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Date: My Pond
Title: March 2006
Date: 21 Mar 2006
Time: 11:44:43 -0500
My Pond From the bait cooler I pulled a foot long fresh mullet, took a knife and lopped the tail off leaving a nub then split the fish in half along one side of the spine from the base of the head all the way back to the nub. I drove a 9/0 short shank bait hook through the forward part of the head. My rig was as simple as it gets…that hook tied to the 60 lb test main line. I was anchored shallow (<30’) during a light tide over shattered rocks looking for one big grouper. Having a big natural bait freely tumbling around amongst the bottom growth might be the ticket. Besides I didn’t want to burn a barrel of gas just to take myself fishing. I’d save some cash by applying patience. I, also, applied chum to kick things “up a knotch”. With one hip propped up on the starboard gunnel, I waited for the big one to come along. My mind wandered back to a youthful day when… In the cover of darkness, our headlights poked a hole down a short pure sand passage that for most was unknown and for those who passed before us would just as soon be forgotten. I got out of the car, with a flash light, and walked the headlights into the black hole. I walked back towards the car, stopped short and began to use the flashlight beam as a pointer. The U.S. Army had lain down segments of perforated metal track to allow military vehicles movement across the deep soft sand. Wind had covered much of the track with sand. Some sections of track had been pushed down into the sand. Jagged metal popped up here and there where heavy trucks had damaged the segment ends. My job was to help Dad keep the car on the track, so we wouldn’t get stuck, while avoiding the ragged edges to keep the bottom of the tires round. The first part of the road was the worst. Once we crested the small hill in the middle, it was easier to coast down to an oak hammock where roots and moisture made the sand firm enough to drive on. Sequestered under a low blanket of live oak branches and tucked in behind an ancient arrangement of sand dunes, the sunrise appeared as if someone greater than us simply turned the dimmer up and things slowly became brighter. It didn’t take Dad and me long to unpack our gear. We had three medium light weight spinning outfits and two canvass creels. The creels were identical with a multitude of pockets and pouches that were semi-organized with an assortment of lures and fishing paraphernalia. We were armed like the platoons of soldiers that rehearsed warfare amongst these dunes before us but we were geared up to assault bass. The pond was just down a slope from where we had parked. From our vantage point, close to one end, you could see all the way across the width of the pond in the light of dawn and if you looked, just right, you could see a reflection of light off the water at the far end. Vapor steamed a foot high off the pond resembling a loose roll of cotton insulation padding the surface. The pond was an oblong oval with a couple of small sandy points jutting out across from one another roughly halfway along the length of the pond. Once we got out from underneath the trees, there was a wide, well-rutted, sandy strip, obviously used as a course during maneuvers. The strip undulated left and right making its way around the pond with many side trails coming in where two sand dunes dipped down together. Six or eight high struts across the strip got us to a sparse band of coarse clump grasses, scrub oaks and individual mature pines that bounded the pond. Swathes of immature weeping willow trees rimmed much of the shoreline. Their limp branches draped over the water; the longest of which swept the surface in the faint breeze. Where the bank was a bit higher, a big pine or thicket of oaks would grow to the water. Subtleties in elevation, sometimes less than a foot, made big changes in the vegetation. By taking notice of what vegetation was present at the waters edge, you could tell where the lake gently sloped to deeper water and where deep water was at the bank. We were there in the midst of spring. The morning air still had crispness to it yet the mid day sun was strong enough to make shorts and T shirt most comfortable. I was dressed waiting for such to occur. The air was infused with the fragrance of new growth. The kind of smell you get when your nose is close to a fresh garden salad; a salad with just a hint of pine. Breathing tasted good. Dad and I had developed a routine. He would start fishing his way around the pond to the right. I would start fishing my way around the pond to the left. We would meet somewhere in the middle on the other side with a “how’d you do?” Then we’d fish our way back around the pond together in the direction of whoever caught the most fish. We had our quiet time. Then we had our share time. It worked for us. I always started fishing where rain water had washed out a part between the willow trees in the near corner of the pond. I stepped in the gully away from the pond. I learned to sneak up on the water. It is heartbreaking to anxiously rush in to wet a line and realize, with a boil of water, that your hast has cost you an opportunity to tangle with a fine eager fish that was right there waiting. At the back of