The sky was coming to life. There were wisps of gold and yellow clouds becoming visible as the sun slowly made the slow climb into the darkness of morning.
The lake was stirring, too. You could hear splashes and if you looked carefully, you could see a ring going across the glass calm water, marking a successful breakfast for a fish willing to jump. The bunnies scurried through the tall weeds. They zigged and zagged with an explosion of effort that came to a sudden stop. They always faced danger from above, from around, and from far away if a young hunter had them in their gun sites.
In the distance, a single headlight came into view. Only one headlight worked on the old Ford truck but it was enough to get the job done. The job was to get Skipjack Lux from his home to his favorite fishing spot before the Vietnamese claimed it.
Like the Vietnamese, Skipjack came to the lake every day. It didn’t matter if it was raining or blowing or even snowing, Skipjack showed up with the dawn.
He smiled as he looked around. He had won the race to his place. The Vietnamese had not arrived but they would soon.
Skipjack shifted his pickup into the park, He had to jiggle the shift lever to accomplish the task but finally, the old Ford truck relented and shifted to park.
He got out of the cab and stood for a second and took in the morning. He smiled. God’s paintbrush was adorning the sky with every second. The lake served as God’s palate as it changed from the dark of night to the ever changing yellows, reds, pinks and blues of morning. It was going to be a good day.
Skipjack turned and reached over the side of the pickup box and grabbed his tackle box, his trusty rod and reel, and his five-gallon bucket. He threw his Walmart folding red fabric chair, still in the convenient carry bag with strap, over his shoulder. Skipjack was ready.
He started the short hike to his spot just as other lights were coming up the road. He turned and grinned as he watched the assortment of Japanese-made cars park next to his old rusty truck.
“You here already,” one of the Vietnamese hollered at him. “We caught yo big fish last night.”
Skipjack ignored the taunt. They teased him every day and he just looked the other way. He didn’t have much to do with these five-foot bullies. They were good fishermen and he and they knew it.
Unlike Skipjack, they didn’t throw the small fish back. If they caught a fish, it went into the five-gallon bucket and ended up in a ground up concoction they actually ate. Some say heads, guts, and all went into the grinder.
Skipjack was very aware they were the masters of patience and masters of catching the “big one.”
He looked out at the lake. There were a bunch of ring spreading out. The fish were feeding and that was a good sign. He set up his chair and sat down and opened his tackle box. He removed a bologna and cheese sandwich packed in a Ziploc bag. He carefully dug his finger through an assortment of Eagle Claw hook and selected a small one. A leader was next. He picked a nice fat worm for the first cast of the day. He assembled his choices on the end of his line and made a gentle cast toward the lake.
His fish breakfast disappeared into the lake leaving an ever-expanding circle as proof. Now, it was time to get situated. He flipped up the top tray in his tackle box and pulled out his rod holder and pushed it into the ground in front of his chair. He put his rod in it and sat down to enjoy the morning, and wait.
Suddenly, the tip of the rod bounced. A fish was nibbling. Skipjack smiled and gently pulled the rod from the holder and pointed the tip at the lake. He reeled in some of the slack.
“Come on,” he said. “Come on.”
Another bounce and just as quick, Skipjack snapped the rod up. The line went tight and the rod tip started dancing. He could feel the fight. A fish was on. He pulled back and reeled in the slack. The fight continued. He pulled back again and reeled but the fight stopped.
“Dang it!” he said.
“Ah big one got away again,” a Vietnamese fisherman said as he stood behind and watched. ”I catch for you!” the man said as he continued his walk.
Skipjack sneered as he reeled in his line. Sure enough, the worm was gone. Fish 1. Skipjack 0.
Four casts and two hours later, the fish were still winning. The Vietnamese however, were already bringing in some impressive fish. Big carp and catfish. Some medium black bass were in the buckets even though they should have thrown them back because they didn’t meet the twenty-one inch limit. No game warden, no foul.
By noon, Skipjack’s bucket was still empty. His rod was in the holder. He walked back to get a beer out of his truck. It was lunchtime and a beer and the bologna sandwich was on the menu. He sat down in his chair and enjoyed both.
