by Weston Ochse
***
It took half an hour before they had brought in enough bluegill and crappie for bait. That was the fun about catfish. You never had to buy bait for them. Trey had learned long ago, it was the guts that they preferred over anything else. Disgusting as it was, it kept the girls from fishing for them. Once you got used to it and learned how to hold your breath, it was even okay for him.
Last year, after he had heard of the guts, right before the weeds took over, he had been in the same canoe fishing along the muddy flats just off shore from the houses. He was using his trout rig and was drifting guts from a large hook, the bait bumping along the bottom, held down by a large sinker. It was his first time using the guts, and he wouldn’t have done it except he was fresh out of worms and had snagged all the lures he had stolen from daddy on the docks. He really wasn’t expecting to catch anything, just enjoying the wind off the water and the sun, hoping for a tan that would carry him through the winter. When the fish first hit, he thought he had caught a snag, but when the ‘snag’ had began to pull the boat out deep, he knew it was an incredible fish. It took him an hour of alternately paddling and pulling, sure to keep tension on his four-pound test at all times, before he finally reached the shore. It took another ten minutes for him to haul in the biggest fish he had ever caught. To this day his father hardly believes that his own son had brought in a twenty-five pound catfish on such microscopic line.
It was Trey’s first catfish and catching it made him feel more than human. Soon, he found himself on the community dock, late at night fishing with trotlines laced with multiple hooks. He would sneak out, having left his rod and gear under his window, and make his way through the darkness to the dock. He rarely caught anything and would wake up near dawn, when the chill of the new sun made it too uncomfortable to remain near the water. His mother would ‘cluck’ at his sleeping, making him finally get up at noon, criticizing him for his laziness. Trey never gave away the truths of his nights, however. They were too special, communing with the sky and the water, thinking of all his grandfather had taught him about fishing and life. He enjoyed the peace and disjointedness he felt as he held the lines and pretended he was floating in the sky…the water; an integral part of the universe.
Trey had to gut all the fish while Greg stared away, pretending to ignore the pop of released flesh and the blood that seeped into the bottom of the boat, making the water a disarming pink. When Trey finished, he placed the corpses in a white plastic bag and piled the guts in a small bucket.
“Alright,” he said smiling. “You can look now, I’m done.”
“What? I was just staring at the water, Trey. Looking for some fish.”
Trey smiled wider. He’d let it be and not mention the fact that there was no way his friend could see fish in the dark brackish water.
“Help yourself,” he said gesturing at the pile that was already drawing green-bottomed flies. “It’s time to catch one of your gods.”
Greg glared for a moment, wondering if it was an insult or a joke, then grabbed a length of purple intestine and placed it on the new rig—a triple ring, with a sinker offset from the large hook so the bait could drift a few tantalizing inches from the muddy bottom, while the weight held it down.
When they had let out enough line, they both leaned back and stared at the slow moving sky. On occasion, they would follow a particular cloud, watching as it changed shapes until finally disappearing into the kudzu covered forest that was their horizon.
Finally, Greg’s pole doubled over sending him standing as he tried to control the dancing rod. The canoe rocked in the water and Trey struggled to still it by shifting his weight. Greg screamed at the top of his lungs as he began to reel furiously.
“Slow down. Slow down, Greg. You’re going to break the line.” Trey held onto the side of the boat. “Slow and steady. Slow and steady.” His grandfather had taught him that. Hell, he’d taught him everything he knew about fishing except what his dad had taught him about creek fishing. Too many people got too excited and lost their catch. Fishing was a tough thing.
Greg ignored him, his pole making a right angle towards the water. His reeling slowed, less from his effort than the fish’s far below. It began to pull the small boat and Trey swiveled and toggled the trolling motor on. He maneuvered the boat to provide a steady pull against the tug of the captured fish. It had to be a catfish and a big one.
The excitement was contagious and soon, Trey, found himself shouting and encouraging Greg. He prayed that the line or the rod wouldn’t snap. He prayed that his friend wouldn’t get jerked in, forgetting to let go and drown in the murky depths. Trey couldn’t help but remember the words of Old Man Hassle, imagining that his young friend had a god on the end of his line. He prayed to the fish themselves, begging them to let these two boys catch one.
