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Look Out Little Fishies, here I come by Terri Coffman |
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My friend, Jesse, an outdoorsman with a wonderful sixth sense about the natural world, had promised to take me fishing (my first time) at his lakeside get-away. I did inform him that I would be a catch and release sort of person, I wouldn’t hook my own worms, and I don’t paddle. Saturday night, some friends gathered around the campfire with steaks sizzling on the grill. It was a social comradery that could only be had by those of like interests. I tried some of the mysterious other white meat on the overflowing platter on the generously filled picnic table. I really packed down more than my share of those tiny wishbone-looking legs. They were delicious even though I couldn’t quite place the taste. That’s when I learned all about the intimate details of frog-gigging, complete with an in-depth demonstration of the instrument of death. Ah, jeez! I almost choked on the big doze of guilt eating at me at the thought of how many precious little hoppers gave up their lives (and limbs) to feed me. Buying steaks at Publix was one thing, but this seize and capture was something entirely different to my moral psyche, and I didn’t really know just what to make of it. I know I won’t ever eat frog legs again! After dinner, I went on my first airboat ride, with the promise of seeing alligators, maybe a wild pig or two, and even some deer. The ride was a terrific combination of speed and adventure, and one that I won’t forget for a long time. Out in the marshes, skimming neatly across the water lilies and masses of bulrushes and saw grass, my adrenaline was pumping at topnotch speed. What an awesome experience! Alligators were everywhere and I was in reptile heaven! As loud as the airboat was, I still managed to be heard from the backseat yelling, “Don’t hit any of them!” Then, off in the distance just by the river edge, in the dusky light of sunset I saw this beautiful little thing: four legs, with its long graceful neck reaching down for one last drink of water for the night. It was a touching sight to realize that one split moment in Time held all the intricacies of the fragileness of the natural world. Here was this little creature risking life and limb for one of Life’s basic needs, all the while knowing that danger lurked just beneath the very water is was needing. “Look,” I shouted over the noise of the engine, “a deer!” Jesse shook his head and shouted back, “No, a cow.” (How embarrassing! But after all, it was pretty far away, and we were going pretty fast, and it was near dark, and . . .) “Well, just don’t hit it,” I muttered lamely. As soon as the boat came to a stop, I picked up my pole and immediately stuck myself with the hook. Okay, that was an honest mistake. Opening a bait cup, I scrounged around the bottom of the boat for a small twig and carefully shuffled through the soft dirt to extract a long, gooey worm. I swallowed hard as I gingerly picked up the wiggly thing and rifled it through the water to clean it. I heard Jesse chuckle, but didn’t look up. At first prick with the hook, I apologized profusely to the poor thing being sacrificed. I heard another chuckle, but ignored that one, as well. With determination, I bit my lip and swung the line in the water. Immediately the bobber submerged and I pulled up too fast, swinging the little fish out of control. My squeals stifled Jesse’s directives in an attempt to keep me and the fish from topping the boat. I just knew that fish was going to end up down my shirt. Jesse grabbed the line and the fish just before both slapped him in the face. I had hooked my first fish, but he would have to unhook it. After six more worms and six more successful catches, I was hooked! I still hadn’t learned to control the upswing of the pole, however, so each time I yanked up a struggling fish, Jesse had to dodge and duck to keep from getting hit with it. I caught and released the first couple of my prize catches, but after that, to heck with the dirty worms! I dug around with both hands and secured them like a pro (by now all apologies to the sacrificial victims had ceased). It was like an addiction: throwing in the line, body tensed like a cat ready to spring on unsuspecting prey, eyes focused for the slightest movement of the bobber, whispering under my break, “Come on, baby. Come to Mama.” Then wham! I yanked the line up and screamed, automatically throwing the entire pole to Jesse, along with the long black slimy thing tugging at the hook. Adrenaline was racing, my mind was reeling with the fact that I might have caught a water moccasin. I jumped up to help my friend scrambling for control of the hook, almost upsetting the boat. Jesse held up the black, foot-long skinny thing. “Congratulations,” he said, wryly. “You’ve just caught a stick.” Within a couple of hours (I am a slow learner), I was getting the pole control down pat. There were still several times poor Jesse zigged when he should have zagged and got slapped with one of my prizes, but he took it all in good fun. Besides, it would make for a great fish story when we got back to camp. Flying fish in freshwater, imagine that! Oh, the catch and release thing? Well, I sort of feel bad about this, but I cannot lie about it either. I ended up keeping several fish that Jesse graciously filleted for me. Will I ever go fishing again? Well, my fishing tutor is still a little sore from dodging and zigzagging those flying fish, but if he ever invites me back again, all I can say is, “Look out little fishies, here I come!” (And that ain’t no fish story! |
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