by Weston Ochse
Trey nodded. Greg was three years younger, but a good friend nonetheless. When it came to fishing, age didn't matter anyway. As long as you were patient and followed a few basic rules, it was God's will that sent the fish your way. At least that's what his grandfather used to say.
"Go ahead and take the poles down to the dock. I'm gonna get the battery out of the car."
"Are you sure we ain't gonna get into trouble about this?" asked Greg, his blue eyes worried under his shag of red hair.
"Naw. They'll never even find out. They ain't supposed to be back until after dark anyway and we'll be done long before that."
"What if we actually catch one of them beasts?"
It was Old Man Hassle that called them beasts and Greg was at the age to believe everything the old caretaker said. Trey was pretty certain they wouldn't see any catfish that big, but twenty-five or thirty pounders were fairly common.
"Shit. If we bring one in, I'll just tell the folks I was feeling better. I'll tell them you and me went fishing from the dock. They won't be real happy, but Dad will be so impressed with the fish, he'll bring mom around."
Greg grinned from ear to ear, the dream of a huge fish and his best friend's intelligence was going to make this a day to remember.
***
They slid the yellow canoe from under the community dock and Trey pressed his sneaker against the footpad that was the trolling motor's accelerator. He’d taken it from the downstairs storeroom, its very presence among old boxes and broken tools creating the idea to fish by the TNT dock. The dock was too far to paddle, so the small motor was what made the trip possible.
The motor had been a gift from his grandfather to his father and had yet to be used. Trey felt a sadness in that and saw his use of the old motor as a way to be closer to his grandfather. In his heart, he knew the old man wouldn't mind. He could almost see him now, standing in heaven, a martini grasped in his large hands staring down and wishing his grandson luck.
The weather had worsened. Brackish two-foot swells made the going slow and difficult in the small boat. Greg sat in the prow gripping the seat with both hands. When Trey guided them around the larger clumps of weeds, both of them were wary of getting them caught in the motor. Occasionally, they’d pass a fish held just under the water in the unrelenting grip of the weed, eyes milky and rotten.
The air was heavy with humidity, their shirts and shorts already sopping with sweat. The scent of honeysuckle drifted from the shore on the wind, mixing with the smell of rotting fish and the heady scent of the weeds. Breathing was hard during any August in Tennessee, but upon the lake’s surface it was almost impossible. Both boys alternately held their breath against the foul smells of deadness and the sweetness of the surrounding forest.
They’d both grown up on the lake, their summers filled with days where shoes and shirts were left indoors as they tried to become one with the sun and the water. When they weren't fishing or mowing lawns for some extra money, they were swimming around the community dock. Their favorite sport was underwater tag, spending more time holding their breath under than they did playing above.
During those long games, Trey often imagined he knew how a fish felt, chased and cornered by a fisherman. He could hold his breath for over two minutes and would slither in and around the old wooden pilings, propelling himself from one end of the dock to the other in his efforts to escape the touch of his friends. The only greater feeling was when he shot to the surface for that breath of air that he needed for another dive.
Often, when his mother and father were fighting and he found himself down on the dock, crying and wishing to be someone else, he would pray to the Gods of the Fishes. He would beg to be released from his human bonds and become one with the water -- a true fish. Their lives were simple and he envied the pleasure of the water, imagining himself too smart for the hook, plumbing the depths and coasting with the current, forever in search of nothing in particular except the freedom from everything it takes to be human.
Trey had often thought that of all the fishes to choose from he’d wish to become a catfish. Their lives were spent on the bottom, gliding and discovering the cast-off treasures of their human hunters. They moved with the slow stately purposefulness of kings. They lived long lives and grew to be immense. He remembered the picture he saw in the Guinness Book of World Records, the jaw of the fish large enough to swallow a small boy.
And then there were Old Man Hassle’s stories. Trey wasn't the only one who talked about it -- everyone had heard the rumors -- but it was the old caretaker of the community dock who spoke of it more than anyone else.
The lake was only about fifty years old and wasn’t the sort of place to hold things ancient and mysterious. Still, divers would descend every few months to check the dam's integrity, searching for any cracks or holes in the millions of tons of concrete that could threaten the greater part of Chattanooga sitting just down river as a magnificent southern gem. During the years, old wrecks of cars and trains had been dumped along the base to add to the width. These rusting fortifications were deadly to the divers, some becoming caught in the tangles of twisted metal as they inspected and pretended to be fishes. Even so, there was no end to divers who wanted to delve the lakes deepest depths. The pay was supposedly the highest of all, and the list was long.
And that same list moved quickly as the divers went down, came back up and swore never to enter the lake again. It was the catfish that sent them scurrying back to the surface, arriving screaming and babbling incoherently. They spoke of catfish as big as Ford LTDs and Lincoln Towncars that swam up to stare at them as they inspected the aging concrete. They swore the fish looked at them like they had big questions they wanted answered, only the divers didn’t understand what they could be.
People said it was all the old cars that bad been dumped down in the lake's depths that provided them with their source of measurement and it was this single thing that made people believe the stories. It was also what had kept people coming from everywhere in attempts to catch the mythical beasts.
Trey and Greg crossed the barrier from the haven of the green weed and shallower water, to the black mysteriousness of the deeper water. They breathed a sigh of relief to be safe from Billy Picket’s fate. Greg turned in his seat and began preparing his rod, attaching a number six hook and opening a can of corn with an old P-38.
As they moved to the fishing hole, they found themselves in the shadow of the immense dock where the barges were loaded. They stared at the pilings, easily three times larger than any telephone pole and covered with a black coating of tar that kept the water from rotting the important timber. The dock itself rose at least a hundred feet above them, a thousand stray wisps of fishing line from the large tires bolted to the side evidence of bad casts and impossible snags.
