My illegal fishing escapade took place the year I
turned eleven. We went on a hunting trip, staying in a nice cabin with several
ponds upstream. One day, while everyone else hunted, I stayed behind. I ached
to catch some of the huge fish in the ponds. The pools had almost dried up,
with only a foot or two of water left. Off I went, with my pole and tackle box,
convinced I would return with record-breakers.
I fished, and I fished. I lost lures, snagged hooks,
and wasted bait. My hook dangled sumptuous worms inches from the trouts'
mouths, with no response. Frustration mounted. I could reach out and touch
these monstrous, shimmering fish. But how to catch one? An idea formed. The
muddy banks sucked at my feet until I found a waterlogged stick, the size of a
baseball bat. I trudged back through the muck to where the fish hovered,
mocking me. Determined to win, I proceeded to assail the fish with my new
weapon. Water splashed, mud flew…. And I conquered.
I returned to the cabin with two fine specimens, so
heavy I could barely carry them. I proudly showed them to my mother. She eyed
them with surprise, and asked how I managed to catch them. I regaled her with
the story; how I had tried so hard to catch the fish doomed to die in the
rapidly shrinking pools; and how they refused to let me help them. Earnest, I
described how I had used my stick to convince them. She couldn’t hold back a
smile, but explained we have legal ways to catch fish…and not-so-legal ways. I
haven’t clubbed any fish since. A good thing, because the man she married soon
after that worked as a game warden for thirty years.