by Donna Hruska

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“Whaddyamean it, Dan?” Tom asked his little brother as they ran down the dock.

“Right over there,” four-year-old Daniel pointed.

“I saw it. It was a giant fish.”

Tom knew it was probably a false alarm, but he had to try. They were going home tomorrow and he hadn’t caught a big fish yet.

All year he had been waiting for this one week the family would spend at the rented fishing cottage. He had a new rod and reel and had spent the two dollars he had saved out of his allowance for a beautiful black and white striped bass lure with bulging artificial eyes and five weedless hooks.

Tom looked at the patch of lily pads where Dan had pointed. He knew it couldn’t be a bass so near to the cottage—bass liked still waters by old stumps and logs—but the black and white lure was the only one he had. Now he wished he had bought two cheaper lures—one that would have been better for northern pike or muskie.

“Come on, Tom! Cast!” Daniel urged.

For once his wrist action was perfect and the shining lure sailed out into the air to land exactly where he had aimed it—the middle of the lily pads. Slowly he wound in the line.

Nothing happened. Daniel had probably seen a piece of driftwood.

Once again the black and white lure caught the sun as it plopped into the lily pads. Tom began to wind it in again.

Suddenly there was a strong lunge on the end of the line and the handle of the reel was jerked from his hand. The line sung as it wound, the reel spinning wildly as the fish tried to get away.

“Dad! Dad!” Tom yelled with excitement as he tried to grasp the handle of the reel again and stop the spinning.

“Daddy! Daddy!” screamed Daniel, jumping up and down wildly on the dock.

Tom heard his father’s running feet as they clattered across the porch and down the dock. The cottage screen door slammed as his mother ran out.

“What is it?” she called as she ran. “Did someone fall in?”

“I’ve got it! I’ve got the big fish!” Tom called.

He had stopped the spinning of the reel and was slowly and painfully reeling the line in, but the fish was plunging and diving, trying to get away. Tom didn’t think he’d be able to pull it in.

“Here, Dad. You do it. I’m not strong enough,” he said, pushing the rod toward his father.

“No, it’s your fish,” his father answered with a grin. “You’ve got to haul him in. Just keep winding the reel. You’ll get him.”

Tom wound quickly as the fish broke the water, its grey-green scales glistening in the sunlight. The perspiration broke out on his neck. Never had he worked so hard. It was a battle of strength between him and the fish and his fingers ached with the effort of turning the reel.

The fish was within six feet of the dock now. Tom’s father reached into the boat to get the fish net. Suddenly, the handle slipped from Tom’s fingers again and the reel sang as the fish dived and swam away.

“He’s getting away!” Daniel screamed.

“Grab the reel quick!” his father shouted.

Once again Tom stopped the wild spinning of the reel and began to pull the fish in. This time it wasn’t so hard. The fish was tiring. At last, he pulled him up the last few feet, grabbed the net from his father and plopped his catch on the dock.

“It’s a northern,” Tom exclaimed. “and I caught it on a bass lure! It fought like a bass, too. Look how fat it is!” He caught his breath as the fish measured 35 inches and weighed almost eleven pounds—as big as any northern pike ever caught in Blue Lake.

The fish lunged and flopped on the white boards of the dock, trying to get back to the lake. Its gills pulsed furiously, yearning for the oxygen they could only get in water.

“Could we have him mounted, Dad?” Tom asked.

He thought how fierce the northern’s long snout and sharp teeth would look when it was mounted.

“We’ll see, son,” his father answered. “For now, put it on the big stringer and get it back in the water.”

Tom’s mother came running with the camera. He had a hard time holding the fish up high enough to get a good picture. Finally, the camera snapped, he hooked one end of the stringer securely onto the fish and the other end to the dock and flipped his prize catch into the water. The northern splashed and lunged trying to get away.

Off and on all day Tom could hear the big fish splash and bump against the dock.

“That’s the most spirited fish I’ve ever seen,” his father commented several times. “He just won’t give up.”

Tom couldn’t understand his own feelings. Sometimes he was excited, thinking how he’d bring his friends to see his huge catch mounted on the wall beside his father’s muskie. At other times he’d catch himself remembering how brave the fish had looked as he’d broken water, fighting to be free.

Then he felt sad.

“All right, son,” his father said finally after dinner. “We’ll have it mounted. It’s probably the biggest fish you’ll catch in years, but the mounting is your birthday present. It will be expensive.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Tom answered. Somehow, he didn’t feel as happy as he’d thought he would.

He heard the fish splash as he and Daniel padded down the sunwashed dock to where the stringer was attached. Hauling the northern out of the water and laying it on the warm wood, Tom felt uncomfortable.

“Tom,” Daniel asked, “you think that’s an old fish?”

“Probably,” Tom answered.

“I bet it is. I bet it’s a grandfather fish.”

The fish’s gills pulsed and its eye stared back at them. It jumped and landed closer to the edge of the dock. Tom thought about how proud he’d be to show Bill and Mick and Arnie his mounted catch.

“Maybe it’s not a grandfather fish,” Daniel chattered on. “Maybe it’s a mother fish, with babies.”

“Mother fish never see their babies, Dan. They just lay their eggs and swim away.”

“Oh.” Daniel bent down and peered at the northern. “You think it looks lonesome, Tom?”

The northern flopped again. Now it was on the very edge of the dock, its gills gasping for oxygen.

“Fish don’t have feelings like that,” Tom answered.

He looked down at the fish again, but what he saw was the vision of the huge creature as it had fought for its freedom, breaking water as it plunged and dove. Suddenly he knew that he couldn’t destroy that fighting spirit. The great northern was too much like an old warrior who had fought valiantly and deserved to live its last days in peace.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached down and unhooked the stringer. The fish stared a moment longer, then with a mighty flip, splashed into the water.

“No, I think it was a grandfather fish,” Daniel said. He jumped off the dock onto the beach and started digging tunnels in the sand.

Tom put the stringer back into the boat and picked up his rod. Once more, the black and white bass lure glinted in the sun and landed in the center of the lily pads. He felt sort of sad, but happy, too. He wondered if there could be a young feisty bass lurking in those lily pads, after all.

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