Story by Ken Duke | Photos by Tanner & Travis Lyons
The boy had never touched a fishing rod that cost more than a video game. But there he was, 11 years old, standing in the narrow bow of an aluminum johnboat, holding a borrowed baitcasting combo and preparing to make the first cast of the day.
“Remember to cast beyond the target,” the old man said, sitting behind him with one hand on the sculling paddle and the other on the gunnel. “When you bring the lure past the stump, be ready.”
A day earlier they had worked to “educate” the boy’s thumb and get it ready for “real” bass fishing. A chartreuse and white spinnerbait hung about a foot below his rod tip.
The sun was still just cresting the horizon as mist curled off the lake. Everything was quiet, except for the occasional pop of a feeding bluegill or the creak of aluminum under their weight.
The boy thumbed the spool and launched the spinnerbait as he’d been trained. Thumb the spool, press the bar, draw back, load the rod, fire away.
The reel didn’t backlash. That was a victory. The bait landed about three yards past a stump and on the edge of some lily pads.
“Good cast!” the old man said, quietly, but with enthusiasm and more than a little pride.
The boy almost forgot to retrieve the bait. Then he turned the reel’s handle once … twice. The bait stopped.
He pulled back a little, thinking he was hung up in the vegetation or on the mysterious bottom.
Then the surface erupted.
A dark blur surged from the murk and his line streaked toward deep water. His rod bowed. His mouth gaped.
“Set the hook!” the old man hollered.
The boy pulled back … hard. The bass—he knew it was a bass; he’d seen pictures and heard stories—jumped clear out of the water, thrashing and twisting, dancing on the surface. For one perfect second, it seemed to hang in the air.
Then the line went slack.
Gone.
The spinnerbait whizzed back toward him and clanked against the side of the boat.
The boy stared at the place where the bass had jumped. His heart was pumping hard. He didn’t say a word, just held the rod in silence.
For a long minute, the two were quiet. The water stilled.
Finally, the old man spoke. “Well,” he said, “now you know what it’s like to tangle with a lunker bass.”
“How big was it?” the boy asked.
“Big enough,” the old man answered. “Probably a good thing you didn’t catch it,” he added. “You’d-a been spoilt.”
The boy still stared at the water. He hadn’t moved.
“That won’t be the last one you’ll lose,” the old man said. “But you’ll catch some, too.”
They were quiet for a long moment.
“Are you gonna make another cast?”
The boy shifted and cast again. This time, there was a messy backlash and the spinnerbait fell just a few feet from the boat.
The old man chuckled. “They’ll do that to you,” he said. “One time I lost a great big ol’ fish right here on this lake—probably the great granddaddy of the one you just lost. I bet it took half an hour for my hands to stop shaking.”
The boy began to peel through the snarl of line on the reel.
He had a new respect for the fish he was after.
