Chapter 7
I remember friends and fishin’ in the sunshine
I remember ants and diggin’ up the worms
When a week ahead was more than just a lifetime
And trouble was just another word for fun
“Magnolia Memories”
Not unlike how a baby duck imprints on its mother, a ten-year-old has an almost instinctive connection with a rod and reel. And if there is a biological concept more powerful than imprinting, then that would best describe the Sons of Starmount’s relationship with fishing.
I remember the first time my nylon line transformed from a still and lifeless distraction into a jolting chaos, followed by sparks of green, blue, and silver flashing about the surface of the water like paparazzi bulbs. That’s when I knew that the fish was mine.
“Whoa, holy shit, man! Did you see that? That monster about jerked the whole thing right out of my hands!” I don’t know who I said it to; hell, I could’ve even said it out loud to myself. But I knew that if I could just stay calm, keep the line taut, and maintain a steady reel-in motion, all while not peeing my pants, I could add that big fish to my stringer, thus making the catch official.
Landing a good-sized fish is a rite of passage for ten-year-olds, especially when you do so out on the far reaches of the pond with your buddies, away from the watchful eyes of parents. Knowing that I was sharing my good fortune and success alongside my friends made the whole experience a life-changing one. Besides, the rule of thumb around Starmount was that if no one else saw you do it, it never happened. Being able to boast and wave a fish in your friends’ faces was a prerequisite to calling yourself famous.
Alligator Pond was phenomenally rich in plants and animals of all shapes and sizes. It was well-endowed with cypress stumps, lily pads, great blue heron, ospreys, water moccasins, rat snakes, bullfrogs, and, of course, two big alligators, all moving within the draping shadows of Spanish moss. Most importantly to us, though, the pond seemed to have an endless supply of fish, the most exhilarating of all being the largemouth bass. Their bucket-like mouths seemed anxious to hook themselves on any bait we dangled before them.
One Friday afternoon after school, Tommy Stege and I were standing on the far bank, fishing for largemouth bass. I had already experienced the rush of hooking my first fish, so I considered myself an expert. My Uncle Richard, from the Gulf Coast town of Port Lavaca, Texas, had given me my first pro rod and reel. The reel glowed with a magnificent silver-and-sunset aura. It was a sleek, polished, metal fish-killing machine. The rod was orange and white, heavy on the bottom and light at the top, and a good six-feet long. Armed with this oversized personal weapon, I could easily sling a lure or worm into the deepest regions of the pond and, on dozens of occasions, into the sprawling limbs of the live oak tree on the opposite bank.
On this particular day, not only did I have that mighty staff to provide torque, but I was also using a brand new green-and-white bass trap lure. Bass traps are weighty and hide a large deadly hook beneath their skirts. They can fly through the air like Olympic javelins and hit the water with a sound and a spark best described as the water version of fireworks. Admiring “Ooh”s and “Aah”s were not uncommon after the splash of a bass trap cast. After that, actually catching fish on those lures proved to be just icing on the cake.
Tommy and I had been out there for a while and had yet to score even our first nibble. Serious anglers will tell you that early afternoon is not prime bass fishing time, but to ten-year-olds, any time is a good time.
Like most young fishermen, I made the mistake of thinking that the lure was not landing far enough out in the pond, falling short of the fertile depths necessary to catch a worthy bass. “Man, I need to get the lure to drop farther out there where the big ones are,” I muttered.
Tommy put his hand up toward his forehead, extending the shade from the brim of his ball cap so he could see better.
“See that hole in the middle?” I asked, pointing toward a section of deeper, darker water that I considered to be the exact geometric center of the pond. “That’s what I’m aiming for.”
Tommy, ever the perfect combination of realist and optimist, said matter-of-factly, but with a good-natured tone, “Well, good luck with that, man.”
I always made sure to cast as hard as I could, but this time was different. This time, I intended to reach the “Big One.” The one giant largemouth-orca hybrid we all were sure lived in the deepest part of the pond. I twisted my body way back and to the right, in a contortion that I certainly could not repeat now, at least not without lasting injury. In this state, I could easily see the lure resting on the ground like a shiny boat anchor. With a guttural hip snap and a full-body thrust that was somewhere between a Louisville Slugger swing and an out-of-control golf swing, I untwisted my torso with the speed of a toy top. I could feel the force of the lure flying off the ground and into the air. My ball cap spun off my head and down the bank in front of me. The releasing energy from my cast coursed down the length of the fishing pole, straight into my arms, and through my shoulders. I prepared myself for a geyser-like explosion when the lure hit the water’s surface. It had flown so high and so far, that as I waited for the lure’s flight to end, I had time to consider the possibility that the concussion of the bass trap hitting the water may well bring that monster bass, along with all its smaller cousins floating up to the surface, dead. That daydream continued with the image of Tommy and me instantly building a raft, grabbing our nets, and scooping up the bounty.
Not hearing anything after a few seconds, I scanned my target area in the center of the pond. Tommy began to eyeball the tree limbs on the other side, apparently less confident in the accuracy of my cast. We never saw or heard the bass trap hit anything, especially the water.
With some degree of measured disappointment, I began to reel in the line, hoping to discover the bass trap’s actual arc. As I continued reclaiming the nylon line, I didn’t feel anything close to the resistance I knew a fish on the line should give, and so I was fully prepared to face the fact that I had yet again mis-tied my lure and thrown it into the forever unknown. The last few feet of reeling in, however, suggested a grimmer reality.
