JC's Deck

Just about every day for the past year and a half now, I've been walking almost a mile to my brother JC's house. It's good exercise for me and if I get rained out, or for some other reason can't make it, I feel like something important is missing from my daily routine.

When I arrive, usually around 1:30 in the afternoon, JC is either sitting at the patio table on his deck reading a book or inside playing with one of his computers. We almost always end up out on the deck sitting under the awning out of the sun and sometimes, out of the rain. Even though my voice is getting weaker, and JC's hearing isn't too good, we still manage to have some good conversations.

We sit and sip cheap wine, (his white, mine red,) and talk about computers, or movies, or fishing, or old times, but since we're on opposite sides of the political spectrum, seldom politics. Arguing about politics is too much work, anyway. Talking about religion is fine, since we both believe that organized religion is responsible for most of the problems in the world today, and that the so called “holy” books, rites, ceremonies and sacraments were invented and created by man, not by any of the many mythical gods.

When we run out of subjects to talk about, we become nature observers, watching Hummingbirds, Bluejays, Crows and spiders. We spent one afternoon watching a female orb weaver spider literally kicking a horny male repeatedly out of her web. Finally after a dozen attempts she let him quickly mate with her and then promptly kicked him out again. We captured mealy bugs and dropped them onto her web to watch her dart over and wrap them up for later. One day we watched a bunch of tiny, newly hatched baby spiders sending out almost invisible strands into the breeze and then launching themselves from their nursery out into the world. Another time JC was showing me the last Blueberry on his potted plant. “I think I'll pick it before the birds get it,” he said. As we were looking at it, a Bluejay swooped down, grabbed the berry and flew off.

JC built planters on the outside edge of his deck, and shelves to hold potted flowers and plants. In the summer the deck is surrounded by Columbines, Hostas, Petunias, Blueberry plants and pretty flowers that neither of us can name.

The weight of all the planters and pots came dangerously close to collapsing the deck and sending it, and most likely us, on a merry trip down the hill and into the trees. We had noticed the gap between the deck and the trailer getting wider and when JC checked underneath he discovered that in many places the supports were large tree branches and rotted lumber, all leaning downhill. Needless to say he replaced everything underneath with pressure treated wood, and fastened the deck itself to the side of the trailer with turnbuckles. He also replaced most of the decking with new boards and of course, after a few failed attempts, installed the awning.

Recently, for lack of anything else to do, we've been keeping track of how many times we have to go inside and pee. It's become a competition and we even talked about putting up one of those pool hall gizmos with sliding disks on a wire to keep score. A lot of times he says he has to go check on one of the movies that he's constantly copying on his computer, so now to keep him honest when I have to go, I say, “ I have to go check my movie!”

We're starting to recognize the sounds of the cars that come up the steep road to his neighborhood. “Here comes Andy!” I'll say. Going to see his girlfriend!”

“Yep,” JC will say.

“That sounds like Howard's pickup!” JC will say, “Looks like he's been out crabbing!”

“Yep.” I'll say.

“There goes Mary! There goes Andy!”

“Yep. Yep.”

As you can see, we're easily entertained.

Lightning Strike Lures

In the fall of 1981 I caught my first Steelhead on the Yachats River. Little did I know that it was the beginning of a twenty year fun filled business.

My wife Carol, our son Rick, our Cocker Spaniel Rusty and I had moved to the Oregon coast the year before, and despite taking a Steelhead fishing class taught by Dr. Howard Horton at the Marine Science Center and on the Siletz River, we still hadn't caught one. It wasn't from a lack of trying, we spent many hours casting and retrieving various lures and drifting globs of smelly salmon eggs through the deep holes on the Yachats, Ten Mile and Alsea Rivers.

I had left Carol to fish at what we called “The Big Hole” about three miles up from the Yachats rivers mouth, and walked downstream with Rusty. I had bought a green and gold spinner at True Value and I was anxious to try something a little different from the Mepps and Rooster Tails I usually used.

