The one that got away

My older brother Allen had just gotten his drivers license that March when we decided to go after catfish on South Carolina’s Wateree River, just below the Lake Wateree Dam.

This section of the river is lined with rocks, which alternate from being above water and a solid place to sit and fish, to way below the surface when they open the dam to spill more water. A kid that we didn’t know had drowned there the year before, after not quickly leaving the rocks when the dam’s horn blew.

That was plenty of incentive to heed the warning for us, and with the first warm days giving us the itch to fish, we drove Allen’s red Volkswagen Dasher to the dam, loaded with Zebco 33s on fiberglass rods, fishing tackle, nightcrawlers, and a cooler for hauling our fish home.

One thing we didn’t have was a net, but we didn’t own one, and we always made due.

Vultures and other birds littered the place with their droppings, and many unfortunate fish that didn’t make it to deep water when the dam operators closed the gates were scattered up and down the bank in various stages of death.

Still, my brother and I fell in love with the place. It was our first wild adventure without parental guidance, thanks to him passing his driving test. We couldn’t stop smiling, despite losing lots of tackle to the river as we figured out where all the snags were located.

We didn’t have much to show for our efforts, when I made a cast that changed (or could have changed) that for us.

I had barely cranked my reel’s handle when my rod doubled over and I was in the biggest fight I’d ever taken part in at that young stage of my fishing life. I’d crank some line in, then the fish would pull it, and more, out. When I finally got that catfish close enough to see it, I was stunned. It was every bit a 50 pounder.

Allen recklessly crept out on the farthest rock, trying to figure out how to land the fish. He reached, he slipped, he regained his footing. I reeled, the fish ran, and I reeled some more.

Then the horn blew. Water began to rise immediately. In desperation, Allen grabbed the line, hoping to land the fish as we began scrambling off the rocks. The line popped with such force it sounded like the crack of a rifle. The fish kind of sat there just below the surface, then quickly disappeared.

Every March, I want to go back. In my mind that fish is still there. I think I’ll give my brother a call.