Just as suddenly as the hit, however, came the snap, as the line gave away to the combined pressures of the fish and the reverse pull of the boat. Greg fell back hard, hitting his head against the metal rim of the canoe. Trey stopped the engine immediately and managed to catch the rod before it fell in the lake.
Greg sat up. Tears flowed from his eyes.
“Are you okay, Greg?” asked Trey, the wake of the fight still sending ripples across the still water.
“Fuck me,” the little boy said, wiping his cheeks with the front of his T-shirt. “I just hurt my head is all.”
Trey watched him rubbing the growing bump and knew that it was a deeper pain. He had almost caught the big one… he’d had it and it was gone. But that’s what made fishing special and so unique. You always tried for that bigger fish, every moment a chance. When you lost it, it was forever lost and you had to start over, not where you left off. When you finally caught it, the glory was so fleeting, it was no time at all before you went looking for an even larger one.
“Shit. That was a big one too. Damn big,” said Trey.
“Yeah. Damn big,” repeated Greg, still staring at the water.
“I wonder if it has any brothers?” asked Trey. “I still got my line in the water. You better fix yours.”
Greg spent a few moments staring longingly at the lake, then hurried to refit his line.
Trey returned to his own line and argued with himself over the need to check the bait. It was an important argument, one when many experienced fisherman made mistakes. If you pulled it up as the fish was contemplating the catch, your chance was forever lost. If you left it in the water with an empty hook, you were wasting the day. It was a tough choice, but Trey decided to leave it be.
It was right after they finished their egg salad sandwiches when Trey’s rod buckled.
It caught Trey off guard and he almost lost the rod as it slipped and banged against the edge of the boat. It wasn’t until the last moment that he managed to grip it, already half in the water. He jerked the rod back out, partly to set the hook and partly because he stumbled back, knocking over Greg in the process. He stood up and felt the thrumming tug of the line. He immediately knew it was the largest catfish he had ever latched onto.
Trey squatted by the motor and struggled to turn it on. It gave a hum, but when he glanced over the edge, he saw the blades turning excruciatingly slowly, evidencing a dying battery. He cast a glance over his shoulder and eyed the community dock, half a mile away. With only one paddle, it would take forever to reach it.
Trey decided against the motor and screamed for Greg to reel in his own line. After a momentary look of annoyance, Greg complied and pulled his line in. It took a few moments, but finally the two managed to change places. All the while, the canoe was being pulled inexorably towards the pilings. It was mere moments before the front of the boat hit the sticky wood and with his free hand, Trey grabbed hold. It was better than being drug out into the lake, or even the weeds. What he prayed for, however, is the fish wouldn’t wrap the line around the pole.
Luckily, he didn’t have his usual trout rig, but the heavy-duty rig he had been given last Christmas and it wasn’
t called the Ugly Stick for nothing. The line was twenty-pound test and could handle upwards of a hundred pounds if used skillfully. The tip of the rod continued to dance and jump as he could feel a long hulk, struggling far below to get free.
Suddenly, the line went slack. Trey momentarily stopped reeling and cried out, tears filling his eyes. Almost as fast, he realized the fish could be attempting to surface. He wiped his eyes and redoubled his fight, taking line in furious and quick. He couldn’t match the speed of the fish, however, and when it surfaced, Greg screamed. It’s gaping maw, at least two feet across, snapped at the air on the left side of the boat as it rose out of the water. He wondered who was catching whom. The head of the great fish slammed into the water with a huge splash, soaking the boys and the boat and disappearing in the murk of the water. Something rammed the bottom of the boat sending Greg into the water and Trey to the bottom of the boat. On the right side, a tail flapped the surface angrily several times.
Then chaos returned to order as the fish disappeared and the urgency of the moment subsided.
Greg, treading water, began to alternately scream and gurgle as he panicked, trying to kick the fish and swim back to the boat, simultaneously.
“Trey… Trey… gggg… Help me.”
