One for the Record Books

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the grandkids were swimming/dunking/laughing/, and my son and I were fishing. My daughter-in-law came down followed by my sister-in-law. They waited for us to catch the big one. We sat in the sun, enjoying the 80 degree day. Good thing I wore my shorts. An hour went by--not a bite--nothing. My daughter-in-law went home to get out of the sun. A bug had landed on Dylan and my daughter-in-law does not do bugs. Not a good thing in the foothills.

Another hour went by--not a bite--my sister-in-law headed home. She had a cold and thought she'd waited long enough. Besides, it was hot, the bass were spawning, and the fish were not biting.

By this time, even I grew tired. The kids were bugging me, the bass just kept on doing their thing, and there wasn't a sign of a perch or cat anywhere. Denny took off for the other side of the park while I dragged my chair over to the beach so the kids could play in the water without me screaming at them.

In the distance, the geese sounded, their cry letting me know that at last, spring had arrived. A boat went by, a tube attached to the back, kids giggling, waiting for a ride.

"We coulda had the boat in the water, Grandma," Josh announces.

He's soaked from head to foot, a grin plastered on his face. I had just listened to him regale me with a two hour diatribe on the pitfalls of elementary school when you are a genius. Yes, Josh is a certifiable genius, named so by his IQ and the awards plastered throughout the house. I knew he would have some kind of alternative theory as to why the boat wasn't in the water so I cut him short.

"Well, your dad broke the steering wheel and we're waiting for the new one to arrive."

"Ah, oh."

Just as he's about to draw me into a discussion on the weight tolerances of a speed boat steering wheel, Dylan runs up from behind and squirts him with a super duper, giant blaster, red and yellow, water machine gun.

They are off and running. I glance at my son. He is half in and half out of the water. "What are you doing?" I mouth.

"I need help!"

It took me a second to understand. "You gotta fish?"

He nods.

I yell at the kids, grab my purse and my chair, and head over to his spot. By this time he's in the water. "What kind of fish drags you into the water?" I demand.

"Look at this!"

I don't remember much of anything except it all went flying. There it was, the megalathon of Lake Wildwood, the prehistoric catfish that we joke eats small children. Behind it is a bass, circling, predatory.

"It's a female and she has a load of eggs!" I yell, while straddling a rock. "Easy on her. That's right, give me the rod. The bass is waiting for her to drop her babies." My stomach is tied in knots. We stay away from the spawning grounds, no one wants a pregnant fish. It's the males we're after. That damn bass knew that cat was caught, knew she might spill her eggs, and was hungry.

Ever so gently, my son reaches for the exhausted fish and cradles her in his arms. The hook is easy to remove, and in the perfect spot. By this time, a large group of people surround us. The little ones want to touch her, the other fisherman, their eyes alight with envy, just stare.

"Gotta let her go," Denny says.

All the children nod wisely. Even they can see a leviathan like her must be released. The grandkids gaze at their father with adoration in their eyes. Two steps later and she's back in the water, heading for the deep. I pull my pole out of the water.

"Mom! What are you doing?"

"Do you think we'll catch anything better?"

"Ah, no."

"Then let's leave the fish in peace."