LEDGER COLUMNIST
The bass would just surrender
Klonie JORDAN

I'm pretty good at this bass fishing stuff.

Now I haven't been fishing in years, but back when I used to do it, I was ... well ... the king.

Whenever the fish heard that I was planning on coming out to the river, they would get their affairs in order, say good-bye to their loved ones and go ahead and coat themselves with tartar sauce.

Many times, when they knew I was coming down to the banks of the mighty St. Johns, they would just crawl up on the bank, wave little white flags and then put themselves on the stringer.

Sometimes, on days when I hadn't even planned on going fishing, a bunch of them would come over to the house and ring the doorbell. I'd open the door and they would come in and jump into the freezer.

I reckon they figured it was just a matter of time so they might as well get it over with.

A lot of times they would bring their own freezer bags.

"Master bass fisherman," they would say. "We know you are a busy man and might not have had time to get down to the Albertson's and buy freezer bags so we stopped by there on the way over here and picked some up for you."

Many's the time it broke my heart seeing all the fight taken out of 'em like that, so I would let them go.

"Y'all are kinda taking a lot of the sport out of this," I'd tell them on the banks of the mighty St. Johns. Then I'd point to the water and they would dive back in, turn and appreciatively wave a fin at me and then swim off.

Sometimes when they'd come over to the house, I'd load them into the car and take them back to the river. They'd be so giddy about being given a reprieve. We'd giggle and laugh and sing that song that goes,

"I lobster and never flounder, He wrapped his line around her, And they drove off in his carp. I lobster and never flounder, I octopus his face in.

Eel only break her heart."

And they would roll down the windows and fin-wave at people on the street as we would drive by.

Sometimes I watch those bass fishing shows on TV and just shake my head. Those boys have $75,000 boats and $200,000 worth of gear and then they go out and catch these poor little pitiful looking bass. They hold them up in front of the camera and grin like a mule eating briers.

Amateurs.

The other day one of those guys was talking about how maybe catching an eight-pound bass would put them back into the bass fishing competition.

Eight-pounders. Hah. We used eight-pounders for bait down on the banks of the mighty St. Johns.

It ain't about the gear and the money. You're either a fisherman or you're not.

One day we were fishing the mighty St. Johns when this fancy, shmancy boat with two guys on it drifted near. We started talking and they began describing all the expensive equipment they had - fish-finder this, sonar that.

"And what happens on the days when you can't catch anything even with all that fancy stuff?" I asked them.
"Then we go back to the basics," they answered.
"Yeah? And what's that?" I queried.
"Dynamite," they said.
They were just kidding. I think.
Oh, I gotta go, there's the doorbell.
I hear the rattle of freezer bags.
Wonder who that could be?

Klonie Jordan (editor@gaffneyledger.com) is executive
editor of The Gaffney Ledger.