At a bend in the river overhung by Alder trees, Rusty and I slid down a muddy bank and I made my first cast. The spinner sparkled and flashed in the fast moving current and then disappeared. I suddenly realized that I had a fish on!

Boy, did I have a fish on! After a splashing jump right in front of us, the silvery bright Steelhead headed downstream making my reel scream and Rusty bark. There was no way to follow it because of the overhanging trees and brush, so all I could do was hang on and pray. When it reached the next bend in the river it stopped and started jumping and thrashing. Rusty was still barking, up to his chest in the water trying to decide if he could swim down stream and help. He was a great swimmer and if I hadn't called him back he probably would have tried.

I started pumping and reeling, and after about fifteen minutes I had the fish back in front of us. Our net was back at the big hole with Carol so my plan was to slide the fish through a shallow backwash and up onto the bank. Things were looking good until Rusty couldn't contain himself and tried to jump on what we both thought was a tired fish. Rejuvenated, the Steelie raced back down stream toward the Ocean, stopping again at the same place and jumping to show his defiance. For the second time I had to call Rusty back out of the water.

Three times I had to crank that fish back up stream and when I finally slid it into the shallow backwash, it started flopping and splashing, turning the once clear water into a muddy soup. I threw my rod down and Rusty and I jumped on the writhing fish. It was an epic struggle, I lost my grip on the slippery, mud coated Steelhead several times but with Rusty's help I finally slid the muddy fish up onto the bank and conked it, on what I hoped was its head, with a rock. I washed the Steelie off in clear water and hung him from a broken limb in an Alder while I tried to make Rusty and I presentable, or at least recognizable.

Carol, hearing the barking and yelling, had started down stream to see what all the commotion was about. She stopped in her tracks when she saw her wet, slimy, bedraggled husband and a muddy, dripping dog walking toward her. “What happened to you two?” she yelled.

When I saw her, I raised the fish with a flourish and a Ta Da! She was almost as excited as Rusty and I, and later we drove into Yachats to show the eight pound Steelhead to everyone we knew and some we didn't.


I went back to True Value hardware and bought some more of the green and gold spinners. They had a heavy brass body that made them sink quickly and get down to where the fish were, but they weren't cheap, and they were always hanging up on snags and rocks. Usually we would break our line trying to get them free, so even though we were starting to catch fish, replacing lures was turning into a big expense.

One evening while I was going through our gear, I looked at one of the green spinners. “I bet we could make something like this ourselves, and it sure would be a lot cheaper!”

The next day we visited a tackle shop in the little coastal town of Seal Rock and were surprised to find that they carried almost all of the components we would need. With a little innovation and model paint we could build our own green and gold spinners.

The fishing tin the 1980's was good, and we were catching Coho and Chinook Salmon, along with Steelhead and even some Calico, or Dog Salmon from the Necanicum River near Seaside. Our lure making was evolving, we discovered prism tape and ¼ inch lead wire for the spinner bodies, and we started putting a stripe of prism tape on the blades to make them even flashier.

We kept experimenting and improving our spinners, trying out different colors and sizes and giving them to friends to try, asking for feed back. Just for fun, I cut a lightning bolt out of a scrap of prism tape and stuck it on the blade. I showed it to Carol and said, “Hey, we could call them Lightning Strike Spinners, and use a lightning bolt for a logo.” I don't know how many lightning bolts I cut out with an Exacto knife, but I know it was a lot, because we started selling spinners, first in a little sporting goods store in Yachats, then when Jack Green, a friend of ours who lived in Seaside, got them in 12th avenue grocery next to a fishing bridge over the Necanicum River, we were hard pressed to keep up with the orders.

Finally, we found out that the wholesale tape company where we got our prism tape would make a die to stamp out the lightning bolts for us. That really sped things up, and by then we were selling enough that with a little bit of fibbing about how big we were, we could get the wholesale wire, lead, hook, and blade manufacturers to sell to us. We could buy our components by the thousand instead of in small, more expensive quantities.