Trey, picked himself up from the cramped floor of the boat, now covered in fish guts and soaked with the bloody mixture from his earlier cutting. The rod forgotten, he grabbed the paddle and held it out towards his struggling friend. Within seconds, Greg was back in the boat, hyperventilating and crying.
“Jesus H. Christ. Did you see the size of that thing?”
“Did I see it? It almost ate me!” screamed back Greg.
Trey was about to tell him how stupid that was, then stopped. It had been the biggest fish he had ever seen. Too many times he had swum in the deep water, the ‘Jaws’ soundtrack playing in his mind. Even though no one had ever heard of a person being eaten in a freshwater lake by a shark or a fish and even though no one had ever been chewed up by a catfish, he couldn’t help but wonder.
Trey glanced around and noticed his rod had disappeared, surely, on the bottom of the lake being drug around by his own Moby Dick. He maneuvered Greg into the seat and noticed the young boy was beginning so shiver uncontrollably. Trey jerked off his shirt and ordered his friend to remove his shoes. He massaged the boy’s arms and shoulders until he could see the blood return. Both of them were crying, their chance at greatness, twice removed.
“I wanna go home,” said Greg, trying real hard to stop crying. “I don’t want to fish anymore.”
“Okay. Okay,” said Trey, wanting to stay and try again. The lure of all fishermen who had just lost the big one was upon him, but he had lost his rod. There was only Greg’s and there was an unwritten rule never to fish with anyone else’s pole. His grandfather had said that ‘if you caught something on someone else’s rig, it wouldn’t really be your own.’ The great fish, if it could be recaught, would belong to Greg.
Trey eyed the sky and saw a storm moving in, hard grey clouds pushing aside the day quickly. They probably had only fifteen minutes before it hit; just long enough for Greg to dry off before he became soaked again. It would take twice that to make it back across the inlet to the community dock. Trey eyed the immense TNT dock and thought about taking shelter beneath. He had no idea how long it would last however, and Greg really needed to get home and into dry clothes.
“Shit,” said Trey, accepting his fate.
It was then he saw his fishing pole, about five feet under the water and wrapped around one of the pilings. It had snapped and the line appeared to be all that was holding it in place.
“Look! There’s my pole,” he said, pointing into the water.
Greg turned slowly to where Trey pointed, then sat straight when he saw the unmistakable lines of the rod. “Maybe you can save the reel.”
“Sure,” said Trey, brightening. He had thought it lost forever. Then he noticed the tip, it thrashed once, twice, then a series of hard jerks, creating bubbles that rose to the surface. “Holy Cow. Look at that! The fish. It’s still on.”
Instead of being thrilled, Greg got a worried look on his face.
“Don’t go in there. Don’t go into the water.” Greg shook his head hard and stared into the bottom of the boat. “It’s just too big. Too damn big.”
Trey watched his friend for a second and then glanced back at the fishing pole. He let his eyes drift along the piling and for the first time, noticed there were bars jutting out from the sides; like those on telephone poles, but previously camouflaged by bits of seaweed and moss. It was a huge fish, but ‘Jaws’ could never happen here. All he had to do was climb down, cut the line and then get his reel back. His dad was going to wonder where it was anyway, considering it was a Christmas present and Trey’s favorite gift. If they went to the mountains next week, he would never be able to explain it away.
“Naw. It’s okay. The fish is gone. I know that. I’m just going to get the pole. My father would kill me if I lost the whole rig. Anyway, if he finds out it’s missing my parents will know what we did today. And my parents will tell your parents and then we’ll be grounded from the lake all summer.”
At the threat of grounding, Greg brought his head up sharply. The lake was their life. Trey watched as the emotions moved through his friend’s face. Finally, his friend sighed and nodded his head slowly.
“Okay, but hurry up,” said Greg in sotto voice. “And be careful.”
‘Hurry up and be careful,’ thought Trey. Those were two things that shouldn’t go together. He wasn’t going to hurry, but he would certainly be careful.
