I thought this would be the conclusion to the story of my very first fishing trip when I was eight years old, but I realize I need to tell more about the following day. If you haven’t seen part 1, it’s HERE.
So, to finish continue my story:
I dropped my dough-ball baited hook into the water as Dad said, with a condescension that still rattles in me to this day, “Son, you can’t catch anything with that!” A couple minutes later my floater didn’t just twitch – it disappeared under the water with a resounding plop! I pulled up hard, and there, risen on the end of my line, was a nine-inch plump black catfish, a real keeper! I’d like to remember that Carmack snickered, or coughed, but I don’t recall. It doesn’t matter. Dad had challenged my choice of meals twice in two hours, and I’d won both rounds. I had a delicious breakfast hamburger in my belly, and a catfish thrashing on my line. And to his credit Dad did not begrudge me either. Ever.
As the day, the sun, notched higher, I began to catch more fish as well. Dad showed me where to drop my line with the best chance of getting a nibble, how to refine that final jerk on the line to set the hook, how to grab the flopping fish easily after I’d gotten them in the boat so their fins would not gouge my palm, how to toss them into the cooler. I sank/soared into the bliss of Fishing. (Yep, capital “F”.) Continue reading →
