One More Fish

The shrill ring of the alarm jerked me awake. I tried to read the clock’s bright red numbers through sleep-filled eyes, finally deciding it said three-thirty. For a moment I was disoriented, unsure if it was three thirty in the afternoon or morning. Had I missed work? Then I remembered, it was Saturday and we were going fishing. I groaned and rolled over in an effort to find the warm spot I left so abruptly when I turned off the alarm, but a wintry breeze blowing in the bedroom window had eradicated all signs of warmth. There was no escape, so I forced myself to sit up. As my legs dangled off the bed, I listened to the jovial sounds of whistling coming from the kitchen. At least the coffee was brewed, its aroma was the only reason my feet were able to touch carpet. Slowly, I dragged on a pair of jeans, but instead of rushing to get ready for the day, I succumbed to the pillow’s call.

I didn’t hear the door open, nor did I see Bob standing there all giddy with excitement. “Wake up sleepyhead,” he teased.

“I’m up,” I said forcing myself into an upright position. I slid off the bed for the second time that morning, eyes still closed. I forced those stubborn eyes open wide enough to search for those shirts I had laid out the night before. Three shirts were the magic number, I was told, to keep me from freezing in the chilly air off the lake.
I heard Bob clear his throat. Somehow, even trussed up like a Christmas turkey, I was prone once again. I opened one eye to find my husband leaning against the door jamb, shaking his head in despair. I smiled an apology and dragged myself up.

Sitting down in an overstuffed chair in the corner of the bedroom, I donned thick socks and those old comfy sneakers I was glad I hadn’t tossed in the garbage. I took two sips of the coffee Bob had been so thoughtful as to leave for me, and leaned back in the chair.

From the back door I heard, “Ready honey? It’s getting late.”

“No,” I muttered under my breath, slowly making my way upright. While adding a hooded sweatshirt to my attractive ensemble, I wondered how anyone could be this excited about a fishing trip.  I wriggled unwilling fingers into gloves and donned a coat before making my way to the kitchen.

The truck was packed.  Two travel mugs filled with steaming coffee were waiting by the door. I was in the middle of tightening the caps when Bob came back inside, “It’s getting late. We should already be on the road.” I sensed a little irritation behind that wide smile, so I hurried, probably more like trundled, outside.

After trussing myself up in the seat belt, I glanced at the clock on the instrument panel. How could 4:30 a.m. be considered late? I almost asked the question out loud, but in an effort to keep an amicable atmosphere, I refrained.

An hour later, we were still driving toward that fishin’ hole and my stomach was complaining about the lack of food supply. Running over a mental list of the gear my husband had packed the night before, I realized food had not been mentioned. How would I survive?

As if reading my thoughts, Bob enlightened me, “We’ll stop in Middleofnowhere Town to get some breakfast before we get to the lake. No sooner had the words crossed his lips than I saw the Golden Arches looming ahead. My tummy breathed a sigh of relief.

Thoroughly stuffed and disgusted by my appreciation of the unhealthy food I had ingested, we pulled into the State Park entrance. After meandering around the curvy, narrow road, we came to a parking area. I squinted through the dark in search of water, but didn’t see any.

Bob pulled into a parking space and dug out a flashlight. In the artificial light, he was able to see well enough to hand over my share of equipment. I was to carry a heavy bucket and two fishing poles. He gathered up the rest and started through the darkness. To where, I had no idea. I tried to keep up, lumbering along behind him like a bear ready for hibernation, only tripping once or twice. At least I didn’t actually fall down over that concrete car stop, and I didn’t break my ankle in that unseen hole in the grass. So far, I had been successful in keeping Bob in the dark as to my klutzy tendencies.

We passed several idiots, I mean avid fishermen, with lines already in the water. In a voice that was more a whisper than actual words, Bob asked one guy how he was doing. The reply was, “Nothing yet. Maybe when it starts getting light.”

By the time we finally stopped walking, I could almost make out water. Bob set up two folding chairs and began teaching me how to fish. He assembled a rod for me and cast it out into the lake. He motioned for me to have a seat, and then stuck a whittled-off piece of tree in front of me. He indicated I should rest my fishing rod in the forked wood. I did.

“Now watch it,” he said while setting up his area.

Watch it? This is going to be a long day, I thought to myself. I scrunched down in the chair and closed my eyes.

The harsh words, “Set the line!” awakened me from sleep.

Set the line, set the line. What does that mean? After Bob yelled it a couple more times, I asked. Obviously disgusted by my ineptitude, Bob took possession of the rod, which, by the way, had begun to bend and shake as if Jaws himself had swallowed the hook. Bob wrangled that fish like a Texas bull rider taming a bull, finally reeling in the errant trout. With the fish flipping from side to side, Bob finally got that average-sized trout to hold still long enough to reach into his back pocket. He pulled out a pair of surgeon’s clamps and began removing that fish hook. After twisting and turning, gritting his teeth and saying a few choice words, he finally ripped that thing out of there. I felt like I had been given a tonsillectomy without anesthesia—poor fish. Hey, but guess what? I got credit for catching the first fish.

More confident now, I took possession of the rod. I watched, fascinated by the bright colors, as Bob stuck more bait on the hook. One jar was fluorescent green, another brilliant orange, yet another was marigold yellow, and one was even the color of a rainbow.

As soon as Bob finished baiting the hook, I pushed in on that little knobby thing on the reel and stuck the rod out behind me. I gave it a mighty flick toward the water, while simultaneously letting go of the knob. I looked through the misty dawn to see where my hook had landed, but couldn’t see anything. Bob walked around behind me and began the task of untangling the line and digging the hook out of a clump of grass about eight feet to my right.

About fifteen minutes later, my rod was finally working again. It was silently decided Bob would cast the rod on my behalf.

While waiting for a bite, Bob taught me about fishing. I learned that ‘set the line’ means to give the rod a yank to securely imbed the hook in the poor fish. I learned that Bob would take the fish off the line and re-bait my hook, all I had to do was hand him the rod. I learned that legally, we were only allowed to catch five trout each. Since Bob wouldn’t allow me to cast, I learned that my job was to rest in my chair and nap—I mean watch the rod.

I quickly caught two more fish, and Bob followed suit with five more. Wow, at this rate, we’ll have our ten fish caught and be home by eight a.m., I thought. It was then the fish stopped biting. I learned that fish often take breaks while feeding on fish hooks. I learned that instead of packing up and going back home, one waited for the stubborn fish to start biting again.

As the hours dragged by, I started shedding all those layers of clothing. By ten-thirty I was down to one shirt and wishing I had thought to wear short sleeves.

Eleven o’clock passed, and then noon, by one o’clock my impatient stomach started complaining. I think Bob heard those loud grumblings, because he made a comment about leaving if we didn’t have any luck soon.

At the thought of leaving, my first reaction was a resounding WOO HOO, but then I took a look around me. There was a father and son fishing to our right, the dad patiently instructing his son on the art of fishing, while telling a few fish stories. To our left was a married couple fishing together, making memories. All around us was the beauty of nature. Instead of impatient to go home, I discovered I might just like this fishing thing.
As Bob reeled in fish number nine, I found myself asking, “Since we’ll be trout fishing again in the spring, would you teach me to cast?”

“I thought you were ready to go home,” he commented.


“We haven’t caught our limit yet. Just one more fish, and then we can go,” I said.

Knowing he had won me over, Bob grinned and reached for my pole.
***
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