I Might Need a Bigger Pole

Turnabout’s fair play is a human slogan that I’m sure that piscatorial species would LOVE to apply to anglers and other invaders of their deep.
Indeed, I guess they often do, in life and on the silver screen. “Jaws” leaps to mind. And I’ve had a couple of scrapes that have reminded me of my favorite line from that movie, if not ANY movie, when the the late, great Roy Scheider's character stammers nervously: “You’re gonna need a bigger boat.”



Another video clip I enjoyed decades ago played along a similar theme. But I’d like to embellish the story line, because that’s what writers do.
Imagine a sandwich sitting on a Florida beach, when a corpulent, lily-white tourist (probably from New York, but possibly from Nebraska) happens by and spies the sandwich beyond the pale of his stomach.
It’s a WONDERFUL sandwich, piled high with a couple of different deli meats, complemented with lettuce and tomato, topped off with quality cheeses and slathered with condiments.
It’s irresistible and, of course, he can’t resist.
Bending over, and illustrating further why fat men shouldn’t wear Speedos, he snatches it up and takes a big chomp out of it.
His face contorts in pain as a hook roughly pierces the roof of his mouth and the barbed point pokes through his nose. He struggles mightily against the force that is dragging him, kicking and screaming, into the ocean. But in an instant, he disappears beneath the thrashing water, and the waves and froth disappear, leaving a calm, glassy surface.
Thus it has been with me and a couple of fishing poles, when creatures of the deep have gotten the better of me.
First time was five or six years back, when grandson Anthony, who was a lad of 10 or 11, and I fell asleep at the switch and didn’t even SEE the pole disappear into the deep. The only evidence was the furrow in the sand where the finger-thingy on the rod handle gamely dug in but failed to resist whatever was on the hook.
That’s really frustrating, when a thief from the deep takes the pole to the depth and you don’t know whether it was an old boot or a barracuda.
Fast forward to last year, when 4-year-old Jack and I were fishing just a few feet away from the scene of that crime. The rambunctious tyke was scrambling on some rocks, and I was watching him so he wouldn’t fall into the drink.
“Lookit THAT pole,” he said.
“What pole?” I said, looking around to see whether another fisherman had arrived.
“THAT one,” he said, pointing over my shoulder,
Slowly I turned, and beheld my pole, 15 feet out into the water, then jerking to 20. The water was only about 2 feet deep there, so I pondered running after it, until it jerked again to 25, then disappeared in the drink.
Again, no way of knowing what took my pole, hook, line and sinker. But I was reely steamed about it.
Fast forward again to two weeks ago, in a lake across the street from the boys’ house. Vincent, Jack and Luke and I were catching sunnies of nice eating size, although you don’t dare eat them because of all the lawn chemicals that slough into such suburban ponds.
Vincent and Luke tired of the sport, so they went home, leaving the now 5-year-old Jack and I to finish off the worms.
Within minutes, Jack latched onto the catch of the day, to that point: a peacock bass that went a good 2 pounds. These aren’t photos of HIS bass, but I didn’t have a camera, and they’ll give you the idea. The colors of his were much more brilliant.



Jack’s trophy was SUCH a beauty that we ran across the street to show his mom and dad before releasing it.
I didn’t even take the time to pull the other two lines out of the water because, after all, just little sunnies had been hitting so far.
Imagine my chagrin, then, when we crested the hill to the lake and the pole was gone. Fortunately, it was still visible in the water, but jerking in fits and spurts toward the deep.
Hesitating to jump in, I thought of “Jaws” and Roy Scheider as I grabbed another pole and tossed out a lure, then retrieved furiously and managed to snag the line.
Then I managed to pull the line enough to get the pole and let wide-eyed Jack land a 2.5-pound catfish, the first of his career. He was excited because he never had seen a catfish, let alone catch one, and it was huge. Well, not as huge as THESE puppies, but big:




As we headed to the house to show off the newly crowned catch of the day, I thought, “Maybe I should pull in that other line,” then brushed the thought off, thinking, “Naw, this was just a fluke.”
After Jack accepted his well-earned accolades back at the ’stead, we returned to the lake and danged if that pole wasn’t in the water. Fortunately, it was easily retrievable and just a little sunny was hooked this time.
But the experiences of my poles’ joining Davy Jones have taught me a lesson: Maybe I need a bigger pole.
I suppose some would say I need a bigger brain, but what do THEY know? I’ve eaten plenty of fish, which are, after all, brain food.