When I was younger I hated fishing: the monotony of nothing for hours on end punctuated only by the droning of dragonflies and the gently swaying cattails as black bass taunt me from the shallow water a few feet from shore.
This afternoon fishing was just what I needed: the monotony of nothing for hours on end punctuated only by the droning of dragonflies and the gently swaying pampas grass as I cast my line out from the kayak over bluish-grey waters of a North Carolina estuary.
I found that sweet spot where the wind and waves moved me back and forth along a fifty-foot stretch of water – no paddling necessary, except to correct course every now and then.
The tide was low, much lower than normal, exposing four feet of muddy riverbank and constantly threatening to beach my craft. I wish I had a camera I could take out on the water.
Eventually I hear a call from upriver – time to head in.
As we stow the gear and put up the canoe and kayak, Father in Law sees a large mouth bass laying up against the bank. “I’m going to catch him,” he says and promptly
casts his line into a tree,
rolls it out onto a stump and
from there down into the water
where the bass strikes immediately.
I still had a good afternoon.
For the record, the bass was back in the water and swallowing real insects in a matter of moments.