Don't take the pole

A story about taking someone else's blessing

I've never hunted anything bigger than a blue-belly lizard; even those would generally outwit and outrun me without much effort. However, I love to fish, a hobby I picked up from my parents.

Mom and Dad were old school in their fishing technique. After soaking a Folger's can full of gooey, smelly chicken livers in vanilla extract overnight, they would wake us kids before first light and haul us to a lake or fast-running canal in the middle of nowhere, with no playgrounds, running water, or restrooms. By the time we arrived, generally, two things were true: I was ready to burst from the cramped confines of the back seat and catch all the fish in the water, and my parents were ready for a nap.

One memorable day, we visited an eastern Colorado sporting lake. It was a dry desert area with miles of emerald water surrounded by sand and dirt. The location didn't look very promising to me, an observation that fell on the deaf ears of my parents as they readied their poles. Their fishing style was simple. Fasten a heavy sinker and a huge hook on the line, wrap a massive hunk of chicken liver around it so tight that a crocodile couldn't wrestle it loose, cast it as far as possible where it would hit the water like a cannonball, then sit back in the webbed lawn chair and go to sleep. They figured that, eventually, some enormous catfish would lumber by the wad of meat and suck it into a gaping mouth. This was serious business to my parents. The need for concentration was great, so they left me in charge of my little sister while they walked down the shoreline to do business.

I think Mom took the baby and a port-a-crib with her in an attempt at fairness, as I bristled that my little, oblivious sister would surely cramp my style. I needed my space—I was thirteen, after all, God's gift to the fishing world. Every fish in the lake was lining up, waiting for my line to hit the water. I didn't have time to fuss with a prissy little girl; I had work to do, and I needed to get a line in and start my assault on the lake record.

But I couldn't take my frustration out on Kim; she was too cute. At seven years old, she was probably the cutest little girl in history. She had a fair complexion, soft light skin slathered with sunscreen, and long, wavy strawberry blond hair surrounding her round, freckled face. She looked like a Hollywood starlet, like Shirley Temple, on the beach in her star-shaped, yellow plastic K-Mart sunglasses and blue and yellow sunflower swimsuit with matching flip-flops. Dad had bought her a small, cartoon-character fishing pole that, while cute, was insulting to serious anglers like me. She stood patiently while I rigged her pole with a small hook, a hunk of orange cheese, and a red and white bobber that would float on the surface, giving her something to look at. I figured that she would fish for about five minutes before growing bored and giving up to play with dolls or whatever it is girls do.

I posted her 50 feet away from the place I had identified as the prime spot, the one that I wanted, and spent a few minutes teaching her how to cast the line and reel it in. It took a few tries, but she finally got the coordination to cast the line without throwing the pole and release the little button on the reel at just the right point in the cast so the sinker would carry the baited line out into the water. Little kids usually cast and reel nonstop until they lose their bait, which would require more effort from me, so I told Kim that if she left the line in the water for a little while, she might catch a fish. Once she was settled, I returned to my quest.

I rigged my pole, not with a hook and sinker, but with a shiny silver lure. I laughed to myself and looked around, wondering if anyone noticed my cleverness. Kim was doing just as I suspected, casting, reeling, casting again. I figured she'd run out of steam in a few minutes as I started working my magic. I would cast the line in the perfect spot and the lure would slip into the water, glistening, tempting. I would reel it back with varying speed, giving little tugs and jerks, drawing attention. The fish would be gathering thickly, hoping to be the first to strike.

Suddenly, Kim called over to me. She had snagged her line. I only extended the hook two or three feet under the bobber. I couldn't believe the water would be that shallow. I looked over, and sure enough, she was pulling and frowning, bending the little plastic pole and applying way too much tension to the 6-pound test line. I looked out where she'd cast, and the bobber was nowhere in sight. I grudgingly set my rig down and started walking over there. I would never catch anything if I had to babysit all day. She would break the line and force me to spend precious time re-outfitting it. I called over for her to relax and stop pulling. She cried out that she wasn't pulling. Her face was red, and her legs were straining as if braced against the weight of a tug-of-war. I stopped walking and looked again out into the water where her bobber should have been. Suddenly, the surface broke, and the side of a fish flashed metallic in the sunlight before it darted down out of sight. She had a fish on!

I broke into a run, "Kim, you've got one, you've got one, reel it in, reel it in!" I couldn't really tell from the brief flash, but it looked like a monster— a giant! Prehistoric. I jumped in behind Kim and started yelling nonstop instructions, "Keep the tip high, reel slowly, don't fight him, relax, reel it!" I was sure she would lose the fish, snap the line, and blow the catch. She fought valiantly; she grunted and pulled, and she reeled and dug in the heels of her yellow and blue flip-flops.

But I couldn't let her mess this up. I took the pole. "Here, give it to me! Let me help!" I felt much better in control. I managed the battle like a general, working the fish, allowing it to tire, giving it false hope; then I would apply pressure, keeping his head up, working him toward the shore. Kim stood clapping and jumping. She was just happy to be there. I landed the fish like a professional angler. Well, not really; I dragged him to shore, flopping and exhausted.

It was huge.

Kim and I stared at it as if it were the Loch Ness Monster. It pushed three feet in length with silvery scales and large gills that gasped in the dry air. I was triumphant. It was the biggest fish I'd ever caught; it was the biggest fish I'd ever seen caught outside of television. I was a conquering hero. I carefully held it up with both hands and whistled down the shoreline to my parents. They squinted and gawked as I proudly displayed my trophy.

I remember that experience as if it had happened yesterday. I doubt that my sister remembers it at all—not because she was too young, but because I took the pole and landed the fish. It was my victory, not hers. The memory and the experience are rightfully hers, but I took them from her in the interest of superior ability and knowledge. She might have blown it while I was almost sure to do it right, so I stepped in and saved the day.

But the victory I won that day was hollow because it wasn't mine to win. It was hers. If I had cheered my little sister to victory that day, it would be a memory that she would cherish and a story to pass along to her children.

I stole her memory, her story, and her blessing when I took the pole.

But think about it, so what if they mess up what you could have easily done? Life’s not about landing every fish, or doing everything perfectly right off the bat; it's about the experience, not the observation of experience—that's why television is so bad. But that's another rant.

Just don't take the pole, Okay?