Bits And Pieces

The Elusive Big One

          To be a A-one fisherman you have to be tinged with a bit of superstition and favored with large quantities of good luck.  That is if you want to fish for the big ones.

     Until this year I've been content to dangle a line in the water baited with a worm one of the boys has condescended to put on the hook for their squeamish mother.

     There is something completely relaxing in a softly rocking boat, the quiet, the warm sun on your back, a view of endless blue sky above and a shoreline of green pine trees.  A boat cushion, a good book and an interested fish now and then was the extent of my fishing until this year.

     I considered the boys and Pops a bit foolish to roll out of bed in the cool early morning dawn, don piles of warm clothes and head for the lake to spend hours casting a line around for the big ones.  I did until this year.

     Daughter married into a family of avid fishermen.  Her male and female in-laws can't be bothered with the small pan fish, they prefer the four and five pound bass and they're willing to fish early and late for the thrill of landing a big one, and this year daughter, in-laws and their cottage was right next to ours.

     Now I always figured a fish was a fish whether he tugged at a line dropped over the side of the boat or snatched at a lure cast on the water, but they told me it isn't so.

     First f all you must always wear the same clothes, at least the same hat, whether it be a dirty, brim torn hat like Pop's or the silver explorer, hard hat worn by daughter's father-in-law, Al.  The fish evidently don't bite if they find you're wearing a different chapeau, and it was a sad day when Al lost his heavy hat in a brisk gale one evening.  The loss provided the boys an hour of snorkeling to find it, but they did find it.

     "I couldn't have fished without it," seriously declared Al.  In a happy mood he asked me to go fishing along with Pop and him in the morning.

     An alarm sounding at 4:30 AM is a ghastly noise, and I was surprised that I could hold my eyes open to see that it was actually light at that time.

     I stumbled down to the dock and fell into the boat, an act that caused Al and Pop to shake their heads at each other.  The lake was mysterious, calm, and swathed in grayish mist.  There wasn't a sound except our boat motor coughing into action.

     It was cold and heavy clothes felt fine.  I felt healthy and talkative as I breathed the crisp air.  But rule one is no talking and so conversation was practically nonexistent, merely grunts and pointing from my two companions with their 5 AM shadow of beards, old khaki pants stained with dirt and grease and their hats pulled almost to their eyebrows.

     Pop cut the motor and we drifted into a cove that Al pointed out.  It didn't look like a good spot to me with all the weeds to catch my lure, but I learned another rule--every fisherman has his pet spots and Al was doing us a favor to show us his favorites.

     Pop fastened a lure to my line, dipped the handle of the fishing rod in the water and handed it to me.  Al dipped his rod handle into the water too before he made his first cast.

     "Why?" I asked.

     The men looked at each other.  "No reason," they declared rather sheepishly.

     I'd done casting from the end of the dock and found it fun.  My first cast this morning wrapped around the top of the motor and narrowly missed Pop's hat.

     "I do better at dusting," I said.  The men said nothing and aside from the dip of the oars as Al slowly moved us along the edge of the weeds and the whirring and splash of the lure hitting the water, it was comfortably quiet.

     Suddenly Pop had a strike.  The silvery back of the fish arched out of the water as he pulled one of the hooks from the lure as he escaped and joined the "one that got away" club.

     The sun burst over the edge of the lake in startling reds and pinks and I began shedding a sweater or two.  Naturally my rod slipped from my lap and splashed into the water.  My reflexes were surprisingly good for so early, but Al got it first and handed the rod back to me silently.

     We all changed to using live frogs.  Seems it is only polite that all in the same boat use the same bait.  I only got tangled around the motor two more times and actually I got so I could swish my frog out pretty near where I wanted it.  I felt almost hypnotized with the whir, splash and reel in movements.

     Al caught a big one that immediately took the bait and headed for the weeds.  "Row over there!" he shouted, busy with his flying line and suddenly--I'm not sure how--I had the oars with Pop shouting directions and then Pop had the oars and I was again in the front end of the boat trying to get my feet out of the landing net.

     Yes, Al got him--a 5 1/2 pound, scrappy bass that was finally pulled up with weeds and all to the side of the boat while both men turned to me for the landing net.

     I had it on both feet and wrapped round my wrist watch on the hand I was using to free myself.  Both men watched me amazed.  Pop grabbed the net and my feet jarred loose, but the wrist watch and arm went with the net and Al, Pop and I all landed the exhausted fish.  That was the closest I really got to landing a big one.

     I wasn't asked to go early morning fishing again.  The watch spent a week at the jewelers getting dried out and I went back to fishing for the little ones.  

     But next year when my reputation as a fishing calamity has been forgotten I'll try again, because I'm hooked on fishing for the big one.

Written  August 3, 1967