Big one that got away

When I reached down into the water, running my hand along monofilament line, it came to the fish’s mouth. The hook of a spinner bait seemed firmly implanted, but the bass had entangled the line in unforgiving brush.
What to do? My distress quickened by certainty of the bass being larger than any I ever had caught.

IN THE 1950s a favorite place for several of us to fish was a couple of miles south of Humboldt. Frankie McFarren owned the small lake and was gracious in permitting kids to fish and use his eight-foot-long jon boat. We could take it out anytime, with or without asking. Often I’d go alone.
One late spring day I hopped in the boat. Half a dozen strokes later I was within casting distance of an old stump that stood like a shabby sentry 15 feet from a point of land. The stump always was good for a bass or two, occasionally one of pretty good size. This time paid off, but nothing to brag about. Next came a narrow channel that connected two sizable bodies of water. Nothing there. I rowed on.
On the south side of a peninsula of sorts created by the channel, water was shallow and dotted with brush that long had been a fixture. A fine place for bass to find bait fish — and where I often enticed a strike.
Several casts went for naught. Then, I plopped the spinner just right into two feet of water inches from the bank between an overhanging rock and a number of forlorn-looking limbs breaking the surface. The water boiled, I set the hook and my rod bent more than ever before.
The bass flew from the water, twisted and jerked its head, but the barbed hook stayed in the corner of its mouth. We fought for I don’t know how long — me trying to keep the fish out of the brush, it trying to find refuge in an underwater snarl.
Finally, the bass had its way. Not ready to concede, I moved close enough to feel down the line and get my thumb inside the fish’s mouth. Then, with Herculean effort, the bass surged forward and jumped as mightily as it could with the line wrapped around a small limb. I swear it looked me squarely in the eye, jerked its huge head back and then spit the hook in my direction.
I was greatly disappointment. But, after assessing what just had occurred, I had to admire the fish for its resolve, and without reservation admit defeat.
Lesson learned: You can’t always have your way with fish or, I’ve learned over the years, with life itself.