Got One!

Yesterday, I caught a fish while casting my rod from the dock. Immediately I panicked. No Big Guy to take it off the hook for me. Worse yet, I didn’t have my camera to prove I caught it by myself. Putting on my Big Girl panties (a Candy Squared saying), I grabbed the good-sized bass, yanked its fish lip free of the hook and threw it back. I can hardly wait to catch another one.  

While Big Guy sparked my recent interest in fishing, my grandmother “Forwee,” which in the South comes out said as “Fa-wee,” was the first to take me fishing on Clark Hill Lake. Once each summer, Forwee would capitulate to a grandchild’s plea and load 5-7 youngsters into the ski boat.

In the big water outside the cove, Forwee anchored the boat. Then she handed each of us a long cane pole baited with a minnow and issued her standard reminder:  Watch the red and white bobber and don’t drop the pole. Ten minutes later, two of us would yell “Got one!” Turns out, 10 minutes is about how long it takes for two minnows to find each other and wind their fishing lines together. Sometimes, more than two lines would tangle, which really got the boat yelling.

With lines untangled and hooks freshly baited, the excitement of fishing quickly died. Maybe one of us would catch a sunfish or a small crappie. More often than not, we evolved into bored, hot and hungry whiners. Our fishing trip would end. Back at the dock, we jumped in the water. Forwee pulled minnows off poles, stashed poles high in the dock rafters and put away the tackle box. All without much in the way of thanks, or help.

A saner adult would not have taken a bunch of impatient kids fishing armed with cane poles and sharp hooks. But I’m lucky to say, Forwee was my grandmother. She wanted each and every grandkid to love lake life in all its glory. And I do, especially when the fish bite.