Fish Soup Part I

“I’ve got another one!” I said to my dad, “Get the net!”

I struggled to keep my balance in the rocking boat as I stood. I gripped the handle of my Ugly Stick tightly in one hand and cranked the reel a few times with the other. The pole bent closer to the water and I could feel the fish on the other end of the line. It was a fighter, causing the line to spin out from the reel as it struggled to get away. I waited till the line stopped spooling and reeled in again. It seemed like each time I managed to get the fish a foot closer to the boat, it fought and pulled two feet farther away.

My dad cut the trolling motor and reached for the net on the floor of the boat.

“Take your time,” he said, “let it fight and tire itself out.”

He made his way to the front of the boat and stood by my side as I fought the big fish on my line.

“Wow! Did you see that?” I said, watching the fish jump nearly a foot out of the water.

“I saw it,” my dad said calmly, “Looks like you got yourself a fat old walleye.”

I lifted the rod as my dad scooped the fish into the net and over the side of the boat. The walleye twisted in the net and it took my dad a minute to untangle the line and get the lure out of the fish’s mouth. He handed me the Rapalla and I hooked the bottom to the lowest loop on the pole and reeled the line tight. I stored the rod and the net along the side of the boat and traded the camera from around my neck to my dad for the fish. He snapped a quick picture while I held up the fish.

“It’s a keeper right?” I asked.

“Sure is, throw it in with the others,” my dad said, “We’re at the limit now so we should probably start heading back.”

I opened the live well and tossed the walleye in with the others we had caught and slammed the lid down over the splashing fish. My dad made his way back to his seat in front of the motor’s tiller and started her up again. I took my place on the bench in front, pulling my hat off and stuffing it into my pocket. I didn’t want it to fly off in the wind like it had on the way out. My dad had been forced to turn the boat around and I had fished my cap out of the lake with the net. At first my dad had been mad at me, but his mood seemed to have improved once we got to the secret spot and started catching fish.

The boat picked up speed and the wind whipped through my hair, bringing with it the scent of burning wood from the chimney of a lake house on shore. My dad turned the boat to take us out of the sheltered bay where we had been trolling and as the boat hit the open water the prow began to bounce and crash on the waves. Though by local standards Lake Vermillion was a pretty big lake, we never lost sight of shore as we headed back, sometimes weaving in and out of islands, sometimes weaving in and out of other boats. The setting sun began to sting my eyes as it reflected off the water.

The boat slowed as we approached the bay where my dad’s buddy had his cabin. As we made our way to the dock my dad steered the boat in a complicated backwards question mark that avoided the weeds and the underwater rock. I stood up cautiously and moved to the front of the boat. As we pulled alongside the dock I grabbed the rope attached to the prow and stepped over the edge onto the dock. With a few quick twists I secured the front of the boat to the dock, then went back and grabbed the tackle box and fishing rods as my dad handed them to me. I walked up the path, weaving beneath pine trees and those leafy trees I could never remember the names for. I stowed the gear in the back of the truck and waited for my dad to get there. He got there shortly; swinging the big green bucket I knew contained our catch. He stowed it in the back and we piled into the truck and headed back home.