crooked toes who needed
them, so I said, OK, either pay me at your convenience or deliver the steps
sometime and I wrote down this transaction. This month - a year later - I was
repairing Old Martha’s chicken coop where I found the steps wasting in the
sand. She said the crooked-toed person didn’t need them and neither did she, so
I took them for my ice cream truck. Well, Ma Quick caught wind and came wailing
down the hill to take the steps and keep the money. “How dare you take steps
from a cripple lady,” she raved. The reasoning made my head spin, plus likely
she was armed so I let her have it all. She also had Old Martha ban me from her
property for theft, so here I am scratching my head outside the circle. As if
in apology, Pa Quick arrived in silence the next morning to help roll the shed
into Bo’s burrow. It was generous and I gave him a new bed gained in the ice
cream truck deal with Paiute, so now he doesn’t have to worry about things
crawling into his dreams, plus I reckon Ma and the rest of the valley sleep
better too.
Steven “Hobo” Keeley, Sand Valley,
California, is a scholar-adventurer and one of the greatest individualists in
America. A longtime friend of Vic, Bo was a racquetball star who wrote The
Complete Book of Racquetball” The stories we reprint here are part of a much
longer missive, The Desert News; each one is better than the other.
“My ten acres, “Scorpion’s Crotch,” lies on the
western foothills of Sand Valley on the bank of the largest dry wash. It’s a
slice of heaven in fall, winter and spring when the sun is reasonable, I see
many animals, and the wind whistles over the hills, down this wash and liquidly
between my anchored trailers. A march of projects from sunrise to sunset
feature skills from pioneer homesteading and ranch maintenance. As an Idaho
sprout, I dreamed of owning a set of tools and now feel compelled to use them.
The property shapes up after three years of intermittent sweat labor by a
creator who’s short of expert but beyond handy.
“Why all the hard work, what
fun? For me it’s learning, health, discipline, inspiration, and future
investment. Proper thoughts are dividends because what we think hand feel are
the products of our viscera, glands, and muscle. Loony bins would close if each
built his own home.”
