“Tough Luck, Kid” – A Fishing Story

Our last Islanders Write prompt was fishing stories, and we are delighted to share this beautiful essay by Alicia Winter.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. The sound of braid being stripped off a reel. I look over and see my 11-year-old son, hands gripped on his rod, the tip bent at a dangerous angle. “Tip up!” I shout. “Tip up!” But he knows. This isn’t his first Derby. Nor his first false albacore. He strains against the rod and lets the fish run.

We’re on the Lobsterville jetty, and the people closest to him hurry to reel in, careful not to foul his line, while farther away they hurry to cast their lures as the school of little tunny rockets through the channel. Fishermen line the rocks on both sides of the channel. It’s a busy day on the jetty.

My son’s line continues to peel away from his reel, but I don’t stop fishing. Minutes go by. I catch my husband’s eye, and he raises an eyebrow. “Big fish,” he says. “Big fish,” I agree, and start to worry. A fish that big could spool the reel. A fish that big could snap the line. A fish that big could unbalance a boy. Still, the fish runs.

Soon my son begins to make headway on the fish, and people stop to watch. He cranks and reels, cranks and reels, and finally the fish starts to tire, but his line is far into the channel. A fish that far out could fray on a rock. A fish that far away could snag on a buoy. I go to stand near my son, careful not to get in his way. A mother’s instinct is to help, but I know better.

He has the rod between his thighs, arms straining, and he’s beginning to tire, too, but he’s gaining on the fish. Finally, we see color, and the crowd around us cheers. Maybe I don’t need to worry. I pick up the net. We’re all celebrating. Then a shout from the end of the jetty. A boat is coming in hot, ignoring the “No Wake” sign.

People holler, wave their arms to signal the driver. He slows but doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn. Everyone can see what’s going to happen. “Reel!” they yell, and my son reels like a demon. But the fish hasn’t given up. It zips across the channel just as the boat passes, and the line goes slack. The people scream expletives at the driver, but the fish is gone.

There are tears. Later, people come over, pat him on the back. “Tough luck, kid,” they say, and, “That guy was an a**hole.” It makes him feel better. “You’ll get another,” I say, and eventually he does. He won second in his age group that year.

He’s 24 now, but we don’t talk about the fish he weighed in, or the prizes he won. We talk about that day the boat cut his line on that really big fish. We remember how everyone shared both his excitement and his disappointment, and how that made it so much more fun.