Teaser Time
by Bucky Lewis



Old timer #1: "Goin' fishin'?"
Old timer #2: "Ayuh….."
Old timer #1: Got worms?"
Old timer #1: "Ayuh, but THAT ain't stoppin' me bygeezus!"


There is a conspiracy. I know it now. I have long suspected it, but not until recently has the evidence presented itself indefatigably. I just spent a week of exhaustive research on the subject deep in the North Maine Woods, and now I can finally disclose to everyone the truth about the 'F-FILES'.
I come from a family that was and still is very outdoors oriented, always making the most of nature's assets: hiking, camping, boating, hunting, and yes fishing. I am not sure when I started declaring "I really am not much into fishing" probably it was how the frustrations had built up over time, or not having the patience to match the passion and dedication needed to stay in the sport. Maybe even secreting more than normal acid from my fingers on the bait and lures, the kind that repels fish. I do know how I came back into the sport. My son, because of his love for the sport has dragged me out of my long dormant passion for the sport, and along with that, the frustrations of it all. I'll never forgive him for that, the bahstid.
I just now came in from sharing some fishing time with my 8-year-old down at the weedy lake here trying to entice a big old bass into swallowing one of our many presentations. Although this beautiful fish was in plain sight no more than ten feet in front of us, he would show only passing interest in the many overhead jiggles, wiggles, and rattler lures -as well as wet flies and streamers-that we put in front of him. He seemingly was taunting us by trying to gobble whole the many pumpkin seed fish he was chasing. He would dart toward the unsuspecting sunfish and after just barely missing them with his humongous Steven Tyler mouth action, would look right at us and I swear I could hear him go "Ha! blubHA!blubHA!blubHAHA!" This is serious. I have to tell you that it comes not from this one experience, but many.
The second week of March this year I found myself out off the coast of Fort Lauderdale with three friends on a chartered 48-foot Bertram fishing boat. Even though we all divided the cost equally of renting the boat, the other three decided to take this time to catch up on their sleep. It might of had something to do with the Spring Break nuances from the night before that they had experienced that made them have a spontaneous attraction toward relaxation at this point. I did not complain of their selfish actions one bit, as there I was on this beautiful fishing craft the only fisherman resplendent with Captain and First Mate.
The first fish was mine, according to official Big Gamefish Tournament rules. Yea right.
For those of you that don't know this, we used a most elegant bobber. A kite. These are used to get the lines out as far as they can while trolling. When a substantial game fish hits the mackerel like fish used as bait called 'goggle-eyes' the kite-which keeps the bait on the top of the water yet far from the boat-releases the line at the sudden tug of the Gamefish and the fight is on.
The first fish I brought in was a 30-pound Kingfish. After battling this deep-diving fighter from 150 yards out (no exaggeration), I finally brought him up to the boat when the first mate grabbed him twice and the fish wriggled away. On the third grab attempt the fish loosed himself from the hook and descended freely into the sea. It was amazing to me how, even with all my upper body convulsing after this tremendous fight and my mind fogged with fatigue, I could hear the fish teasing me as he faded into the deep: "Ha! blubHA!blubHA!blubyou NimrodHAHA!" According to Gamefish tournament rules the first mate told me, once a fish is in the grasp at the boat, he is legally caught. Gee, how gratifying.
Little did I know that things would only get worse for me in the teasing department that morning.
The next fish I caught was one right out of ESPN Saturday morning. It was one of the top ten Gamefish in the world: Istiophorus platypterus, an Atlantic Sailfish. Hitting the bait about one hundred yards out this giant fish leapt out of the water and danced over the waves. The weariness that I experienced from my earlier fight vanished as the adrenaline kicked in. At 50 yards away this beautiful fish leapt out of the water again and using his tail fin, danced along the roof of the sea. It was an image I will see forever. Together we took turns in who would lead in this beautiful fighting jitterbug, as I would reel in then he would take line. I had already resolved to release this beauty after weighing, measurement and pictures. About thirty feet from the boat the dreaded pole Viagra thing happened: the tip of the rod went stiff and upright. I lost the most magnificent fish of my life after he kinked up the metal leader and it snapped. They say that 80% of all fish are lost at the boat and that day I added to that statistic. I suppose that's why they call it fishing and not catching.
So now here I am, after losing a significant amount of native brook trout on the ponds of the North Maine Woods on both flies and hardware, talking to myself again. Even though I know that all fish everywhere have ganged up against me to taunt and tease, I can take great pleasure in the fact that I will not stop until I master the art of catching 'the big one that didn't get away'.

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