Trey cut the motor.
They drifted for a moment and then stilled.
The dock was protected from the wind by a small peninsula of trees, creating calm water where even the brown bubbles of pollution remained immovable. As Greg dropped his line in the water, Trey turned and tightened the clamps on the motor. It would be his death if it fell over the side. Like the battery between his feet, the motor was off limits. As long as it didn't break or sink, however, he felt sure that his father would never find out he’d used it.
Mere moments later the smaller boy stood up and screamed in delight as he reeled in a rather pathetic bluegill.
"Greg. Sit down. Are you stupid? You're gonna dump the boat," said Trey as he gripped both sides, attempting to steady the rocking.
"But I got one. I got one," said the younger boy, smiling happily.
"Shit, man. You got bait. After a few more of those, then we'll really start fishing."
Greg sat down and frowned a little as he removed the hook from the brittle lips of the flapping fish. Like all kids with scars on their hands, he was careful to avoid the sharp spines along the small fish's back. He tossed it into the middle of the boat where it wiggled wretchedly
.
"You know what Old Man Hassle said, don't you?" asked Greg, casting a line again.
"That old coot says a lot of things. I wouldn't believe too much of what he says. My daddy says he's an old drunk, anyway," replied Trey, also tossing in a line.
It was Old Man Hassle that had given Trey the idea to try the old Army Docks for catfish, but he wouldn't let his younger friend know exactly how much he really liked the old man.
"Yeah. My mom says the same thing, but still, he's been around forever." Greg cursed as he missed the strike of a fish. He brought the empty hook into the boat, slid on a kernel of corn and tossed it back over the side.
"So what does he say?" asked Trey, pretty sure he knew the answer already.
"He said the biggest of all the catfish live down there," said Greg, pointing into the blackness. "He said this is the place where they lay their eggs. Where they grow new ones."
Trey had heard about the big ones, but the egg story was a new one.
"Old Man Hassle says it's the catfish that make the weeds grow," continued the smaller boy. "Like a fence to keep other fish out. And people, too."
"That's plain stupid. How could fish make the weeds grow?" Trey asked. It was science, biology rather that made it occur. His biology teacher called it photosynthesis. It was the sun, reaching down to the lake floor, making long forgotten seeds blossom and bloom. "I think the old coot was drunk when he told you that. Anyway, it’s the TVA men killing the mosquitoes. As far as the eggs go, they can grow anywhere. This isn't the only place."
"No. Really, Trey. Think about it.” Greg’s words began to pile on each her. “It makes sense. Old Man Hassle says they’re gods. Catfish Gods. He says they have the power to stop people from catching them if they want. It's the bad ones that we catch. Not the good ones. We could never catch the good ones even if we knew how, says Old Man Hassle.”
"It makes no sense at all. It's stupid, Greg. How can a fish be a God?" Trey shook his head. "Why would you want to catch them, then? Catch a God? Impossible."
Greg was still out of breath from his speech, but it didn’t stop him from frowning. He was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, it is pretty stupid."
Trey could tell that his logic had sunk in. The littler boy looked up to him, and more often than not, would do anything to impress him.
***
It took half an hour before they’d 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, at least it kept the girls from fishing for them. Once you got used to the tiny intestines, kidneys, bloody brine and fish poop and learned how to hold your breath, it wasn’t a problem.
Last year, after he’d 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 had his trout rig and was drifting guts from a large hook, the bait held down by a large sinker, bumping along the bottom. 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 his dad’s tacklebox on sunken stumps and trash. 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’d caught another snag. But when the snag began to pull the boat out deep, he knew it was an incredible fish.
It took him an hour of alternately paddling and pulling; always 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 that day his father hardly believed that his own son had brought in a twenty-five pound catfish on such microscopic line.
That had been his first catfish and catching it made him feel more than human. Soon, he found himself on the docks, late at night fishing with trot lines laced with multiple hooks. He would sneak out, having left his rod and gear under his window before bedtime, 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 pester him about sleeping in, finally waking him around noon, and 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 feeling of being separated from everything, yet still connected to the universe. As he held the lines, he pretended he was floating in the sky, the water a reflection 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. Finished, Trey 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. Looking for some fish."
Trey smiled wider. He'd leave his friend alone 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. They were using a triple swivel with a sinker offset from the large hook so the bait could drift a few tantalizing inches from the muddy bottom.
When they’d let out enough line, they both leaned back and stared at the lazy brackish 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 madly. 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," said Trey. "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 spun 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 fishes themselves, begging them to let these two boys catch one.
Just as suddenly as he'd felt the hit, there'd come a wretched 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 into the lake.
Greg sat up slowly, tears flowing from his eyes.
"Are you okay, Greg?" asked Trey, the wake of the fight still sending ripples across the water.
"Yeah. Yeah. 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’d almost caught the big one. He’d had it and it was gone.
But th
at'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 that 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 where many experienced fishermen 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 his hook alone.
He’d chosen wisely. It was right after they finished their egg salad sandwiches when Trey's rod buckled.
Trey was caught off guard and he almost lost the Ugly Stick 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.
Trey jerked the rod out of the water, partly to set the hook and partly because he couldn’t help himself as he stumbled back, knocking Greg over in the process. Somehow, he managed to stand and felt the thrumming of the taught 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, evidence of a dying battery. He glanced over his shoulder and eyed the community dock, half a mile away. With only one paddle, it would take forever to reach.
Trey decided against the motor and screamed for Greg to reel in his own line. Momentarily annoyed, Greg soon complied and pulled his line in. The two changed 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, was that the fish wouldn't wrap the line around the great pole that speared the floor far far beneath him.