My buddy Alex and I were a funny pairing from the start, the elementary school Odd Couple. He approached life with gusto and a lack of fear; honestly I’m surprised he survived. On the other hand, I was deathly afraid of breaking any and every rule. This dynamic turned many of our fishing outings into a persistent tug of war that usually ended with Alex hopping a fence or heading down that spooky trail, with me begrudgingly following along.
He knew everything there was to know about fishing, something I aspired to, and I quickly started reading every fishing book or magazine I could find. I loved the articles and tips, which quickly became rules to live by. “Today is overcast, I should use a gold colored lure,” or “It’s early spring, I should use a smaller frog instead of a bigger frog.” I became a competent and confident fisherman; even taught Alex a thing or two.
We lived about 30 minutes from Manhattan in a North Jersey town littered with ponds, lakes, and BMWs. My “home lake” had a busy road slicing through it, with both halves of the lake connecting under that road, out of sight. Regardless of which side you fished, you had to check your backcast every time to make sure you didn’t hook a car whizzing by. One particular day, nothing seemed to be working, and I wracked my brain in search of any tip I might’ve read; any miracle tidbit that would save the day. But nothing materialized.
Alex had a different approach. He assuredly knew what should work, but when it didn’t he would move onto something else, just to see. When the gold Rapala didn’t work he switched to silver, then to firetiger. He was constantly trying, always tinkering. Honestly, I was ready to head home, but Alex had a little more left in him. We always fished either side of the road, never once considering fishing under it. Next thing I know, Alex was on the road dropping curly tail worm on a jighead through the storm grate.
My thoughts came fast with “Fish through the road? Is that even legal? Isn’t that too close to the cars?” But all that came out of my mouth was “That’s stupid.” Yet after dropping the worm through the grate, he barely had time to close his bail before that worm got bit, hard. Immediately his rod was bent. But he had let out so little line that he just lifted his rod up and we suddenly were staring at a largemouth, suspended in air on the other side of the grate, staring right back at us while hanging in disbelief, as if to say “Are you kidding me?”
We were on one end of the line, the fish on the other, with a storm grate in between us. The grate too heavy to move, and had holes neither fish nor hand could fit through. I have no memory of whose idea it was, but we hatched a plan. Alex opened the bail a, his thumb and forefinger slightly on the line to keep some tension to feel where the fish might go. Slowly but surely, the fish swam, with Alex, one steady pull at a time, letting out line. Miraculously, the fish swam to the right side of the road into open water.
I climbed down to the bank and tied on one of the many heavy jigs I owned, primarily because some article told me they would catch me big fish. The plan was for me to cast perpendicular to his line, parallel to the road, reeling in slowly to snatch his line with my jig like a grappling hook. Assuming it might take a hundred tries to get it right, I was shocked when I came tight with his line on my very first cast.
Reeling slowly, I was finally able to get his line in my hand. Alex hopped down onto the bank, took his line from, and went to work handlining the bass with his right hand, wrapping the excess line around his left hand. Before long, the bass was at the bank, and we quickly snapped a picture on a digital camera which is now buried in one of our parents’ basements.
We watched it safely and heartily swim back to perceived safety, and finally exhaled. We looked at each other with happiness and confusion, amazed at our own stupidity and genius. Finally we burst out laughing. “I can’t believe that worked.” Alex said. I couldn’t either. I’d certainly never read about that in any book or magazine.
That bass was probably less than 2 pounds. I’ve caught much bigger fish since then but can’t remember half of them as well as I do that one. Fishing memories are funny like that, and as I get a little older, the ones that bubble to the top are ostensibly connected to good memories, friends, and lessons, like the best way to do something is to try something different. Of course, the best lesson is often that one that’s shared with good friends.
