After spending most of my childhood waiting for dad to get home from the lake, I decided to ignore anything that had to do with fishing, rods, reels and worms.
My first experience with fishing didn’t go over very well as I had been introduced to the world of lures, at the age of 5, by stepping on a fishhook. My parents had to make a run for the nearest hospital, which is no easy task when you’re at the lake.
I tried to like fishing throughout the years but would spend more time sunning or just sitting on the dock than trying for the big catch. I hadn’t experienced catching a fish and wondered what the big deal was when most of the time they were just thrown back in anyway.
I didn’t have the heart to tell my guy I thought fishing was boring, nearly 15 years ago, when he asked me to tag along on one of his fishing frenzies. I’d happily go along and act as if I loved every minute of it, when actually I couldn’t wait to get out of the aluminum boat I felt was frying every piece of my skin. The last thing I wanted to do was catch, smell or handle a fish.
I knew it was serious when he bought me my first fishing pole. I not only fell in love with fishing, but him as well, and he caught me hook, line and sinker.
I started this season with a 15-inch crappie, which, I’ll proudly admit, I’ve spent quality time bragging about. The pond calls my name every time I drive up the driveway. With all of the recent rains it’s never looked better. Now I understand the reasoning behind dad’s obsession with getting to the lake after a grueling week of work.
Last week our pond provided a nice four-pound bass, which was given a pep talk to grow a couple more pounds and was thrown back in. I had been skunked for the last four fishing frenzies, but as any good fisherwoman knows, the more you cast, the better chance you have of beating your guy with the bigger fish.
I finally caught a five-pound bass and even thought about naming it when he reminded me it needed to go back into the water. There were a couple mishaps before landing the big one with two wild casts. One caught his pop can on the dock five feet back while another one punctured his rain jacket. He finally walked around to the other side of the pond. Can’t say I blame him.
He’s gearing up for a fishing tournament but is having problems finding a partner so I eagerly offered my services. He picked up his rain jacket with fishhook holes in it and busted out laughing.
Not sure if that means I’m in or not, but I’ll be ready just in case.
Sandy Turner is a GateHouse Media columnist.