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BIG FISH TALE

It's hard to say which is the most disappointing: (a) To go fishing with a group of people and be the only one who doesn't catch anything or (b) to go fishing alone and catch a monster fish and have nobody within miles of you.

Most recreational fishermen nowadays have a thing against keeping fish. And the size and creel regulations are so complicated and so varied in different areas that making a mistake about "keepers" could cost a little cash.

Since I don't eat fresh-water fish, I always make it a rule to throw 'em all back. This makes it kind of hard to brag when you do snag something of size.

Once when I came in, a young fellow lounging on the dock asked me if I'd caught anything.

Usually the answer would be "Nothing worth talking about," but on this occasion I really had caught a whopper and was excited enough to talk about it.

"Yeah, man," I said, "I caught probably the biggest bass I ever caught in my life! He was pulling the canoe all over the lake before I landed him. He was THIS big!"

The young fellow became almost as excited as I was, and came hurrying over to the canoe.

"Can I see him? Can I see him? Where is he?"

"Well," I said, "I didn't want to kill a fish like that. I didn't keep him. But he was a monster!"

The fellow stopped cold and his face fell. "Sure," he said. "Sure. I'll bet."

He was still muttering when he turned on his heel and went the other way.

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FISH ON A HILL

Going fishing is not always just about catching fish, especially if you have a canoe, paddle or electric motor and access to a quiet lake with no motorboats.

It's really life in the slow lane, and you get glimpses of nature that remind you that we're in a real world here, not just something that was manufactured or constructed by human hands.

Like the rare occasion when a bald eagle swoops down to pick up some food not more than 20 feet in front of you, or the times a beaver will slap the water with his tail when he thinks you're intruding too closely into his domain.

I remember the time I saw the fish going up the side of the hill.

I was about 30 feet out from a steep bank and could barely believe my eyes when this silvery denizen of the deep began to creep sideways up the hill.

Moving as quietly as I could to get a closer look, it was two or three minutes and the fish was two or three feet out of the water before I was close enough to see what really was happening.

A big snake, not one I could identify, had the fish in his mouth and apparently was taking it home to the family. The snake's coloration was such good camouflage that it was impossible to see him from any distance.

I said to myself that I probably had just witnessed a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. But it wasn't two years before I saw the same thing happen again.

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GETTING A BITE AT CHICAMACOMICO

Chicamacomico was a very small village on Hatteras Island that had to give up its name because the U.S. Post Office said nobody would ever be able to spell it correctly more than once.

So to get the coveted federal office and mail service, the residents there agreed to call the place something else – Rodanthe.

A lot of people are able to misspell and mispronounce that also, but today the village – along with its sister post office addresses at Waves and Salvo – is experiencing new growth as an urban tourist island near one end of the Cape Hatteras National Seashore.

The only thing in the Chicamacomico area bigger than its name is its collection of mosquitoes.

My wife repeats a story she heard down there, about one particularly tasty fellow who was waylaid at Salvo campground by a couple of the over-size biting pests.

Taking a brief respite from their repast, the two mosquitoes got to talking and one said to the other: "Shall we finish him off here, or take him up to Chicamacomico for lunch?"

"Let's eat him here," said the other. "If we take him to Chicamacomico, those big rascals up there will be sure to take him away from us."

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HELPLESS IN NEW BERN

Once my wife and I took a wrong turn in New Bern NC, a town with which we weren't too familiar, and became lost.

It had been a little while since lunch, so suddenly sighting a McDonald's made us feel a lot less lost. We figured we'd get a bite to eat and ask somebody where we were.

But the line was long and the service was slow and the only person we could strike up a conversation with was another stranger to town, a man about our age.

Neither of us were of any help to the other as to where we were or which route we should take if it happened that we were ever waited on. He said he'd already been waiting about 15 minutes and didn't see any progress toward the service counter.

He was worried because he had left his wife in the car, and she was suffering from Alzheimer's.

He kept debating with himself as to whether he should continue waiting for service or go back to his wife and car.

Suddenly he slapped his pocket, and looking out the door, hollered, "Oh, my God! There she goes! I left the keys in the car and she's driving away!"

He ran out the door and down the walkway to the street, with us right behind him. He pointed to the rear of a blue vehicle turning a corner about two blocks away.

"That's her. That's my car and that's my wife with Alzheimer's. She's gone."

After a moment or two of totally befuddled silence and a crushing feeling of absolute helplessness, we decided that probably the only thing for him to do was to call the police, and to stay with the police until they found her.

We always wondered if they ever did.

~~~
Jim Pearce drags a line through the quiet water