An old man and an old fish

An old man and an old fish 

The day broke calm, clear and warm.

The old man pushed his old reliable 14-foot rowboat into a favored small lake. He was after a fish, an old fish with which he had joined in battle twice, losing the first round, winning the second, giving his foe a chance to fight a third time when he gently released the tired fish.

Slowly, as there was no reason for haste in making his getaway, the old-timer placed a pair of spinning rod and reel combos in the boat, along with a cracked but reliable plastic tackle box, a life jacket which he never bothered to wear, a stringer for a really big fish and a metal basket in which he hoped to place a handful of large bluegills in before the morning was over.

The oars creaked a little as he bent to the task of rowing a quarter-mile across one of his favorite lakes.

As the far shoreline was reached, he slowed, opened a container of worms he’d dug from his own worm bed just off his lawn under the shade of an oak that had yet to begin to shed leaves.

He reached for the ultra-light combo that had a 30-year-old spinning reel clamped to an equally old rod, opened a cottage cheese carton that contained his freshly dug live bait and made his first cast.

A half-inch cork bobber made barely a splash as it dropped into a perfect spot — close enough to entice fish hiding in long-submerged branches but far enough away to keep most any fish from getting into them where a “really big” one could snap four-pound-test line.

It took about 10 seconds for his bobber to pop up and down. A small scrapper was quickly caught and released. Another cast off the end of another submerged branch brought a similar result.

Lifting anchor, he rowed farther down the shoreline and stopped 20 feet out from a thick layer of lily pads that usually provided cover for some great eating-size ‘gills.

The bobber touched down, landing just shy of the pads in water that was six feet deep.

This time it took 30 seconds for the old man to decide the worm wasn’t dangling in a spot where any hungry bluegills were just waiting for a meal to land in their laps.

He tossed his next cast about 10 feet to the left, hitting almost exactly where he wanted it, just inside a three-foot indentation of the lily pad field.

No waiting this time. Down went the bobber. Up went the rod tip, and instantly the old man knew he had the first piece of a pan-fried supper on the end of his line.

Doing the spiral-laced battle that bluegill are famous for, he almost laughed at the big bend of the tip of his ultra-light rod the fish produced, felt the line throbbing under the pressure of a battling spiny-backed adversary and nodded satisfaction when a nine-inch “bull” bluegill was swooped into the boat.

Fifteen minutes brought two more keepers, both between nine and 10 inches. The keeping of fish was done for the day.

It was time to go in search of a big buster, a battling largemouth the old man had already done battle with twice that summer.

The first battle royale had lasted about 20 seconds, long enough to give the old man a good look at his adversary when it leaped clear of the water 10 feet from the boat. Five seconds later, the battle ended when an underwater snag proved more than a match for the six-pound-test line spooled on his “big fish” reel.

He hooked and landed the same monster a second time later that summer.

On that glorious morning, with an extreme amount of luck, he had worked the big fish away from wooden snags and tough lily pad stems into open water.

It was time for a third encounter, the old man figured. Upon reaching the battleground site, he switched to his heavier rod.

Five casts with a wooden plug brought no response. Twenty yards down the shoreline was another tangle of downed logs. Perhaps his foe had taken up residency there.

Drifting close, he tossed his first cast toward the logs. He was right. The old bass had found a new hideout, and it did not take lightly the intrusion of a fake frog on his own property.

Smashing it, the bass knew instantly it was in for another battle. The two of them went at it tooth and nail, first with one looking like he had the upper hand, next the king of that small lake nearly got the line into a deadly snag of a pine branch stub.

He was not lucky. The line missed the snag, and after nearly 15 minutes of mortal combat, the battle was over. The old man had won out. The bass was his, but he knew it wasn’t.

Gently getting the hook out of his adversary’s mouth, he patted his fish and whispered in all sincerity, “You fought a worthy fight. Three of them, and that’s enough for the two of us.”

With a pat on the back, the old man lowered his foe back into its rightful home, knowing he would never try to conquer him again.