There are many rites of passage for boys. First crush. First kiss. First pet. Death of the first pet. The first tyme climbing up then falling out of a tree. The first tyme listening to American Pie in all 8 and half minutes of mesmerizing brilliance. Death of a family member. Being picked up by a parent for the last tyme. One of mine stands out more than the rest, well maybe not the first kiss one, but over the rest of them. Today I will tell you about the first tyme I caught a fish.
I have lived in many small towns in Louisiana north of I-20 so naturally, there are a couple stories from up there that are noteworthy. For those of you unfamiliar with Louisiana along the I-20 corridor let us just say it's hard to explain. From the interstate, the view is not spectacular. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but driving West Monroe is about as inspiring as Ferris Bueller's economic teacher performing the Saint Crispen Day Speech. Even the town that was named after me is nothing to brag about. That is why I have never accepted their invitation to marshal any of their parades celebrating mild milestones or performed at any of their festivals. But, if you travel north of the 20 you will drive through not only some of the prettiest country in Louisiana but in our United States as well.
Just a hair north of 20 is a small town of Tallulah and a shade north of that is Sondheimer, La. It was there at the age of 5 when I became aware of man's struggle against nature. I walked to the pond not far from our home a boy and left the pond a few short hours later a fisherman.
It may not come to anyone's surprise that many of the stories written about me are either overexaggerated or simply made up. I do not understand why since the source material on its own is quite enough to tell a decent enough story. Watch out for those charlatans, they are only after clicks and sales by writing salacious stories about me. But the one thing most writers and historians have agreed upon about me is that of my childhood continence. I was a mild, obedient, and content boy with maybe a hint of an active imagination.
On a mild April day of my 5th year, I was led across the street from our house and down a dirt road to a small pond. I carried with me a pail of dirt and worms and a child's rod and reel, but on this day that children's style rod and reel did a man's work. Dressed in a brown and orange tank top as was the style associated with the 70s, a pair of shorts, and a pair of white rubber boots I approached the pond with confidence.
My hook was baited with a feisty worm, and I made my first cast. Well, I attempted to make a cast. Sadly, the first several attempts yielded no success. I could not tyme the release of the line with the throw of the pole so my hook and red and white bobber would just violently slam into the water just a couple feet in front of me losing several worms in the process. And then just as despair was beginning to enter my confidence-depleted mind it happened. Whether it was divine intervention or blind luck, I do not know, but it finally clicked. Finally, I was able to sail my baited hook high and arching away towards the center of the pond with the ease of taking a breath while asleep. There are only a few occasions that can fill you with a calming joy that accompanies the perfect cast. For me, one of those occasions is when I accidentally swing my driver correctly and the golf ball flies far and true.
I stood on the bank with my boots barely in the cool water and fished. I would cast out to the left of me and keenly watch the bobber for movement, then after childish impatience, I would reel by hook back in and then cast in front of me. I would repeat this routine over and over again.
Soon the thrill of expertly casting began to wane and hopelessness began to take hold. And again, I do not know if it was divine intervention or blind luck, but it finally happened, the bobber twitched. Not a violent twitch, but a twitch nonetheless.
I commanded my body and mind to remain calm. I fought every urge to jerk the pole and start reeling. I just knew this was probably the only chance I would ever have at catching a fish. Oh, how dramatic we were allowed to be as children.
The bobber lurched again, but almost instantly returned to the surface. I planted my boots in the soft mud and regripped my pole. Then it happened. Almost too quickly. The bobber yanked under the water and my pole can dangerously close to being ripped out of my young uncalloused hands.
I hit the plastic release button on my reel and braced myself. The line whistled out of the real at an amazing speed. So fast that the handle of the reel spun in a blur. Finally, it slowed enough for me to grab the handle and hit the brake, and jerked the pole back with all my might.
The line was taught, and I was flung forward. I stupidly let go with my right hand to brace for impact. I hit the shallow water hard enough to rattle my baby teeth. I held onto the rod with my left hand for dear life.
My tiny muscles trembled as I regained my footing. The water was up to my waist, and I knew I was in danger of losing my advantage, the high ground. The one saving grace was that my rubber boots had filled up with water and worked as an anchor of sorts. I nerved myself for what I knew was going to be a long day.
When I first hooked the sea beast the sun was not quite halfway up the eastern sky and now it was directly above us looking down on my contest against nature. The sun stopped that day and would not move until the fish was either caught or broke free. The minutes turned to hours and the sun reddened my muscle-ached body, yet I stood tall.
After some twisting and pulling, I lost more ground. The water was now up to my chest and I could barely keep the rod out of the water. When the fish would try to dive deep to the bottom of the pond the rod would bend almost to the point of breaking. But it was tough work for the fish too, so when it would swim back up, I would reel as fast as I could without snapping the line. I was also slowly regaining my footing and my advantage by making my way back up the bank.
It was then that the fish finally got impatient and started making reckless chances. I felt slack in the line as the fish began swimming towards me. I reeled and backed up as fast as I could. I was dumbfounded when the fish flew out of the water. I had made my way up to knee-deep water when the fish came out of the water the first tyme. I was too late figuring out what the fish was doing when I was yanked face-first into the mud.
The fish was trying to build momentum to break the line and it almost worked. Almost. When it came up for the second tyme I was ready for it. The moment the fish came out of the water I reeled and twisted my body as fast as I could and flung the fish and my pole on the bank. My body collapsed out of exhaustion, but my soul leaped out of exaltation. My dad was able to grab hold of the fish before it could flop back into the pond.
I rolled over on my back and looked at the sun. I winked and the sun winked back before continuing its course around our blue rock.
I regained my strength quickly and we made it back to our house so as may present my trophy to my mom. Along the way, we told all passersby about my conquest of nature. Once we got home, I told my mother the whole tale, sparing no detail. My dad then presented to her my 6-inch and not quite half-pound brim. My mother prepared the fish and we feasted.