A Fish Tale ... by Russel

A FISH TALE

I had never been anything but a Hoosier fisherman, and now my plumber Uncle was sending me to Wisconsin to be a pipe fitters welder. I didn’t even know what a pipe fitter was, but I could weld.

“Max,” said Uncle Ward. “You’ll love working through the union. Going to different places, and making new friends. You will finally be earning a wage just like everyone else.”

Well I didn’t want to earn a living, I wanted to fish. I didn’t want to make new friends, I wanted to be with my girlfriend Laura. We have a wonderful relationship. She is always making jokes and kidding around. That is one of the things that make me love her so. However, making some money while getting to fish in Lake Michigan did have a certain appeal. So I geared up for a fishing trip, grabbed Laura, and drove to Kenosha, Wisconsin.

Laura and I rented a three-room apartment just sixteen blocks from Lake Michigan and about six miles from Pleasant Prairie Powerhouse.

“This is a mixed neighborhood,” said the landlord. “I hope you don’t mind”

I didn’t mind. Of course I didn’t know what a mixed neighborhood was, until Laura and I made our way to the neighborhood bar. There were so many different cultures all mixed into one small, smoke-filled room. The only thing I had in common with any of them was my ability to weld, and my love for fishing. I believe Laura’s beauty attracted most of the contacts we made, but the desire to catch “the big one” is the reason Tom stayed to tell me how to do it.

“Max my man,” said Tom, “if you plan on catching anything from Lake Michigan you’ve got to use salmon eggs. You can get them real cheap down at the Department Mart. The fish up here wouldn’t even know what a night crawler is.”

Good old Tom told me all the equipment that I would need, and he revealed to me his favorite spot on the bank of Lake Michigan. I stopped at the Department Mart. I bought salmon eggs, bells, and even some artificial night crawlers just in case. Early the next morning I made my way to the beach. I set up my equipment as best I could, based on Tom’s instructions. Laura and I opened a can of beer, sat back in our sports loungers, and waited. We waited and waited and waited.

“You must be the most gullible man in the world,” said Laura, with a giggle. “Imagine putting a bell on the end of your rod!”

Just at that moment the bell went ding. It rang only once.

"Maybe there's a fish on your line," said Laura.

"Get real," I said. "If there were a fish on the line, that bell would be ringing off the end of my rod." Well just to be sure, I sat my beer in the sand and reached for my pole. Just as my hand touched the handle, the rod was whisked from its holder. Rod and reel were dragged toward the icy water of Lake Michigan. I made a dive for my speeding pole. I grabbed hold of that pole like it was my last dollar bill. I fumbled around trying to get everything in position to reel in a monster fish.

"Oh no Max," said Laura. "Don't loose it. You finally caught one."

"Be quiet," I said. "It's not on the bank yet." I increased the drag on the reel with no effect. The line continued to sing out. That fish took the hook, line and sinker twenty yards to my left, then twenty yards to my right. Back and forth it went. Several times when it changed direction, I was able to reel in a couple feet of line.

Then I remembered. This country boy was fishing with the same equipment that I used when I fished the streams and ponds of Indiana: ultra-light rod, and the reel loaded with a four-pound test line. I thought I was going to lose the biggest fish I had ever hooked. I decided not to be the victim of my own stupidity. I cautiously let the fish take all the line it needed. When it turned or swam toward the shore, I would reel in the line. After several minutes I noticed the fish started slowing down. So little by little I started reeling in more line. When the fish fought back, I quit reeling in, but I didn't let up. I was relentless. That monster fish finally got so tired it let me reel him to within about ten feet of the bank.

"Look at the size of that son of a gun," screamed Laura. "Get the net," I said. "Get the net." Then I realized this fish was not going to fit into my little Indiana net. "Laura, wait. When this fish turns his nose toward me, I'm just going to pull him through the water up on the bank." A few more minutes passed while the fish tried to swim to deeper water, but he was too tired. He turned toward me, and I was ready. I gave a quick tug on my rod and reel to pull that fish swiftly through the water and… snap. My four-pound test line snapped so quickly I hardly knew it had broken.

"You just threw away the biggest fish in the world," shouted Laura. Red. That's what I saw. I'm not quite sure, but I believe it was blood red. I was so hot. I jumped into Lake Michigan, right on top of that monster fish. I grabbed him by the gills and threw him out of the water. The lioness was waiting. Laura grabbed our picnic blanket and threw it over the fish. As she sat astride of the fish, it looked like she was riding a bucking bronco.

“Max,” she screamed. “Come and get this son-of-a-gun.”

After getting Laura off of my fish, I took out my trusty “Zebco” fisherman’s friend. I measured and weighed the biggest fish I had ever caught. A thirty-five inch long, twenty-three pound, carp. “Ha-ha-ha-ha,” laughed Laura. “It’s a danged old carp. You drive to Wisconsin, pour beer down some local storyteller, and spend a fortune on all this fishing gear, just to catch an old garbage fish. You are so stupid.”

I was seeing red again. I quelled the desire to show Laura how much damage a twenty-three pound fish could do when used as a deadly weapon. I removed the broken line and hook from the fish’s mouth and released him back into the cold water of the lake.

Sadly enough, the job didn’t work out. I packed Laura and my fishing gear into our car and moved back to Indiana. I told all my friends about the greatest fishing trip I had ever taken. I bragged on Laura, and how well she handled herself and the fish we caught. I even passed out salmon eggs to all the fishermen who didn’t believe our story.

For the perfect end to a perfect fishing trip, the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources wrote me a nice thank-you letter.

“Max, you have got to see this,” called Laura. “You bought a resident fishing license in Wisconsin, and they are fining you one hundred, fifteen dollars.”

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