There are people born to fish… and then there are the rest of us, apparently equipped with some sort of invisible aquatic restraining order.
Despite my well-documented love affair with water, one water activity I have never mastered is fishing. You could count on both hands and feet the number of times I’ve gone fishing in my lifetime, which honestly feels statistically impossible for a Midwestern guy of my vintage. Somewhere along the way, God looked down and said, “This one can swim, ski, snorkel, and float for hours… but he shall not catch fish.”
My fishing career began innocently enough in the Land of 10,000 Lakes. Most kids dream of landing a trophy bass. Yours truly hooked what can only be described as a prehistoric river demon — an alligator gar. That ugly beast didn’t just take the wind out of my sails; it nearly ended my fishing aspirations before they ever began. The next day, my grandfather spent more time removing treble hooks from me than from the actual fish. Thankfully, torrential rains rolled in and trapped us indoors for part of the trip, which I considered divine intervention.
Then there was the Port Aransas excursion, where I went swimming with baby sharks. Apparently, we weren’t fishing for bait that day… we were the bait.
When Tina’s uncle heard about my miserable fishing record, he decided drastic measures were necessary. He took me to their private catfish pond — essentially the fishing equivalent of shooting free throws alone in your driveway. They tossed catfish food into the water until the surface looked like it was boiling with fish. Then they dropped my line right into the middle of the frenzy.
Nothing.
At that point, we began to suspect my fishing pole had some sort of anti-fish forcefield around it. Fish would literally jump over my bait to get to everyone else’s line.
I’ve joined a few “serious” fishing trips over the years where men wake up at 4:30 in the morning with military precision to drive two and a half hours to secret honey holes whispered about like hidden treasure maps. After five total hours of driving, hundreds of casts, and enough mosquito bites to qualify as blood donation, the grand prize would be a cooler full of crappies roughly the size of communion wafers.
Of course, the other guys on the boat filled my live well out of pity because once again, I had caught absolutely nothing. I politely declined future invitations. Five hours of travel for fish stick-sized fillets just wasn’t the pirate life for me.
Honestly, the most suspenseful part of those trips was attempting to discreetly pee off the side of the boat without drifting away from “the lucky spot.”
Now, deep-sea fishing? That was an entirely different catastrophe.
We once spent thousands on a private charter off Orange Beach/Gulf Shores — also known as the Redneck Riviera. Rough seas turned the entire boat into a floating chum factory. Every member of my family spent hours feeding the Gulf of Mexico while I stood there, somehow immune to seasickness like a confused cruise director.
Ironically, the only thing I managed to catch that day was a shark.
Not intentionally, mind you. This shark had been stealing everyone’s fish, so my accidental new job became “human shark distraction.” For forty-five minutes, I battled that beast while the rest of the family hauled in red snapper and Spanish mackerel like contestants on a fishing show. By the end, my arms felt detached from my body, and the captain finally cut the line once the boat hit its limit.
My greatest fishing triumph, however, happened during a teachers’ weekend at Bennett Springs.
That trip was educational in all the wrong ways.
First, I had never worn waders before, so I borrowed our fearless leader’s wife’s pair. No one informed me that bending at the waist while standing in freezing water essentially turns your waders into two giant buckets strapped to your legs. Nothing wakes a man up faster than forty gallons of icy trout stream rushing into his pants before sunrise.
I also didn’t realize trout fishermen prefer silence.
We’d arrive at crowded fishing spots where anglers stood shoulder to shoulder in perfect quiet concentration… until I arrived asking questions, singing camp songs, telling stories, and generally behaving like a caffeinated cruise ship entertainer. Amazingly, within fifteen minutes, every fisherman nearby would leave, giving us the entire stream to ourselves.
I thought I was helping.
Then came the miracle fish.
For over thirty minutes, a monster trout hovered between my legs refusing every bait I tossed its way. Out of boredom, I started lightly tapping it on the head with the lure like an annoying little brother. Finally, after enduring enough harassment, that trout snapped.
What followed was the fish fight of my lifetime.
That trout dragged me all over the stream for twenty-five minutes. Compared to this fish, that shark from Gulf Shores was basically a sleepy goldfish. Eventually the beast surrendered, and I finally landed a fish worthy of photographs, exaggerated storytelling, and lifelong bragging rights.
But oddly enough, even that wasn’t the highlight of the trip.
Evenings at Bennett Springs were filled with poker, cigars, storytelling, and enough male stupidity to power a small city. Unfortunately, cigars and I do not get along. One night, desperate to clear the smoke smell from the room, I cranked the air conditioning on full blast before falling asleep.
The next morning I woke up refreshed and comfortable.
My roommates, meanwhile, were huddled outside on the balcony in freezing temperatures trying to stay warm because apparently I had transformed the cabin into a walk-in freezer overnight.
Good times.
Except for one tiny detail…
That weekend also happened to be Mrs. Sturgill’s very first Mother’s Day.
To this day, I’m still amazed I survived the fishing trip and came home married.
Now that may be the greatest catch of my life.
Comments
Post a Comment