The Ones That Got Away
Posted on November 1, 2014 by bob in OffTheBeatenPath
There are monsters that haunt his dreams, resting in the dim corners of his mind where the light doesn’t quite reach. There they lurk, in wait, taunting him in weak moments. Sometimes he lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling, imagining their hulking, weightless shapes silhouetted against the light filtering down from above. Sleep evades him like the ones that got away.
For years he’s plied the waters after big fish, and he’s caught plenty. But they are not the ones he laments. Those forever frozen
in photograph or fiberglass are not the finned specters that ride the currents through the canyons of his mind. For him, the taste of success is indeed sweet, but the acrid flavor of defeat remains much longer on the tongue.
There have been dozens over his life, the most minute details of each he can recite as if reading from a page. Some are more poignant that others.
He clearly recalls the dampness of his shirt against his aching back, the scorching midday sun beating down, the faint smell of rotten bait, the crashing of the gunwales against the swells and the combination of sunscreen, sea water and sweat that burned his eyes. Once, he thought he had the fish beat, as he got three, four, five turns of the reel’s handle in quick succession. But the behemoth below had merely paused to fully consume the two-pound pinfish bait before heading straight back to the wreck. With the drag locked down fully, the fish nearly pulled him over the rail as it settled back down into that wretched hole of a home from which no man could winch him.
Everyone onboard knew the fish was big, having cleared all other lines to give him every chance at landing the beast. When the line finally gave, the sting of the loss ached much more and for much longer than his sore back. Whenever he caught a whiff of turned bait, the beating he took 40 miles out and 400 feet down was the first thing that came to mind.
With others, the pain had not been physical in the least.
The day had been overcast and the chocolate milk-colored water told him the bass wouldn’t bite but the blue cats probably would. The river was up from heavy January rain, rolling past his boat at three or four miles an hour. A full 12 ounces of lead were needed just to keep the six-inch square of herring on the channel’s edge. It was not long before the fish hit, and once it picked up the bait it never looked back. He had tried to stop it, tried to turn it. For several minutes the constant buzzing of the reel’s clicker was the only sound. Next to the grouper, the whole ordeal had been quick, but it stung in the same way and in exactly the same spot. His partner had joked that it “must’ve been a train,” since it made straight for the trestle 300 yards downriver before completely emptying the spool. From then on trains always reminded him of big blue cats.
He knows those that got away may indeed be long gone, having fallen to even bigger fish or disease or succumbed to an angler more skilled than he. But in the shipwrecks and dark holes of his mind they live on, growing ever larger as they feed on the occasional bits of defeat and self-doubt the currents bring their way. In the farthest corners of his gray matter, these memories glide along silently through the pale, filtered light, until a certain word, sight or smell triggers their rising from the depths. Though he never set eyes upon most of them, imagination, like sedimentation, has filled in the holes.
Those that bested him have been better teachers than those he conquered. As well, there’s only so much river, so much lake, only so much ocean where his victors can hide. This both gives him rest and keeps his eyes focused on the water ahead.
Niko Corley, a licensed charter boat captain, spends as much of his free time as possible on the water or in the woods. He can be contacted at niko.corley@gmail.com.