We tried every color and pattern of prism tape we could find, and of course we tested them on the local streams and found out which combination of color and size caught fish. When we encountered other fishermen we'd hand out free lures, and we traveled up and down the coast selling them to hardware, sporting goods and convenience stores. We always took our fishing gear along with us.

By the early 1990's we were selling several thousand spinners every fall. Almost all of our sales took place in September, October and November. We had narrowed our selection down to the most popular colors and sizes by then and we would start making them in the summer trying to anticipate which of the five colors and three sizes would sell the best that fall. One year, early in September, the first Salmon caught in Alsea Bay was caught on one of our florescent orange #5 spinners. The local stores sold out immediately and we were getting phone calls in the middle of the night asking if we had any. We gladly sold to people who visited our shop and we made a lot of friends that way. A young man by the name of Martin Link stopped by to buy some lures and later he sent us a picture from Venezuela of him holding a Snook he caught on one of our spinners. One fisherman asked if I would put our lightning bolts on his Mepps spinners, as he was convinced that there was something magical about the lightning bolt that Salmon couldn't resist.

The sporting goods stores, truck stops and convenience stores in Seaside were always our best customers. Our lures were the local favorites, and you could always find them hanging from the power lines that crossed the river over the fishing bridges. One time we drove our pickup and camper up the coast to Seaside and camped next to the river. The next morning while we were eating breakfast we looked out the window to see a fisherman fighting a fish. We helped him land a nice Chinook and we were pleasantly surprised to see that he was using one of our lures. I took his picture holding up his fish and later we had it framed and took it back up to him. There's a story told to me by Jennie Logsdon-Martin of I fish.net, about her using a Lightning Strike spinner in Seaside. While she was walking to the river to fish, she found a piece of pink ribbon on the ground. She picked it up and on a whim, tied it to the hook on her lure. Needless to say she caught a big Chinook and the next day almost everyone was using a piece of pink ribbon tied on a Lightning Strike spinner.

Link's sporting goods store in Seaside surprised us one August with an order for a thousand of our lures. He was smart to order a month or so ahead of time, because it took us two weeks to crank them out. We learned a lot about building lures and packaging, filling that order. Carol did all of the packaging and she was constantly improving their appearance and convenience. We started with a yellow card stock with our logo printed on it and four holes; one to hang it up with and the other three to tie the top of the lure and the treble hook down with. Unfortunately this left one hook sticking straight out, and when a kid at the Newport Fred Meyers caught his sweater on one of them and yanked the whole display over, we had to start gluing a plastic cover over the lure. Eventually we found a plastic clam shell that fit our spinners like a glove, and later we printed our own display cards on the computer printer.

When the computer age came along we drug our feet for a while, but finally my brother talked us into buying one. It wasn't long before we were doing inventory, spreadsheets, fliers, price lists and a host of other things including starting up a web site. It was quite a learning process but we did it all ourselves, using Go Daddy as a host, we registered “lightningstrikelures.com.” We had a gallery of big fish pictures and I even created an animated Lightning Strike spinner. We didn't use PayPal or accept credit cards, we just had a list of the sizes and colors, a printable order sheet, and basically said, “You send us a filled out order sheet with a check and we'll send you the lures.” We never got a rubber check and we never failed to fill an order, some of which came from all over the world.

Over the twenty years or so that we sold those lures, averaging from 2,000 to 5,000 every fall, Carol assembled every package and I hand made every lure. Eventually my fingers began losing their dexterity and we decided to sell Lightning Strike. Carol phoned Jim Brien, who owns a salmon egg bait company in Seaside to ask if he'd be interested, and he was. A few days later after a handshake, Lightning Strike Lures was his.

Austin

Our 13 year old grandson Austin, who we hadn't seen for almost 6 years, spent some time with us last month. His mom, dad, little sister and he recently moved back to Oregon from the Huston area, and he's full of Texas tales.

