Summer Olympics Here We Come
We had one fish on the stringer, but it was slow fishing up til noon. Sanderlings put on a light show, forming up in the shape of a glittering sequined banner. White pelicans flew lumberingly in formation overhead, like those slow WWII planes. A very pretty day except for the muddy water. That’s when we discovered a new Olympic sport – synchronized fishing.
We were getting short bites, casting to shore just above the cut, but no takers. As we made the turnaround I cast behind us and scored the day’s first fish.
We trolled the main channel. Nothing.
We headed into the pond and straight ahead. Nothing. We tried the west channel, and I scored a 21-incher. David was just behind me with a 16-1/2 incher. I missed a bite heading west. Definitely the action was warming up.
We were just making the mandatory low-tide turn-around by the dead tree. “I’m bit,” I cried. Actually it was less a bite than an explosion.
David thought he was bit, but it turned out his line was wrapped around mine, and mine felt like a torpedo had launched.
He miraculously unwrapped his rod in the right direction. “I’m bit,” he yelled.
My fish jumped. His fish jumped.
The water was opaque brown. You could not see a fish of any size beneath the surface.
Mine tried to go beneath the boat but the boat merely swung around to accommodate it. The water was barely inches deep.
The fish jumped again and took off toward the east flats. I folded my seat down and stepped into David’s “cockpit” because I couldn’t stop the run and had to do-si-do past him. His fish jumped and headed for the tree. “It’s huge,” I said about David’s fish.
Mine rolled on the surface. “It’s huge,” he said about mine.
“How will we net them?” I asked. We’ll cross that bridge when we do,” he answered.
I stepped back up to the bow and freed his line from its wrap on the boat hook. As I did, my fish jumped toward where his line entered the water. His fish jumped toward mine.
“Hand me the net,” David said. I held my rod in my left hand and reached behind me with my right just as my fish made another run toward the horizon. David leaned out for his somewhat subdued fish.
“Don’t take chances,” I warned. He swung his rod sideways and scooped his fish into the net. I held my breath until it lay on the deck.
Then I managed to work my fish to the boat, and David netted it. “We’re done!” he said. It was 12:20.
I measured his first. Twenty-five inches! Then I reached for mine. Twenty-six and one half!
We headed in very happy to have performed so well as a team. As we train to achieve excellence in this gold-medal sport, I’ll be looking for you on the banks.Back To Reports