He looked at the Western sky. Some thunderheads were growing in the distance. Maybe they were coming Skipjack’s way. Maybe not.
“You catch fish?” A Vietnamese asked as he walked by. The little man struggled to carry his bucket and a big tail struck out of the top of it. He had bagged a big catfish. Skipjack pretended not to notice.
“Some,” Skipjack said. “But I threw them back.”
“Ah,” the Vietnamese said. “I catch big catfish so I go.”
“I see you did,” Skipjack acknowledged. “Congratulations.”
The Vietnamese man did a short bow and continued his walk back to his Toyota minivan. Skipjack knew they were laughing at him but they were polite people and never showed what they though while around him.
The Western sky was dark now. The lower clouds hid the thunderheads so Skipjack wasn’t sure if he would be in their path or not. A little rain wouldn’t run him off anyway.He continued to re-rig as he fed the fish and failed to hook any. Suddenly, the wind picked up. He looked across the lake. Three rapid lightning strikes announced the approach of a major thunderstorm.
Just as sudden, his rod bent in the biggest arc he had ever seen. It jumped out of the rod holder and if Skipjack had’t stomped on it, his rod would have been in the lake. He grabbed it and snapped it back to set the hook even deeper. The fight was on.
So was the rain. At first, it was light. Then, it came in torrents along with small hail. The hail increased in size pelting Skipjack as he fought whatever was on his line. There was no giving up on either end of the line on this day.
The rain swirled just enough for Skipjack to look out on the lake. Through the whitecaps, he could see a huge black bass jump out of the water. Skipjack’s eyes almost came out of his head as he finally got a glimpse of his foe.
“He has to be the state record!” he said as he pulled back and reeled. His smiled as the rain slammed into his face. He could hardly see but he didn’t need to. He could feel his prize fish. He was winning.
The tornado warning siren blasted in the background. Skipjack wasn’t going anywhere. The fish continued to fight him. He fought harder. The storm raged. The wind was extreme and then the storm was gone.
The park superintendent was making his slow drive through the park to check for tree damage when he noticed Skipjack’s truck. A large fallen cottonwood had crushed it. The superintendent jumped out of his truck and went around the fallen tree to try and get the best view of the inside of the truck. No one was inside.
He looked toward the lake. Skipjack’s chair and tackle were spread over a wide area. The wind or worse had made quick work of everything. The superintendent looked at the trees. It was clear a tornado had moved right over Skipjack’s favorite spot and had taken everything with it. Had it claimed Skipjack, too?
The superintendent called 911 and before long, some rural firefighters, law enforcement, and park workers mounted a search for
Skipjack. They didn’t find him. Two days later, the search was abandoned. Skipjack as never found.
Another morning and the Vietnamese were arriving on schedule. They took their usual spots except for one. He stopped and looked at the spot where Skipjack used to fish.
“This spot now mine,” he said as he smiled. He assembled his gear and made his first cast. Within seconds, his rod bent like he had never seen it bend before. He grabbed it just before the rod went into the lake. He tried to reel some line in but whatever was out there drug him almost over the bank and into the water. Thankfully, his line snapped before he went in. He thought he heard a laugh.
“Big fish!” the excited fisherman exclaimed.
He made another cast and again, his rod bent like it never had before and almost pulled him in. The line broke and he could swear he heard a laugh.
“Lake haunted!” he said as he picked up his gear ad ran backward toward his Toyota pickup. Others tried to fish out of that spot and they all got the same result. The Vietnamese knew what a big fish felt like on the end of their line. This was no fish. Fear ran through the community as the legend of Skipjack Lux grew.
Never again would any of them try to fish on this part of the lake because they knew, they were the bait. The master fisherman waited patiently in the stillness of the deep.
Did you enjoy this story? It's one of the stories coming out in my new book, Living at the Lake, coming out in kindle format later this year. Be sure to check out my other kindle books on amazon.com. Enjoy! Here's the link: http://amzn.to/2kIeLXd
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