They hated the hot weather and high humidity, the insects of every description, and they survived hurricane Ike, which went almost directly over them, knocking down trees onto their house and leaving them without power for days in a sea of mud.

Austin likes to talk, and he told us all about it, with typical Texas exaggerations. (Thankfully, and to his credit, he didn't acquire a Texas accent.) “The mosquitoes down there were twice as big as they are here, and there were giant hornets, huuuge snakes, fire ants, wasps, ticks, chiggers and tarantulas.”

We set up an old Dell computer for him in the den and he and I loaded it up with games for him to play when he got bored with us. Like most teens he whizzed though them in no time, so I had to scrounge up some more. Once I came in to watch him playing a flight simulator game that had proved way too hard for me, and he was operating a joy stick, typing on the keyboard and working the mouse, all at the same time, flying like an ace.

We went to the lake where I showed him how to paddle a kayak, and he quickly caught on. He even challenged me to a race back to the dock. (I still maintain that I let him win.) Every day he went with grandma for her daily walk, and then later with me up the highway to Uncle John's house, talking 90 miles an hour all the way.

On one of our treks he said, “Wait a minute grandpa!” and he climbed down the bank beside the highway. When he climbed back up, he proudly showed me his find, a wheel cover that had fallen off of someone's car. “What in the heck are you going to do with that?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said with a smile, ' I'm thinking about building my own car, and this will be the first part!”

I''m not sure if he was kidding me or if he was serious, but it wouldn't surprise me, in a few years, to see him drive up in a car with a very familiar wheel cover on it.

Our Backyard

Since she retired from driving the ambulance for the Waldport fire department, Carol has been busy potting, planting, pruning and painting.
The back yard, and especially the patio, is now a riot of colors. She painted the old weathered boards on the deck the same color as the house, and then hand painted designs here and there. I contributed by building a shelf under the kitchen window for some pots and planters, and the patio is surrounded by blooming flowers.
The Hummingbirds have found a banquet, and get less and less timid as the summer wears on. Deer come into the yard almost every morning to eat the fallen apples.
The back yard has become our sanctuary.

The Hump

If you're not a fan of the movie Young Frankenstein, please don't read any further.


Not long ago when my brother, JC was having cataract surgery done at our local hospital, one of the nurses remarked,”I know a rather brilliant surgeon. Perhaps he can help you with that hump.”
“What hump?” JC asked.
The male nurse introduced himself:
“I'm Bill Blucher, (somewhere in the distance a horse whinnied) and I think Doctor Stein could help you.”
“Who's doctor Stein?”
“Doctor Frank Stein is the foremost hump remover on the Oregon coast.”
“I'll think about it,” JC answered, shaking his head, “What hump?” he mumbled as he left the hospital.

Several weeks later while we were sipping wine on his deck, JC surprised me by saying, “I think I'll get this hump removed!”
“What hump?” I said, trying to be polite.
“You know, the one on the left side of my back.
“I thought it was on the right side,” I said.

I first met Doctor Stein in the pre-op room at the hospital, just before JC's operation. He was a frail man, but the fire in his eyes showed a glimmer of his genius. He introduced himself and then began a speech that I felt he had given many times.

“From that fateful day when stinking bits of slime first crawled from the sea and shouted to the cold stars, "I am man,"our greatest dread has always been the knowledge of our mortality. But today, we shall hurl the gauntlet of science into the frightful face of death itself. Today, we shall ascend into the heavens. We shall mock the earthquake. We shall command the thunders, and penetrate into the very womb of impervious nature herself!”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he said, seeing the confused look on my face, “I'm afraid I get carried away.” He carefully drew an arrow to the hump on my brothers back with a magic marker. “This is just so we don't make any mistakes,” he said, “Sometimes these humps can be quite elusive.”

As nurse Blucher rolled JC into the operating room, I thought I heard the crackle and hum of electricity, but it was probably just my imagination. I retired to the waiting room and read several out dated issues of Family Circle, Time Magazine, and Neurology News before I finally gave up and went out to the parking lot and my car.

