Fast forward a couple of years, and my brother and I had developed a serious passion for fishing. Whether it was catching largemouth bass at a local pond, fly fishing for trout on the Swift River, or chasing jack crevalle in Florida, we just loved to fish. We would spend hours on the water and never get exhausted or bored. People would always ask me how I was so patient, standing in the same spot for hours but I would always reply, “It doesn’t feel like hours to me.”
During Christmas break every year, we would go down to Florida, where we stayed in a condo on a golf and country club. There were dozens of small ponds scattered on the golf courses that were filled with bass. One particular pond across the street from our building was easy to access and out of the way of screaming golfers who weren’t particularly fond of people fishing on the courses. The pond, which was shaped like a boomerang, was only around 2 acres. Along most of the pond was a tall and thick line of sawgrass that extended out into the water. Next to the sawgrass was a steep wall of boulders that I would fish off. It would have been a dangerous fall if you happened to accidentally slip or trip, but I was a stubborn little kid with fishing on my mind and nothing was going to stand in my way.
On one particularly hot day, after a few hours of fishing, my brother went home to rest when the bite started to slow down. I was throwing a green Senko, a 5-inch long plastic worm that seemed to produce bites from even the most finicky and reluctant fish. I fired a cast across the pond and landed my worm perfectly on the edge of the sawgrass line. Within a couple of seconds, I had hooked a tiny 10 inch bass, and as I began to lift in out of the water, an enormous boil erupted on the murky water under my fish. I realized that a bigger bass was trying to eat the smaller one that I had hooked. My heart racing, I frantically unhooked the small bass in my hands and threw it back in the water. I fired a cast onto the edge of the grass line in the exact spot where I had caught the smaller fish and before I could click the bail, another fish had grabbed it. I set the hook and the line started peeling off my reel as the fish raced toward the middle of the pond and into deep water. It slowly surfaced and proceeded to launch itself clear into the air, breaking the glass calm water with an explosion of anger.
At that moment, I finally saw how truly massive this bass was. Time slowed down and I felt as if I was moving in slow motion; with a shaking breath I begged, “Please don’t come off,” and the fish darted off around a rock, my line scraping the jagged edges, weakening and fraying. After what seemed like an eternity, the fish started to tire and I managed to bring it within arms reach. I gingerly stuck out my hand and grabbed the fish, its rough sandpaper-like teeth scraped me at my thumbs as I struggled to slowly lift it out of the water and rest it on the bank. I had never seen a bass so monstrous in my life. My hand seemed miniature in its enormous white mouth, so large that I could almost stick my head down it. Its broad shoulders seamlessly flowed to a wide dark green back and into a powerful tail. Its eyes, the size of quarters, were some of the most beautiful things I have seen in my life. The pupil, haloed by a ring of silver and grey, was made of the purest and darkest black imaginable and as I stared into it, I felt as if I was plunging into a dark abyss of beauty and power. The light from the blazing sun reflected off its scales and its skin shimmered, vibrant with shades of green, black, and silver. Words cannot describe the sheer excitement I felt, as well as the colossal size of the fish in my hands. It felt as if I was floating on a cloud, and everything taking place around me was merely an illusion or a dream. I wanted a picture of the fish, however, my brother and dad were at home with the camera. All I was concerned about was that this fish had to swim off healthy and alive, even if it meant not having a photo of it. Ever since my passion for fishing began, I always gave my best effort to make sure any fish I caught swam off healthy. I know that if I killed a fish so mystical and elusive, I would be unable to shake off the guilt for years to come. Gently, I placed it back in the water, the hook still in its mouth, and let out some line for it to swim off a bit. I sprinted back to the house and burst in through the door screaming, “ I just caught a monster bass, can somebody get the camera please?” and bolted out the door again. When I returned to my rod, I was relieved to find out that the fish was still on and quickly brought it back near the shore. It is too humongous to lift by myself, so my brother held the head of the fish while I lifted its tail and my dad snapped a few quick photos.
My brother took the hook out of its mouth, and I placed its massive head in the water and carefully slid it in. I sat there for a couple of minutes, reviving the fish until I could feel it starting to kick on its own. Gently, I touched the fish one last time before I finally released my hands and let it go. With one swift powerful tail kick, the fish darted off into the depths of the murky water below, leaving behind only a swirl of ripples on the water. Looking back on that day, years later, I am reminded of how powerful the everlasting effect that just one fish had on my life and how it had lit a fire inside me to pursue bass fishing. Ultimately, my passion for bass fishing stems from that single fish. In my closet, in a wooden bowl, sits a hook with a couple inches of line and half a worm still attached to it. It is the very hook that had been inside that fish’s mouth, and it has remained in my room ever since. I still keep the photos of me and my brother holding up that bass on my phone and it even remains as one of my screensavers on my computer. Even after a tough day of fishing or a bad tournament finish, I look at those photos, hold the hook in my hands and I am reminded of the overwhelming excitement that I felt as I first grasped that huge bass. I can’t help but think to myself, “This is why I fish.”
