The Misadventures of P.T. and Bob
Uncle Alvin and the Fishing Rodeo
(reprinted from 1996)
“C’mon, Bob. Shake out of it. Those last few fishing trips were just plain bad. You’re not bad luck and you’re really not a bad fisherman – sometimes we all have those streaks where you couldn’t catch fish in a net.”
Of course, I didn’t mean any of it, but Bob had been in this deep depression ever since we had gone float fishing and that ol’ catfish had beaten him worse than Shirley did that time he went to a bachelor party and forgot to go home for two days. Anyway, Velma and Shirley ganged up on me and told me I had to do something to snap Bob out of it.
“No, P.T., I’m never gonna fish again. I’m just gonna take up something easy like watching pro wrestling on t.v.,” Bob said. “I’m just gonna stay home and mow the grass or clean the garage from now on. I may even sell my boat.”
Well, that was it. Bob had really gone off the deep end if he was thinking about actually mowing his grass instead of going fishing. I knew then and there that I had to do something – anything – to get Bob back on track to reality. So I took a big swaller of my cold one and I said, “Bob, come out to the shed with me. I’ve got something I want to show you.”
He followed me out to the shed and stood there as I dug a small box out from under my workbench. I pried the box open and pulled out a small plaque and a photo.
“Here, Bob, take a look at this and sit down while I tell you a story about my first fishing rodeo,” I said.
“Believe it or not, I was not always the champion-type fisherman that you have come to know and respec’,” I started. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been able to catch respectable fish, but there were times when I made mistakes and there were days when I couldn’t catch a limit of horseflies at a garbage dump.
“How bad was it? I even fished some bass tourneys back then where I was lucky if I caught a sunburn,” I explained. “but, let me tell about how I won that plaque – and you’ll understand why I keep it out here…
It was about a year after I joined the Bassin’ is Life Gospel Church and Bass Club. We were sitting around discussing just who the best darn fisherman in the club was, when one of them jokers came up with the idea of an all-around fishing competition – bass, bream and catfish. Well, everyone was in favor of it and then one member bragged about how he was not only the best freshwater fisherman, but the best saltwater fisherman in the group also. Well, a few others took exception to that claim and before we knew it, we were all signed up for the First Annual Bassin’ is Life All-Around Fishing King Tournament.
We worked out all the details and the following weekend we held the freshwater portion of the fishing rodeo. I teamed up with my Uncle Alvin and went and fished down near Delacroix. We were in his boat, so Unc’ Alvin fished up front and he did pretty good. He started out hooking a nice three pounder and went up from there.
I had to fish the back of the boat and had to keep reminding Unc’ Alvin that we were a team and that I needed my limit too if we were going to win the freshwater team trophy. (I think my unc’ was more interested in winning the individual trophy, though.) Even without his help, I was able to land a limit of decent fish and as a team we wound up in seventh place on the first day.
Well, over the next two weekends we fished sac-a-lait, redears, catfish and any other freshwater fish that would bite a hook. We moved up in the standings and then we dropped in the standings when ol’ Mr. Fred pointed out that only the freshwater species of catfish counted and hardheads weren’t considered freshwaters. That dropped up back to 10th in the club standings.
The next weekend was the saltwater portion of the contest and we got up early and headed out for some specks and reds. In the bass portion of the rodeo, we had the standard rules for a tournament – five fish per person limit and could only use artificials. It was more open for saltwater – we could use lures, live or cut bait, and we could catch as many fish as legally allowed. Basically, if the great state of Louisiana said it was legal, we could do it.
Uncle Alvin drove the boat and got us down to this one area that he just knew held some good redfish. Sure enough, just as soon as he cut the motor he pointed to the bank of this one little island and there was a red tailing in the shadow. He hooked a brown shrimp under a poppin’ cork and tossed it three inches in front of the wake. I don’t even think he had set his drag when the cork went under. Well, he hauled back and set the hook and the fight began. When it was over, he had a decent 23-inch red in the ice chest.
It was my turn then, I hooked a shrimp, tossed it out in the same general area and my cork sat there for about 20 seconds before it went under. I set the hook and started reeling as fast as I could, pumping my rod and working hard to get the fish to the boat. I didn’t know why Unc’ Alvin was laughing – until I pulled in a nice three pound chunk of oyster bed.