I opened a book I'd borrowed from JC and read until my butt got tired of the car seat, then I walked back into the waiting room just in time to hear the receptionist call my name.
“Doctor Stein wants to talk to you,” she said, “Do you remember how to get to the surgery pre-op?”
I told her that I could find it in my sleep and after getting lost and asking for directions twice, a nurse led me to my meeting with Dr. Stein.

The doctor told me to sit, and then began: “From that fateful day when stinking bits... Oh wait, wrong speech. Your brother's fine. The operation was successful and we removed the hump from the left side of his back.”
“I thought it was on the right side,” I started to say, but thought better of it.
“He'll be fine, he just needs to take it easy for a couple of weeks. I've written a prescription for antibiotics, pain pills and electroshock if he needs it.”

I resisted the urge to yell, “It's alive!” as I opened the curtain to my brother's recovery cubicle and watched as nurse Blucher removed the IV's and helped JC get dressed and into a wheel chair for the trip out to the parking lot. At the car he shook the nurses hand and thanked him for his help.
“Blucher,” (a horse whinnied in the distance,) where have I heard that name before?” JC asked.
“Oh my grandmother was famous in the old country, but please don't say my last name anymore. I get tired of hearing that damned horse whinny!”











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A good day on the lake

Yesterday was a good day on the lake.

I decided to make a quick, early morning kayak-fishing trip as soon as I saw the stars shining down from a cloudless sky. Around seven I grabbed my little tackle box, stuck it on its Velcro strips in front of the kayaks cockpit and dropped my ultralight rod, with a reel which I've had since 1958, in beside my canvas creel and the new net Brad gave me for father's day.

It only takes about 5 minutes to drag my nine foot kayak on its little lawnmower wheeled cart from our house to Eckman Lake. The put-in that I dug out several years ago is getting overgrown with weeds and grass, so it took a little effort to slide in, but soon I was gliding across the smooth, glassy water. The sun was just starting to peek over the trees on the east shore, so I stopped in a sunny spot to rig up my rod. I've used the same home made spinners for years now; the orange and black beads and brass blade seem to work better than anything else I've tried. A few days ago I'd decided to bend down the barbs on the treble hooks to make it easier to release fish without harming them.

I decided to try a few casts, even though I was still quite a way from my favorite spot. On the second cast a big trout hit my lure, hard! My reel handle was spinning backwards, (the drag hasn't worked for 20 years!) and the kayak was turning, starting to follow the fish. I hope he doesn't jump, I thought, remembering the barbless hooks and how easily they came out. Then I could feel him shaking his head and suddenly he was gone. I reeled in and exchanged the spinner for another one with barbed hooks.

I paddled to my “sweet spot,” lining up a bush on the south shore with a power pole on the north side, a cat road on the west with a road sign on the east, and I was ready to fish! It was still in the shade so it felt much cooler, and there were clouds of steam rising from the water.

I used to think that my “sweet spot” was the old creek channel, but after running some temperature checks with a digital thermometer I found just one tiny spot that was ten degrees cooler than the rest of the lake, so it probably is a fresh water spring and the cold water attracts the trout.

A few casts later, I hooked into a ten incher and he did a typical Rainbow Trout fight, a couple of fast runs, splashing and jumping all the way. I reeled him in and released him by grabbing the hook with needle nose pliers, turning it upside down and letting him flop loose without touching him. They come off much easier with barbless hooks, but then as I had just found out, so do the keepers.

A slight north wind had started up, blowing me past my spot. I paddled back to the south far enough so that the wind would carry me back across it and started casting.

Another big fish hit, and as soon as the kayak started to follow him and my reel handle began its knuckle busting, backward spin I knew it was a keeper. I saw the taut four pound test line began to rise and I knew he was going to jump. He cleared the water and I got a good look at him before he took off on another run that made my line sizzle through the water. This is a good one! I thought, as I slid my Father's Day net out and put it in my lap.

