Fish tales have been around for a long, long time. Give any man a fishing pole, line, sinker, and hook, and he automatically becomes a story teller, with a tall tale or two to tell.
I am no exception...but my story is not a tall tale; every bit of it is true. I swear.
One warm spring afternoon, Paul Reid offered to take Tommy and Jimmy - his sons - and me to a movie in Bellefontaine, Ohio. That alone sounded like a very good deal to all three of us, but he sweetened the deal with an opportunity to first go fishing at the family's pond, better known as Devil's Well, several miles distant from North Lewisburg. Accordingly, we all gathered up some fishing gear, quickly dug around and found some earthworms, hopped into the Reid family car, and headed out to Devil's Well.
The pond was not far off the roadway, back in a thicket of trees and shrubs. It was a mystical place, full of shadows, tree stumps, fallen limbs, and the alluring wonder of the pond. There was an old row boat there, the wood painted green, and the insides of the vessel lined with mildew and algae. There were two old oars which needed to be lifted from the bottom of the boat and attached to the swivels on the side. Paul did most of the rowing, moving the boat and us out farther and farther into the pond. I could not help thinking about the condition of the boat. A non-swimmer, I was not happy about the thought that the old rowboat could easily spring a leak and drop us all into the cold, dark water. I probably would have better enjoyed standing on the bank, running the hook through my bait, and casting just offshore. But I was a victim of my own enthusiasm, and suddenly realized that I was far from the nearest bank with one adult and two other boys in a leaky, old, rowboat. My time fishing was spent in depression.
Paul rowed us around to different portions of the pond. We each repeatedly baited our hooks, and cast the lines out into the water surrounding us. No one was having any luck at all. There were some nibbles at the bait, but by the time the lines were retrieved it was apparent that the fish had gotten the best of us...the bait was gone and there were no fish on the lines.
There is nothing more miserable for a fisherman to have to tolerate than having experienced the enthusiasm of going fishing, arriving in a great fishing location, and then not catching one small, solitary fish. As the first darkening shadows began to descend on us, our enthusiasm gave up and quit. We were happy to hear Paul voice the opinion that the fishing was done, and that we had better get back to the car and work our way toward the movie in Bellefontaine.
We quickly reeled in our lines, attached the taut line and hook to the reel, and got as comfortable as we could in that leaky old boat for the return to solid ground. Paul was rowing with vigor, putting all of his strength into each pull on the oars, as he headed the craft toward the far bank. In the darkness, none of us could see clearly. And none of us were expecting the tremendous rush of water which poured over us, accompanied by the awful sound of splintering wood! My first thought was that we had sprung a leak, and water was quickly overtaking us. The terrible noise coming from the bottom of the boat added to my overall assessment of the problem. We were sinking!
All three of us boys panicked at about the same time, our young voiceboxes emitting some sounds akin to a cat's screech in harmony with a girl's falsetto. Paul, the most observant of our crew, started to laugh even as he was brushing the water from his face and arms. "Calm down, boys!" he shouted. "We're not sinking. Look in the bottom of the boat!"
Steeling ourselves for what we expected to see, three pairs of eyes looked into the bottom of the rowboat. There, flopping around in just a small puddle of water, was the largest large-mouth bass any of us had ever seen. The fish was trying hard to get out of the boat and back into the safety of the water, while splashing what little water there was in the boat on each of us. We were not sinking; we had caught a tremendous fish!
What had happened? Paul deduced that we had struck a shrub in the water, splintering some of the branches in the process, while at the same time scaring the fish which happened to be hiding near the shrub. The bass had exploded out of the water, splashing water all over us and into the boat, where a small amount puddled.
Paul continued laughing, and we eventually all joined in as he rowed the boat quickly to the bank. We pulled the boat out of the water. Paul retrieved the enormous fish and held it up for all of us to see. He carried it back to the car, placed it in a wrapper in the trunk, while we boys piled into the car for the journey to Bellefontaine. Paul intended to have that fish for supper the next evening.
As we drove along, Paul began laughing out loud once again. "No one will ever believe me when I tell this story," he said, "not even with you three guys as witnesses! We didn't catch anything while fishing, but then caught a big one with the boat!"
Well, I want to assure you, the reader, that I was one of those three guys, and a witness to this fish tale.
And that fish...why, it's gotten bigger with each retelling over the past 50-plus years!