the gully, I crouched down, jabbed the butt of my spare rod, with a Snagless Sally tied on, into the sand. The rod in hand had a small Pop R. Top water fishing at the break of day has, and always will, cause a restless sleep the night before. Here I was living the moment that kept me awake longer than I wished. Fresh eight pound line run through the eyes of my rod. The reel was greased two day before the trip. I ran the hook across a stone yesterday evening during final preparation. A puff of wind from right to left shouldn’t make an impact on the cast. New growth had narrowed the free air space between the willow swaths or was I jittery on the first cast. Hope, anticipation, and apprehension swarmed in my head as I tried to quell my nerves enough to make the cast without having the fishing line so much as touch anything but clean fresh air. From a squat, I flipped my wrist forward. The Pop R sailed backwards between the willows trailing loose coils of line. I watched intently. My free hand cupped by the reel spool; the line coming off the spool slapping my palm like a feather. A split second before the lure splashed down, I pushed my palm against the spool stopping any more line from coming off the spool at the same time straightening the line that was in the air without recoiling the lure. The line floated gently down splitting the gap. The perfect cast. I was proud of myself. There is far more satisfaction in fishing than merely reeling in a fish. Concentric circles rippled from the lure fifty feet from the rod tip. I let it rest on the surface until the ripples dissipated. The lure was in open water, next to nothing, floating over sand bottom. Four times I softly ‘frog swam’ the Pop R five feet forward by holding the rod with the tip down and rhythmically flickering the tip while taking up the slack with the reel. Five feet and let the lure and water still. One more frog swim and the lure came to rest fifteen feet from the bank. Pinching the line between the thumb and forefinger and Jello jiggling the rod tip kept the lure stationery but caused it to vibrate like a nervous animal approaching a known ambush point. I stopped; the lure silenced. Long seconds passed. Glug…glug. Two short sharp wrist snaps forced the lure ten inches closer in two motions that had water spritzing forward from the concaved face of the plug. A prolonged pause then a subdued four foot frog swim brought the lure within ten feet of the sand. I vibrated the Pop R five seconds or so and stopped. Spiritless it sat a top the water. Slowly I pulled the lure another foot towards me ending in a slight flick that sprinkled a few tiny drops of water from the face. I was ready to vibrate the lure again when a brick fell from underneath the plug. I must have hypnotized myself with the lure motion because I didn’t respond to the strike until the line yanked the rod in my hand. The fish set the hook on itself. When we both realized we were hooked we jumped. I in a spasm. The bass vaulted in a cinematic brief tail walk and shuttering head shake. Its mouth agape showing the Pop R latched in the corner. The flared gill plates flashed the brilliant red of the gills with each head twist. Oddly, the belly flop re-entry was naturally graceful. Before my eyes was a live replay of all the slow motion film footage from every bass fishing TV program I’d ever seen on rainy Saturday mornings. I played for the fish. The fish danced. The fish surged. I dipped. During two moments of stage fright, the fish ran for dark weed cover. I applied as much pressure as I could stomach to bring her back to the limelight. The torrid dance went to near exhaustion. We got closer together and the music slowed. The explosive moves were now alluring wiggles and flirtatious flips. The final note ended in a captivating sliding embrace. In a lip lock I held her up to the sun. Iridescent body scales scattered the low morning light. I supported her motherly belly in my hand. Translucent fins trimmed in black were her lace. She dripped cool water. I looked into her eye. She looked back. She was beautiful. She gave me everything I dreamed of last night. Carefully I laid her down in the pond. Her tail sashayed through my open fingers back to where she belonged. As I watched her swim away, I noticed something I hadn’t seen from the back of the gully. There, just off the bank in a foot and a half of water, was a sand saucer sixteen inches in diameter. She was expecting, waiting in her nursery. I had invaded her home. She instinctively killed the intruder. I stood there silently thinking about the whole event feeling good about my decision to give her back. She carried the future. She carried my future fun. I looked back at the nest and she was there, standing guard from her foxhole. Wow, that occurred over three decades ago. Where did that memory come from? Maybe because I was fishing aloooooone “Oh my! The mullet awakes.” My rod jerked me back to the present and my feet. That one sixteen pound gag gave many fine meals and me time for inspiration. Good fishing is not measured by numbers but by qualities which require no math skills. Keep a few fish for now; let some go for tomorrow. Things come around for those who wait and remember. Thanks for taking time to read. Take care of yourself and the tackle. Capt B