He had towed me over to shallower water and then he did something that Rainbows seldom do, he went for the bottom. The bottom of the lake, especially in the shallow water, is covered in great blobs of moss and I tried to keep him from getting tangled in one. He managed to get a fair sized glob tangled in the hooks and then took off for deeper water, pulling me and my boat behind him. I began to think that there was no way I could ever land him.

He jumped again several times, and he kept trying to get behind me, spinning the kayak around in a circle. I could tell he was tiring, he was fighting both me and the glob of moss hanging from the lure. I usually try to land a fish on the left side of my boat but this one just wouldn't co-operate, so I switched my rod to my left hand and picked up the net with my right. Several times I got him in close enough to make a stab at netting him but he was almost too big for the net and I kept flubbing it. Once I had him in the net, but he flopped out before I could lift him into the boat.

Finally I got it right and put him, still in the net, between my legs on the kayak floor, broke down my rod and paddled for the boat dock where I always take out, and home.

The beautifully colored Rainbow was 19 inches long and weighed 3 pounds. I had a half of one of the bright orange fillets for lunch today.

The Lake

The weather's been so lousy and I've been so lazy, that I've either been in front of the TV or the computer for weeks now.

I had almost forgotten how great it is to drag my kayak over to the lake, the little home made wheels rattling over the roadside gravel, sliding it in through the grass and reeds, and heaving a sigh of relief as I glide out onto the early morning, glassy water.

Usually there are streamers of mist rising from the warm surface and some mornings there's a fog bank sitting over the lake, until the sun rises far enough to burn it off.

My senses welcome a flight of Canadian Geese honking overhead, their wings beating the air, the deep thrum of a large Bullfrog somewhere along the shoreline, the warning cry of a mother Osprey when I near her power line nest and the splash of a feeding Rainbow trout as I stop paddling and let the north wind push me to my favorite fishing spot.

Sometimes I don't even fish, I just sit and relax, watching Kingfishers diving for minnows or Otters poking their heads out of the water and curiously looking at me before submerging (and probably catching more trout than I will.)

When I let the wind carry me into the shallow water at the lakes edge, I can watch schools of minnows and tadpoles, clouds of freshwater shrimp and insects swimming through the moss and water plants, and once in a while a startled turtle will slide off of a log where I interrupted his enjoyment of the morning sun.

When I'm fishing I release most of what I catch, sometimes keeping one for breakfast the next day, or if it's a really big one, taking it home to brag about. My casting skills are deteriorating as the Parkinson's advances, and as far as tying a blood knot with my shaky hands, forget it!

I'm just glad that I can enjoy myself on the lake, whether I'm fishing, or just drifting with the wind, watching and listening.

Roadkill Raccoon

No, Carol didn't hit me!

My old droopy eye lids were sagging down over my eyes so much that my peripheral vision was just about nonexistent. (Gravity seems to be the enemy of getting old.)
The eye doctor had suggested that I get a Blepharoplasty ( Easy for him to say!) over a year ago, but I kept putting it off. Finally, a couple of weeks ago I gave up and made an appointment for the surgery.

He explained that he'd cut away the excess skin that was drooping over my eyes and after some healing I'd be like new again, and look years younger! “As long as I don't look like the runaway bride!” I told him.

I remained semi awake through most of the surgery, floating happily along on the anesthesia. The swallowing problems I have because of Parkinson's caused me to start coughing and gagging at one point, but it passed and he didn't cut off my nose or anything, so I guess it wasn't a big problem.

At home after the surgery, I faithfully applied ice packs for 20 minutes every hour for the first day to keep down the swelling, and slept with my head elevated. The next morning when I looked in the bathroom mirror, a strange black and blue and yellow image peered out at me. It looked like a raccoon that had been in an accident... a roadkill raccoon!

Carol and I are going to our great-grandson Aiden's fourth birthday party today and I think I'd better keep my sunglasses on, or great grandpa might just scare the heck out of him!