Trey paddled the canoe back up to the piling, the shadow of the dock placing them in darkness. The smell of decay was strongest here. He noticed the eddies of black oil and multicolored gasoline slick mixed with trash and the brown bubbles of pollution. If the lake was Heaven, this was Hell. Trey leaned past Greg and used the short length of rope attached to the front of the boat to tie it firmly into place. He removed his tennis shoes and folded them, placing them on the seat. He stood up and stared at the disgusting water, not wanting to enter, but needing the big catch.
“Alright. Watch me, man. Everything is gonna be okay. I’m just going to get the rod and I’ll be right back up.” Trey placed a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Stay cool.”
With that, he placed a foot on the metal edge of the canoe and pushed off. The water embraced him as he, feet first, sliced deeply from hot to cool water. He pushed himself back to the surface and side-armed his way over to the piling. Counting to three by thousands, hyperventilating, until his lungs were full, he descended pulling himself down using the slippery spikes. The rod was deeper than he though, probably fifteen feet, but it was only seconds before he reached it. Through the murky water, he saw the rod and the line wrapped around the piling six or seven times. It was the heaviness of the line that had saved his reel.
The tugging had stopped, but he doubted the fish was entirely gone. Maybe he still had a chance to catch it. He really didn’t need to cut the line. He could deceive the fish. After all, he was human and he had superior brains. Trey depressed the reel and let out about five feet of slack. Careful, as not to tug on the line still attached to the fish, he began to unwind the rod from the piling. He was almost finished when he paused and returned to the surface.
“What the hell are you doing, Trey? I thought you were gonna cut the line.”
Trey breathed heavily across the water and grinned. “I got everything under control. When I come back up, I’m gonna hand you the rod. Hold onto it tight until I get back into the boat.”
“Don’t do it, Trey,” begged Greg, his eyes beginning to tear up again. “It’s too big. It’s gonna eat you.”
Trey watched his friend and almost called him a crybaby, but then he laughed. “It’s not gonna eat me, Greg. Don’t get your panties in a wad. I got everything under control.” He reached up and punched his friend in the shoulder. “Hey. Trust me.”
>
By the look in the smaller boy’s eyes, he could tell that any sense of trust was being smothered by fear. Trey cocked his head, winked hard, then, after another count of three, descended back down the piling.
In no time, he had the rod and line unattached from the piling. He was about to ascend to the surface when he was jerked impossibly hard. Trey flew through the water plunging deeper and deeper. He had gone fifty feet by the time he thought to let go of the rod. Even after he released it, the incredible momentum continued his propulsion towards the bottom. The pressure on his head was becoming incredible, feeling like a knife being thrust into the center of his brain. Something within his mind, however, kept him from screaming and releasing the precious air he needed to survive.
Finally, his descent slowed. Trey glanced upwards and like a lighter darkness, could glimpse the faraway surface. Or what he thought was the surface. He was too deep, deeper than he had ever been before. Trying hard not to panic, he began to ascend, as slowly as possible because of the immense pressure being exerted upon his body. He achieved only a few feet before he felt his ascent halt as something gripped each ankle painfully.
Trey stared down and watched in horror as the viney weeds wrapped around his ankle. In the almost darkness, he watched as two more moved for him like tentacles from some great beast, encircling his wrists and pulling his arms out hard. Many more waved below, as if beckoning him deeper. The decaying corpses of a hundred fish stared back at him, as did the skulls, picked clean and gleaming.
Trey thrashed, attempting to free himself from the living weed, realizing he was quickly running out of air. Yet as his air depleted, instead of his vision dimming, he saw the water brightening. Although he was very deep, he could now see through the water like it was near the surface and clear. A figure came into his vision, rising gradually from the depths beneath him. The only movement was the minute openings and closings of the mouth and the almost intelligent wavings of its long whiskers. When the catfish was even with his head and staring straight into his eyes, it opened its mouth wide revealing a mouthful of smallish teeth and rows of pulsating gills. Trey slammed his eyes shut, jerking at his bonds. He refused to see what was about to eat him and felt the warmth of urine seep from his water-shriveled penis. When the first of the whiskers brushed against his face, he screamed, releasing all of his air, condemning him to death.