Well, I threw my line out again and this time when the cork went under, I knew I had a good fish – Unc’ Alvin kept yelling to keep my rod tip up instead of laughing at me. I fought that fish in close and then it dove towards the outboard and sliced my line just as easy as you please.
“Maybe you need some stronger line,” Uncle Alvin said. “What you using?”
“I just put a new reel on with some 25-lb. line,” I said.
“Well, keep ‘em away from the motor. That line should be more than enough for anything you catch,” he laughed.
I tied on a new leader and hook as we drifted along the bank and he kept catching fish. By the time I was ready, he had already landed another good red and I knew I had to hurry or else he would start trolling and looking for another spot. I tossed my line out and watched as my float went down and came back up. When it went down for the third time, I jerked back and reeled the fish in – about a two pound sheepshead.
“Thre it in the box, boy,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll count that, too.”
Uncle Alvin threw a red he had been playing with back. “Too small,” he said, “only 21-inches.”
He then decided that we had fished that area out, so we moved to another one of his secret spots. When we got there he told me to fish the right side of the boat and he would fish the left. I put another shrimp on and made the prettiest cast you would ever want to make. My float hit the water about three feet off the point and I started working it slowly back to the boat – twitch, reel; twitch, reel. Then I felt a bump and then nothing.
I reeled in my line and half the shrimp was gone, so I rebaited and cast again. Same spot. Twitch, reel. Twitch, reel. Bump. Another shrimp gone.
“That’s just a trash fish, probably another one of them sheepshead,” Unc’ Alvin said.
I grabbed a croaker from the bucket this time, ran the hook through its back and tossed it to the same spot.
Twitch, reel. Twitch, reel. Bump. Bump. WHAM! ZZZIIINNNNNGGG!!! My float went down and my drag started screaming. I pulled back and my rod bent over almost double. I didn’t even think about trying to reel in the slack because there wasn’t any. I just held onto my rod with both hands and prayed that the fish would stop running before I ran out of line.
Well, the spool finally started slowing down, so I put my foot on the edge of the boat and hauled back as had as I could. I gained about six inches of slack in the line and reeled it back in. I repeated this five or six times and maybe got two feet of line back on my reel before it started running again.
By then I had Unc’s attention and this time he was yelling, “Keep your rod tip up!” and meaning it. He even dropped his rod in the boat and grabbed the trolling motor control.
“All right, boy,” he yelled. “You’ve got a big ‘un so we’s gonna play it like it’s one of them offshore fish. You work yourself up here and I’ll troll after that fish while you get some line in.”
I would have answered him, but I was just a little busy trying to hang on to my rod and keep the fish from breaking off.
Well, I finally got up to the bow and we started chasing my line. I felt like Cap’n Ahab chasing the white whale. There I was on the bow in tug of war with the biggest fish I had ever hooked and Unc’ Alvin kneeling down and trolling after the fish.
We followed and fought that monster until we were about in the middle of the channel and the fish decided to head for the bottom. It went down. My rod bent over again. Unc’ Alvin stopped trolling and pulled the motor out of the water to keep it out of the way.
“You’ve got him boy!” he yelled and grabbed the net.
I pulled back on the rod to get some more slack. The fish pulled back. I pulled back, then – KERAACK!
My favorite rod just couldn’t handle the stress and it broke. Then it broke my favorite sunglasses as it snapped back and hit me right between the eyes. I stumbled back and dropped my half of the rod and Unc’ Alving did the only thing he could – he dove to save the other half of my rod.
A bucket of water woke me up and there was Uncle Alvin and the other members of the club standing over me.
“You alright boy?” he asked
“I think so.”
“Well, good. It’s time to go home and show MawMaw my plaque and the trophy redfish that won the contest for me,” he said. “That 44-pounder showed everyone just who the top fisherman in this club is.”
“What 44-pound fish?”
“That one I landed with that broken rod. Fair is fair,” he said.
“But,” I started to explain that it was my fish.
“Now, as I see it, it became my fish when you decided to take that nap and put your rod down…” Unc’ Alvin continued.
———
“That’s a nice story, P.T.,” Bob said, “but if he took the credit for the fish, how come you got the plaque and had your photo taken with the fish?”
“Well, Uncle Alvin wasn’t all bad, you know,” I explained. “And when the club heard how he “caught” that redfish, they insisted he share the prize with me. He gave me the plaque and he took the money.”
©Louisiana Outdoors Magazine, 1996
