There is always a bigger fish

September 12th, 2007

There really are only two kinds of anglers in this world; those who catch the fish, and those who release them. Now, I enjoy a fresh fish dinner as much as the next person, perhaps more, but I’ve never been one to keep a lot of fish. Just a taste here and there is enough for me.

This summer, I had the good fortune to fish a lake near Kingston. It was supposed to be an angler’s paradise, full of all kinds of fish; big and small, fat and tall. The kid chewing tobacco at the gas station, the girl with the tight shirt scooping ice cream, the guy in the beer store, and the old gummer sitting outside of it, all told me so.

As I paddled out across the water, my thoughts drifted to the fish dinner I was going to produce that evening. My host, who doesn’t know his bass from a hole in the ground, was no help at all. He seemed distracted, disinterested, and the conversation somehow kept swirling back to ice cream, and how some people can really scoop it.

Undeterred in my mission, I fished every corner of that useless lake, under every dock and around every rock. I tried the weed beds, dead heads and lily pads. Nothing. At one point the wind died down, and I could hear laughter coming from the beer store. As it turns out, it was only a loon, who appeared to have no trouble catching his own fish dinner. I even followed the bird for a while, thinking he knew where the fish were, but it was fruitless.

Eventually, we reached the far end of the lake, and the public boat launch, which looked like it hadn’t been used in years, and I could certainly understand why at that point. Getting out for a stretch, I decided to try a few casts off the dock, along a line of weeds, where the water started to get deeper. Surely, this would produce fish. And it did! On about the third cast, a fish hit my lure like it hadn’t eaten since Red Fisher was alive. It fought and thrashed, as if it somehow knew the end was near. When I finally spotted the great whale, however, all hopes were dashed. It was a perch, an energetic little perch to be sure, but one so small you couldn’t set it on the dock, for fear it might fall through a crack.

My host, who found the whole scene rather comical, was drying his shirt on the dock; so that’s where I threw the fish, just to keep it safe, of course. It flopped around like a fish out of water (hence the expression) until my friend gently scooped it up, placed it oh so tenderly back into the water, and then shot me a look like I had just fire bombed his favourite orphanage.

The fish gave a couple little kicks and, for a split second, we both thought it was going to be fine; until a big black bass shot out from underneath the dock, and ate the miserable little thing in one lightning gulp. It was incredible.

Once the initial shock wore off, my friend was rattled by what happened, as if he had been cheated out of an act of kindness. For a moment, I was able to ape the motions of a sensitive human being, but I couldn’t hold it in, and started rolling around the dock, laughing like a cartoon loon. I assured my friend that everything he saw was normal, that there is always a bigger fish; but he didn’t start smiling again until I said we were headed home—for ice cream.