As a child, I'd gone fishing with my father. I'd sit in the boat and read while he fished. I have vague memories of putting worms on hooks, so I'm sure that at some point I actually fished, but I have no memory of catching anything. So, my fish tales actually begin after I was married when my husband, a serious outdoorsman, guided a couples retreat to the Boundary Waters in Minnesota in 1978. At that time, both of us were still deluded in thinking I’d become proficient at fishing.
My attempts at shoreline fishing bore dismal results so we canoed far out on a pristine lake deep enough that I’d not be able to hang up on anything non-fish. Our gear was appropriate for small mouth bass and they must’ve gotten the memo because they were biting and I was catching. I developed a nice wrist action. My husband and I smiled at each other with pride at my achievement. I was doing so well that when we moved to a new spot, my husband entrusted me with his most special broken-back blue rapala lure. This was a sign of true love.
We'd been fishing the new spot only a short time, when a huge northern pike swirled to the surface. My husband hollered, “Pull the line. Get it out of there.”
With a second swirl, the pike swallowed the lure whole and made a run for it. The line grew taut. Snap! Tension slackened and the pole tip flipped skyward, the wet empty line dangling in the breeze.
In another sign of true love, my husband not only remained my husband, but forgave me.
*All photos were from the net, the internet, not our net, and meant only to show the size difference between the fish I caught and the one that got away.