The line had shifted directions and was now starting to come in from over my head and just behind me. It would not be the first time I had launched a lure 180-degrees from my intended target, but this was different. The line finally pulled taut, running from the top eyelet of my rod to the bass trap lodged in the top of my head. As eyelet met lure and lure met scalp, realization began to sink in.
“Uh, hey man, you just caught yourself,” Tommy exclaimed in a chilled-out summertime tone.
The bass trap was new and not yet blunted by time and use. The hook was sharp, and the weight centered, so I never felt the impact of the lure hitting my head or sinking into my scalp. Nothing hurt. Still, I knew the lure was embedded in something it should not be, and that knowledge inspired a Pavlovian response of screaming and crying, befitting the drama of the moment.
Because it was not his scalp that now contained a sharp hook, Tommy remained levelheaded enough to cut the line and set me free to more fully freak out. He grabbed the tackle boxes and rods, while I grabbed my new unnatural hair extension. Thus began the great sprint to my house.
The thoughts running through a young boy’s panicked mind are a strange mix of protective fantasy and disproportionate grief. At ten, we never seriously considered the fact that we could be injured or killed in any of our adventures or careless dares. But any time we endured any form of significant injury or pain, there seemed no other possibility than death snatching life from our young bodies.
Back then, my legs were able to perform great feats of speed and efficiency when awash in full adrenalin-fueled hysteria. I don’t remember my feet ever touching the ground as I raced through the field and across my backyard, rolled open the sliding glass door of my house, and lunged toward the perplexed face of my previously disinterested babysitter. Yes, the same babysitter employed to keep me safe, which was, of course, a laughable and unattainable assignment.
I screamed at her, “Help me; I think I’ve gone and killed myself!”
“What are you talking about?” she snickered, apparently not noticing my frantic pointing. She finally came around to the significance of my screams when she in turn yelled at the top of her lungs, “Oh my God, what is that?”
“It’s a lure,” I said.
“What’s it doing in your head?”
The conversation was getting ridiculous, and even at ten years old, I knew we couldn’t sit around all day and debate the appropriate places to sink a bass trap lure.
Thirty minutes later, the automatic glass doors of the emergency room slid open and sucked me in. By that point, I felt less alarmed over having suffered an injury than I was over the prospect of enduring its treatment. Hospitals and ten-year-olds are like oil and water; or perhaps more like chores and ten-year-olds, or vegetables and ten-year-olds. Hospitals had shots, and shots were the ultimate insults. Even with a metal hook embedded in the top of my head, getting a shot was my biggest fear.
Having worked with children both in and out of healthcare jobs for many years, I am well aware of the adult propensity to make jokes when confronted by a child’s panic. Adults do this to lighten the mood and ease the injured child’s fear, and maybe even a little of their own fear. But, I can tell you that an adult’s feeble attempts to make light of a serious situation is incredibly annoying when it’s aimed at you in your hour of need.
The nurse who brought me back to a brightly lit room got the giggles when she first caught sight of the green-and-white skirt protruding from my scalp. “You’re our little Indian! Just look at that feather in your hair.”
I was too young to weigh in on the intricacies of injustice served upon Native Americans, but my Oklahoma roots and indigenous sensibilities were well intact. Steeped in my family’s sensitivity to Native American rights, especially since my dad was a Bureau of Indian Affairs social worker back in Oklahoma, I rolled my eyes at that nurse and thought to myself, Lady, you’re an idiot.
As if mocking a young boy and Native American culture in a single go were not offensive enough, some white-coat-wearing dictator said something about giving me a shot in the head to numb my scalp. I thought, I already have a hook in my head. Do we really need to add another sharp metallic object to the mix? There’s something about pain and sarcasm that seem to go hand in hand, even at ten years old.
Before I knew it or had a chance to protest the whole affair, that man was indeed giving me a shot in my head, followed by the pressure of him pushing the hook through my scalp, past the barb, and into the open air, creating a second hole. Next, he cut the barb free and pulled the smooth hook back through the hole it had originally made, quickly freeing me from the bass trap.
“Okay Mark, now just a few small stitches.”
Apparently, that mad man in the white coat could not resist making a few more punctures in my head with a sharp metal object. I didn’t know the meaning of “incredulous” or “sarcastic” at the time, but I do believe I innately knew how to put them into practice: “Oh great,” I said between tearful quivers, “you’re going to stick another needle in my head. Gee, thanks, Doc.”
Getting injured is rough on the psyche, especially when it occurs in front of your friends, but healed wounds, and scars in particular, make it all worthwhile. Some of the other Sons of Starmount had opportunities to experience the sharp side of a lure, though without the embarrassing hospital trip. I was the only one to suffer through, much less survive, the attack of a razor-sharp lure-blow to the head, and I exploited that celebrity as powerfully as I had wielded the rod and lure in the first place. If you gotta go through it, you may as well milk it for all it’s worth. That seemed a sound philosophy.
Though later in life I would sport a more naturally impressive mullet, for several months in 1977, I was the kid known for surviving the dreaded bass-trap ponytail. No one could ever take that bit of fame away from me, and truthfully, I don’t think anyone was ever interested in trying.