Hero

Carol retired from driving the ambulance last month.

She's been on call five days a week or more since May of 2001, sometimes answering as many as four or five calls in one day, sometimes none. She has logged well over 2,000 runs since she started and she's received countless compliments and thanks from patients for her kindness while helping the paramedics.

Tony Mooney, the head paramedic and assistant fire chief, credits her with being "the smoothest driver he's ever ridden with." (Contrary to popular opinion, speed isn't the most important thing in driving an ambulance.)

The days when Carol was impatiently waiting, and her radio stayed silent were the most difficult, but when the Waldport "tone" sounded she would grab the radio, her fire department jacket, give me a running kiss and be out the door. One time she got in the car with the TV remote control instead of the radio but I caught her in time. Taz even learned to recognize the Waldport tone and when it sounded he would start barking, adding to the excitement.

It's nice knowing that whatever we're doing, like eating lunch or her giving me a haircut won't be interrupted any more, but I know she misses it dearly.

Noodling

The other day I watched a TV show about "Noodling," which is essentially sticking your hand into a big catfish's mouth and wrestling him out of the water. It brought back the memory of a hot summer day on the Verde River in Cottonwood, Arizona.

Carol was sitting on a half submerged lawn chair in the middle of the river, drinking pop and lazily fishing, while Rick, our youngest son and I were swimming and goofing off downstream. We splashed our way around a bend in the river, when Rick yelled, "Hey dad! A big catfish just swam under the bank over here!"

I dog paddled over, but even though the water was fairly clear I couldn't see anything.
"He's right under there!" Rick said.
We had heard about noodling from some of the old-timers, but I never thought that I'd want to try it.
"See if you can catch him, dad!"

I summoned up some courage and carefully reached down under the bank. My fingers brushed up against the slippery side of a big fish and I immediately yanked them back .
"Yep, he's there all right!" I said shakily.

"I heard that if you tickle their belly, it hypnotizes them, then you can stick your hand in their mouth and just pull them out!"
Rick was trying to make it sound easy, but I didn't see him sticking his hand down any giant fish's mouth. In fact he had backed a safe distance away. I reached down again and tentatively slid my hand under the fish's belly. I was just barely able to keep my mouth above the water while I attempted to do my best fish belly tickle.
"Boy, he is big!" I gurgled.
"Is he hypnotized yet, dad?"
"It's kind of hard to tell, Rick. He sure seems to enjoy being tickled, though."

Tiring of all the foreplay, I took a deep breath, slid my fingers up to his gaping mouth and grabbed his lower lip. The fight was on!

"I don't think I hypnotized him enough!" I yelled, as the big fish started thrashing back and forth. I thought he was going to yank my arm off, and I gladly would have let go, but he had clamped his mouth shut on my hand and it was a toss up as to who was catching who.

"Don't let go of him, dad!" Rick yelled from the bank, where he had found a safer place to watch the fight.
My arm felt like it was about a foot longer than it used to be, and I was sure my hand was missing some fingers. Gathering what was left of my strength, I made a mighty heave and flopped the struggling catfish up onto the bank beside a wide eyed Rick, who quickly jumped back into the river.

If you've ever caught a catfish, you know that they are hard to kill, and this one was no exception. I picked up a rock with my left hand and smashed it down on top of his head, which resulted in squashing my fingers, still in his mouth, even more. Finally he opened his mouth to gasp for water and I yanked my hand free. I laid beside the still flopping fish, rubbing my throbbing arm and counting my fingers.
“Are you OK, dad?”
“Oh yeah, that was easy!” I said, trying to keep the quaver out of my voice, “Let's go show mom!”

As we rounded the bend in the river, I held the big fish behind my back, hiding it from Carol's view. When she saw us she grinned and held up a stringer with several ten inch catfish to show us. When we got closer I showed her the big fish, and Rick proudly yelled, “ Look what dad and I caught!”