Sammy's First Fishing Contest

After a long evening of shooting around with Nerf guns and water guns in the backyard with my friend, it turned 6:00 PM (the time of our curfew), and my friend needed to go home.

"I'll see you tomorrow after breakfast." I said, walking to my grandma's house.

"I won't be home tomorrow," he said, giving me a guilty glance. "Dad is taking me to a kid's fishing contest. Have you ever gone fishing?"

"Grandpa Willie took me a few times," I said in a tone that would convey excitement, as if to tell him that I'd love to join. "I started fishing at six; same age you are now."

"That's cool," he said, standing with his hands deep in his pockets. I'm four years older than him, and if he took me along, I might have a better chance of winning the contest, especially since Willie taught me how to set the hook. "If we catch any fish," he said, now scratching the back of his neck, "I'll see if my parents can give you and your family some. I'm sure they won't mind. We're not much for fish eaters."

I was surprised and delighted to hear that, but I was bummed he didn't think about asking his dad if I could come along. "Sounds swell. Maybe we can hang out after you get home tomorrow?"

"I will if I don't have any chores."

"We'll wait and see. Good luck tomorrow."

"Thanks Sammy. I'll see you tomorrow after fishing."

We parted ways; he went back to his home, and I went back to my grandparents. Before walking through the screen door, I saw through the glass window my grandma and grandpa standing with their lips pressed together. Standing there between the living room and dining room in the hallway, Laura wore her long sleeve embroidered t-shirt while Willie wore his heavy blue overalls and a tobacco-stained flannel shirt. He wore a dirty trucker cap and heavy boots covered in dried grass from the lawn. As soon as I pressed my thumb on the screen door handle, grandma and grandpa jolted themselves apart like two magnets of similar poles. They looked at me aghast, mouths agape, and eyes locked onto mine. Then Grandma Laura said: "I thought you were going to be with your friend?"

"It's a little past curfew. He needs to go to bed early tonight," I said, almost in a hushed tone, noticing the sweat on Grandpa Willie's forehead. Then I said a trifle louder, "he's going fishing tomorrow with his dad and must wake up early. I thought I'd come inside the house and watch some toons."

"That's okay," said Grandma. "You frightened us. You should find yourself something to watch if that's what you want to do. Dinner will be starting soon."

I went into the living room, flopped on the couch, and turned on Samurai Jack with the remote.

My grandparents went to their recliners. Grandma went to embroider a sheet, and Grandpa was spitting Copenhagen into a metal can labeled Folgers.

Suddenly, there was an urgent rap at the door. Looking toward my grandparents, I noticed they were looking at each other with looks of confusion.

"You want to get the door?" Grandma Laura asked Grandpa Willie, who looked back at her displeased and uncertain.

"If I have too," he replied, turning that rough look into an awkward grin.

He walked to the door like a weary lumberman. And he was a self-employed lumberman many years ago. He also worked with upholstery, mostly restoring furniture and building recliners, sofas, and chairs. He had an entire room that was filled with sewing instruments, such as an old sewing machine that took up half the room, boxes of patches and fabric, jars that were once full of pickles but now full of zippers, needles, thread, and unused swatches of fabric. When grandpa arrived at the front door to see who was knocking, he let out a deep sigh and continued to disconnect the two chains, unbolting the door as well. He opened it, and from the sofa, I heard the sounds of another male's voice. It sounded deep. At first, I didn't recognize the voice, nor could I make out what the person had said, then my grandpa motioned me over with a stare and the wave of his callused hand.

My heart started to race as if I had too much cotton candy.

When I walked to Grandpa, I was surprised to see my friend behind his dad who was holding open the screen door. I was filled with excitement, and in a way, I knew where this was going. His dad said, "Sammy, how does it sound we take you fishing with us? There's a derby tomorrow. Interested?"

My eyes shot wide open, especially seeing my younger friend interlocking his fingers over his head and dropping his jaw open in a silent squeal.

"I don't have a fishing pole with me. Mine's in Springfield, since I'm only visiting my grandparents for the weekend. If you have another pole, I'd love to join," I said, feeling hopeful.

"That's no problem. Got many, actually, all in the shed that we barely use."

"That would be rad," I said, turning to my grandma and grandpa. "May I go tomorrow? Please. I'd love to go. I've never been in a contest."

