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Action At The Bridge
by OldMaster85
Phil Somers was a nice friendly
fellow... the kind of guy who would make a good buddy on a fishing
trip. Unfortunately, he disliked fishing and said so many times to
the discomfiture of the the rest of us who were avid fisherman.
Phil was well liked and we could not
figure how a nice guy like him could not take to fishing. At one of
our outings the subject of Phil's dislike of fishing came up and it was
decided, after considerable discussion, that one us of should try to
convert Phil. I won the draw. We then made a friendly wager
concerning whether I could convert Phil before the summer was over.
I invited Phil over to my house and made
it my business to take him on a tour of the tackle room. I explained
the various rods and reels. He expressed some interest in the fly rod
which "reminded him of the buggy whip" that he used on his horse
and carriage as a youngster.
Seizing this spark of interest, I
concentrated on the fly rod, took him out into the yard and let him cast
my six weight fly rod a few times. He took to it immediately.
"Nothing to it", he commented. Before long he was casting
a blue streak. He soon let me me know that there was nothing to fly
fishing and asked if he could go on the next fishing trip (which was
scheduled for the following week to a little river in the Catskills).
Somers was the kind of man who liked to
excel in whatever he did so it was not surprising that he visited the
Orvis shop and bought a complete outfit... the waders, the vest, and a lot
of other stuff (that the salesman wanted to get rid of).
The members of our fishing group knew
that Phil liked to be the best in anything he tried so we looked forward
to the trip. We knew that he had been practicing secretly in his
back yard... hour upon hour... he was going to "show us that there
was nothing to this fishing thing".
We left early in the morning on the
scheduled day, ready and willing to do battle with the fish. At the
fishing site Phil saw the old wooden bridge over the river and announced
his intention to fish from that location. He strode up on the
bridge, rod strung and baited with a juicy worm, and dropped his line into
the water. He had no way of knowing that I was under the bridge so I
could fish the deep bridge pool where I had seen a nice trout rise.
I watched Phil's line descend and a
devilish thought crept into my head. I knew he couldn't see me so I
gently took hold of his line, removed the worm and gave it a gentle tug.
There was an immediate reaction. Phil let out a yell "I got a
bite!" and he quickly wound in the line.
Two of the guys joined him and when he
rebaited his line and dropped it over the guys proceeded to give him words
of advice. They knew I was under the bridge and they suspected what
I was doing. I jerked his line a second time they heard Phil's loud
yell again. They gave him more words of advice... "You struck
too soon"... "Let him take it"... "Put a smaller piece
of worm on". This coming from flyfishermen who would sooner be
found dead than found using a worm.
Phil took in the line a second time and
loudly exclaimed, "Boy, that was a big one!". In the next
hour Phil had a dozen more "bites". Each time my tugs got
stronger and stronger. One time I actually had a tug of war with him
and wound up cutting his line. When he took in the line and saw the
hook gone he became wild. He screamed "Did you see
that? What a fish! I'll get him if it takes all day."
After a series of strong
"bites" I managed to stick a six inch brookie on his hook and
when he pulled it in you could have heard him yell for miles around.
"Now I'm gonna get the big one." He meant it but he ran
out of worms so after a while he pulled in his line and walked away
mumbling words like "What a fish. I'll get him tomorrow".
When we went into town later that day he
bought a dozen nightcrawlers and a dozen hooks (strong ones). It
seems that the "fish" had bitten off a lot of hooks and he was
going to be be prepared for the "big one that the lived under the
bridge".
It was about a month later that I had
the courage to tell him that, in fact, I was the "fish" under
the bridge. He listened, shook his head in disbelief and then said
"But the one that kept biting my hooks off was really a big
fish!". I didn't have the heart to tell him that my pocketknife
had a sharp blade.
P.S. - Phil has taken up golf and
thinks fishing is "too easy". He, oddly, hasn't spoken to
me lately.
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