By Some Guy:

The other day I was enjoying some quality fishing time with a couple of the grandsons, “Some Kid” and the “Other Kid”.  The day started out pretty good, but then kind of went downhill in a hurry.  I suppose crank baits and five year olds will do that to one’s day.

As I was trying to remove the gold floating Rapala from behind my left ear I was pondering my predicament.  I tend to ponder a lot when in these sorts of predicaments.  I was thinking, “Damn, this day sure didn’t turn out like I had hoped!”  As I freed up the first barb of the two treble hooks from its fleshy home behind my ear I thought, “You know, this sort of thing has happened before.”

“Hey Grandpa!  Look at this!”  The quick lunge towards the weeds by Some Kid caught the rod and imbedded the hooks on the Rapala even deeper.  But hey, that was O.K.  I could just clip some of the barbs on the backside of my ear now.  At least those three will come out easier.

As I grabbed my goo rag to wipe the blood off my hands to be able to get a better grip on my pliers I noticed the scar on my forearm.  It isn’t much of a scar.  Kind of a cute little thing actually, mostly gone now.  But it left a longer lasting mark on my mind than it did my flesh.  This was one of the spots some 20 years ago Some Kid’s father had also impaled me while fishing.

“Grandpa!  There’s a fish right down there!”, pointing to the water right below us.  Again the quick lunge towards the pond re-set the Rapala.  II said, “Hey kid, hold still!  You’re gonna kill me!”  By now the line was hopelessly tangled around Some Kid’s legs.  Even his heart beat was now tugging on my ear.

Buy this time I had most of the barbs either clipped off or pulled free.  As I finally cut the line I thought, “I really need to remember to do this first next time!”  And there will be a next time!  It might be Some Kid again, the Other Kid, or maybe one of the other grandkids.  But I’m sure there will indeed be a next time.  After all, anytime you expose yourself to kids and fish hooks you’ll have this sort of thing.  You know, crank baits stuck in your ear or imbedded in your forearm.

“Grandpa, hurry up and put a hook on before he gets away!”, still pointing at the fish right below us.  “Hold on to your horses!” I said.  “I’m working as fast as a bloody eared old man can.”  I just tied on a single hook with a piece of night crawler this time.  No more treble hooks for this kid, at least not this year anyway!

As the bobber splashed on the surface of the water I began thinking about my dad, and how many times over the years he must have been skewered by a kid with a fishing pole.  It has to be in the hundreds!  He is always taking a kid fishing.  I chuckled to myself thinking how he would look like the hook rack at the bait shop if he hadn’t pulled them all out.

“What’s so funny Grandpa?  Look, he ate the worm!”  As Some Kid was reeling in, I thought to myself, “Damn this is fun!  Some Kid sure is having a ball.”  “Hey look Grandpa, he’s a big one!”, Some Kid said as he was jabbing the 6” bass dangling from the end of his rod into my face.  As the little bass was slapping me in the face I began thinking, God I sure feel sorry for the poor saps that never had to remove a crank bait from their ear!