Whitaker at her best - detailing embarrassing personal moments.

I’m as anxious to share this story as a bass is to hit an empty hook. As I put pen to paper and record this embarrassment for posterity, I mentally punctuate each sentence with the justification, ‘I was just a kid. I was just a kid’.

I was seven, possibly eight, years old. Old enough to know better. Intermediate critical thinking skills have formed by this age, so they say. Excitement combined with a desire to please your parents can override anything. That’s what I say.

The day was crisp. The sky blue. That shade of blue that half compliments, half clashes, with the chartreuse of brand new leaves. It was a small pond, no more than fifty yards across at its widest. A strong cast would hit the opposite bank easily.

My parents and I were on the side that was clear of limbs and vegetation. Looking back I realize my father had no desire to spend the afternoon either ankle deep in wet silt or inching out on a flimsy limb to free my misguided hook.

It was the first time I had fished from the bank. I had come of age. It was time to learn to cast. Prior to that day I was only allowed to drop my line off the side of the dock. Adults fear the wild casting of awkward young children. A temper tantrum is easier to endure than a trip to the emergency room.

The next few hours went as well as any how-to lesson between parent and child. No elaboration is necessary. There exists a cosmic law governing the steps in this process regardless of the task being taught.

As his patience thinned and my concentration wavered, we took a break. I hadn’t done too badly, all things considered, yet I felt inadequate. My father managed to pull in two small bream between dodging my erratic tosses. I hadn’t gotten a bite and I hadn’t caught a fish. At that moment I would have gladly traded Santa’s next visit for one measly little fish.

As my mother took over my pole, Dad settled in to do some serious fishing. I asked permission to walk the circumference of the pond. Since no part of the pond was obscured from their view and the man on the other side seemed to be gone, they granted my freedom. I wandered along collecting wildflowers, scrutinizing the early spring insects and attempting to skip a stone more than my previous record of three times. I found a good walking stick, dried out but solid, and plotted an intricate tale of being a great explorer as I made my way to the wooded side of the pond.

My mother’s soft exclamation drifted on the breeze and caught my attention. I watched across the pond as she reeled in a nice sized bream. Out of the water came the wire basket and the newest addition to our evening meal was added. I was now the only one who had failed. It didn’t matter that they had forty years of combined experience. I would have done anything to add a fish to that basket. Anything!

I continued on my trek, dejectedly kicking every rotten log and clump of grass that dared to cross my path. As I reached the shallow, murky end of the pond I heard a splash. I passed it off to a startled bullfrog until it happened again. As I listened I realized it was more of a slapping than a splashing. Crouching down and waddling like a duck, I crept toward the sound. I stopped where solid ground gave way to squishy mud. Tall dry grass left over from the previous summer parted easily and I peered towards the water. Not five feet away were two, count them, two fish. They weren’t bream. I knew that much. These fish were shimmering silver and ten times bigger than any in our basket.

Sitting back on my heels I pondered this new development. I surmised that their nearness to the bank and the shallowness of the water meant that they were busy making baby fish. Without a fishing pole and fearing the repercussions if I came back muddy, I was forced to be creative.

Leaning backwards, I blindly groped for my walking stick. When the tips of my fingers finally located the knobby end I began to slowly inch it closer until I could wrap a hand around it. I quietly shifted until I had a solid two-handed batter’s grip, the stick resting comfortably on my small shoulder. Still squatting, I mentally rehearsed my attack.

I knew I would startle them and they would swim toward open water. My first blow should land between the two fish and deeper water to account for this. I would have to strike hard and fast. Physical damage wouldn’t matter since they were destined for the frying pan.

I was ready. I took a deep breath, leapt and swung with all my might. The first blow hit the bigger one across the back. As they began to violently flip and flop I knew I had caught them completely off guard. They were cornered so I continued to flail away. I was inwardly thrilled at the extraordinary precision of my blows since neither fish managed to escape. I left nothing to chance, knowing that my only hope for landing both of them would be to knock each one unconscious. It is very difficult to hit flopping fish squarely on the head with a stick.

The smaller fish was completely still but the larger one continued to struggle. I raised my weapon but before I could deliver the final blow there was a horrible crashing in the woods behind me. I shivered at the thought of being devoured by a ravenous grizzly moments before I was to haul in my catch. I knew Mother Nature was unpredictable. Still, being eaten alive seemed rather extreme punishment for the beating death of two fish.

I chanced a peek over my left shoulder. A bear of a man was pounding towards me, waving his arms and shouting. Looking beyond him, I searched for the grizzly as I struggled to make sense of his ranting.

“Hey! Hey kid! Get away from there. What are you doing to my fish?”

I turned my attention back to my battered trophies. As the muddy water settled it was then that I noticed the dirty cord connecting my prize fish to a small bush on the bank.

We ate frozen fish sticks that night.


Copyright C. P. Whitaker 2001