The Fish Camp

My world was a suffusive, murky grey. I dared not breathe in the sullen stillness that surrounded me. My body floated effortlessly, completely submerged in the waters of Mathis Lake. I was held in place by several hooks on the trot line we had just been running and re-baiting. These malevolent hooks now pierced my jeans, shirt and the middle knuckle of my left hand. I was held quietly in place, unable to lunge toward the surface and the air that my lungs were desperately, silently screaming for. A hand descended and groped at my face from above. It gripped my hair and pulled me swiftly toward the surface. Through blinking eyes blurred from rivulets of water, the smiling face of my godfather materialized slowly. I inhaled a huge gulp of air deeply into my lungs. His face vanished as I plunged beneath the surface once again.

The morning had been a mirror image of many others as Dad, Sleepy and I shot across the silty water of Lagarto Creek to gather fish and re-bait our lines. The twenty-five horsepower Evinrude left a small rooster tail of a wake with our passing. The surface reflected fragmented morning sunlight appearing as countless golden coins dancing over the distance to the horizon. I smiled in contentment. Dad loved fishing, and I had grown very fond of it. Truth be told, I came to love the trips flying over the surface of the water more than the fishing itself. For me, the journey surpassed the destination.

A new dam had raised the level of the lake significantly, and huge, silent groves of live oak trees had been partially submerged as a result. Their slow death had created silent, stark forests through which our baited lines now wound. The barren branches had become home to a variety of nesting water fowl. Turtles sunned on the limbs slicing through the surface of the water. Snakes drowsed on the upper reaches as well. I had heard a story of a water moccasin dropping from a high branch into a boat driven by my uncle Whitey about dusk one fine summer day. Whitey dove into the water straight away, allowing that if that viper could steer the boat, he was welcome to it!

I had draped myself over the closed bow of the boat. Tepid water and moss dripped through my fingers as I hauled on the main line, dragging the boat slowly along. The wind had risen strongly out of the southeast, creating great rolling swells through which our boat rose and fell. The strain of holding the mainline had become tedious, so my toes were hooked over the starboard side of the bow to help my arms and shoulders pull against the strain the line exerted.

Sleepy was behind me and Dad was aft, each of them threading chunks of venison liver onto the sharp stainless steel hooks as we worked our way along. Dad was a big believer in venison liver, so we always saved it from the preceding winter hunting season. The catfish seemed to love it. They would congregate around the snags and stumps, and when conditions were right, we caught them in great quantities.

This being our first run since the previous weekend, there were no fish on the hooks. We rubbed away the accumulated muck to clean the lines and hooks as we baited them out, hoping for a good fish fry for supper.

Blue cats were the favorites, though yellows were also good eating. Mud or channel cats were the least desirable as they were mostly head, and developed a somewhat gristly texture as they grew larger. This did not complement the slightly muddy flavor that their meat always hinted of. Two- to five-pounders were the perfect size for frying, though we were always excited at the prospect of a larger fish to show off or brag over.

The morning grew quickly hotter and my attention started to wander as sweat dripped from my nose. Monotony had set in. I stared blankly at the reflected sunlight shimmering in the rippling surface of the water. The large swells rolled and the wind continued to push against us.

That was when Sleepy stood up in the boat.

His unexpected release of the line combined with the popping force of the southeast wind taking in slack with a fresh shove against the hull caused the bow to tilt. I felt myself sliding off into the water.

My instinct was to hold rather than release the main line. I did just that. In and under I went.

Now I found myself ensnared in a mass of lines and hooks. The one embedded in my knuckle made me extremely cautious about any sudden lunge back to the surface. Others had bitten into the fabric of my clothing, and I had no desire to redouble a problem that already seemed fairly significant.

Why had Sleepy let me go? Why didn't he pull me back up and into the boat? It had been only a few seconds, but it seemed an eternity and my lungs screamed for air. Again, I felt his fingers grasp my hair.

Water streamed from me as Sleepy hauled me up and over the side of the boat. I coughed and sputtered as various hooks were removed from my shirt and jeans. Deep breaths of clean, sweet air pumped life and energy back into my body. Looking down, I stared at the single hook embedded in my knuckle, then grasped it, tearing it free of my flesh.

It was not the smartest move I ever made. My head swam and my stomach knotted in nausea as blood poured from the torn flesh. Above all, I had to bear up in front of Sleepy and Dad. I looked accusingly at Sleepy and demanded to know why he had released me before pulling me back on board. "Was afraid my cigarettes would get wet," he replied. His laughter was nervous and infectious. I realized that he had also been caught by surprise, off balance and knowing that two of us treading water while entangled in trot lines would have only compounded the problem.

"You OK?" Dad asked.

"Yessir," I replied, trailing my injured hand over the side. I watched blood from the ragged wound drift away in the currents.

It took a few minutes for my head to quit swimming. Though forced at first, good humor soon relieved the tension of the situation. Dad's cloudy blue eyes focused on me, concern still showing in them. "Sure you're all right, son?" he asked.

"Yessir, I'm fine," I smiled.

"Then let's finish getting baited out," he replied.

By the time we worked through to the last of the hooks on our three trot lines, fish were already set on hooks that had been baited earlier. We made several passes up and down the lines, bringing in a fine catch that assured supper would be something special.

Easing back into the calm waters of our boat slip, we dragged the heavy stringer off the boat and into a wheelbarrow to ferry back to the fish camp to be cleaned. It was a really good feeling. I shucked the fish free of the stringer and lifted the slick, struggling body of a nice blue onto the cleaning table behind the boat shed in the back yard near the rear of the cabin. I remember looking up through the swaying limbs of the huge hackberry trees towering over our heads. The beams of the late afternoon sun sprayed through the shifting openings. The yard was an amazing play of amber and shadow as we cleaned those fish, sharing laughter.

Dad looked at my swollen finger and suggested I go in and get it cleaned up and wrapped. On the way in I noticed that I was reeking of muddy, pungent water. Stepping into the shower, I took one last deep, grateful breath before washing it away. Mother and Sleepy's wife, Phyllis took on over me shamelessly. A shower and clean, dry clothes had pretty well revived me.

That evening as I watched the grown-ups play dominoes in the cabin, there was an abundance of laughter. The smell of fresh fried catfish and cornbread floated in the air. I was grateful for that wonderful meal, the comfort of the cabin and the feeling of love and kinship we all enjoyed. As I turned, chewing a mouthful of fish, I gazed at my sister, Charlotte. She grinned, lowered her gaze and quickly turned away. After all, I was a major source of irritation in her life, but that was an older brother's job. We both had an image to maintain. I grinned at her and now admitted to myself and no one else that I loved her. After all, even that confession would not change the fact that she could be a real pain in the neck. The years have seen us drift apart, but the clarity of that special time and place still shines in my mind.

Staring at the wall over the smiling face of my father, I read, once again, a faded verse inscribed on an old plaque...

'WISHING WHILE FISHING'
Sitting still and wishing
Makes no person great.
The good Lord sends the fishing-
But you must dig the bait!

That's a wealth of wisdom about living. What a grand gift life is; even more grand is the real living of it. I dozed off that marvelous night smiling and wondering if the fish would be biting tomorrow...