"Sure," Grandma said. "That would be fine."

Grandpa continued, "That'll be good for the kid. What time tomorrow?"

"The contest starts early at seven." My friend's dad held a dimly lit cigarette in his hand. "How does coming over at six in the morning sound?"

"Sounds fine to me," replied Grandpa. He nodded in my direction.

"I'll see you at six then, Sammy."

"Thank you. I'm so nervous." I heard my six-year-old friend let out a squeal. I jumped up and clapped my hands together.

"See you tomorrow, Sammy." My friend's dad said, nodding toward Grandpa Willy and releasing the screen door from his grip. My friend jumped off the porch; his dad puffed on half of a cigarette.

Grandpa Willie shut the door and locked the many locking mechanisms. I looked to Grandma Laura and said: "Thank you for letting me go tomorrow."

She nodded and continued her embroidery project. It was a pink rose on a pillowcase.

The next morning, I heard a loud thud. It was followed by several footsteps. I was half asleep; my eyes were shut, and my face was hidden under a blanket. I felt hands on my shoulders shake me. "Sammy, Sammy," I heard, then I pulled my blankets down. "It's time to wake up."

"What?" I said, groaning, looking at Grandpa Willy.

"It's 5:30 AM. You're going fishing, remember?"

"Okay, okay." I said, squeezing my pillow. "I'll be out in a minute."

When I arrived at the breakfast table, I saw a plate of waffles, already buttered, surrounded by different bottles of syrup. The waffles were fluffy, warm, and they filled the kitchen with a battery aroma. There was a plate of crispy bacon and buttered toast, sitting next to a bottle of orange juice and a set of plastic cups. The last item on the table was a radio clock that read: 5:37 AM. I was glad that I had already changed into the clothes I wanted to wear and had enough time to eat breakfast.

Seven minutes before six in the morning, I stood on my grandparents' porch, satisfied from breakfast, and looked through the screen door, telling my grandparents goodbye. Grandma said, "Bring us home some supper!"

"I'll do my best," I said, waving at them through the crosshatches of the screen.

When I arrived next door, I saw my friend's dad sliding a stack of fishing poles into the back of his truck. He wore Carhartt boots, black Wrangler jeans, and a grey sleeveless t-shirt. He looked over at me and said with an unlit cigarette hanging off the side of his mouth, "Oh, hey there. Good morning. I didn't see you there. I'm loading up now."

I heard a door open and close, so I turned to face the direction of the sound, which was their porch, and I saw my friend scramble down the stairs. His mom was locking the door. His mom wore blue jeans and a light grey jacket that was far too large for her. My friend wore a light wind jacket and blue jeans. He went up to me and said: "Are you excited? You ready to fish?"

"Oh yeah, I'm going to catch the first."

"No, I'm going to catch the first."

"No, me."

"No... me."

"No, me."

"Boys," my friend's dad said. "Let's get going. Hop in the truck."

I sat in the back seat next to my friend who looked out the window, bouncing up and down on the seat. I didn't mind his childish behaviors; it reminded that he was four years younger than me. I always wanted to be an example to him, especially since I was older. His mom was in the passenger seat as his dad drove the truck, lighting up his Camel cigarette and rolling down the window for his arm to hang out. As the truck drove out of the driveway, he said, "Alright, kids. We are going to the Junction City Pond. Today is their annual derby. I know you both are excited; we are too. You will be more excited to hear that they stocked the pond up with hungry fish last night, just for the competition."

I gasped, looking over to my left; I saw my friend with both hands covering his mouth. I heard him make another squeal.

"Now, my wife and I won't be fishing," my friend's dad said, "this is an event made to help kids learn to fish, so we will be there to help tie lures, cast, and reel-in fish. We have all the supplies you kids need."

"Okay," I said, giving my friend a fist bump, who looked so ecstatic that his ears might've released steam if that were possible. I did imagine it at that moment.

After a 45-minute drive, we arrived at the Junction City Pond. I noticed my friend's persona changed. He was a bit quieter and more reserved.

The truck pulled into the parking lot where I saw many other vehicles and a large crowd of people.

My friend sank deeper and deeper into his seat.

I looked out the window feeling anxious, although wanting everyone here to see my superb fishing abilities. I learned from Grandpa Willy. I knew how to tie on a hook, attach sinkers, and use bait. I knew how to cast, set the hook, and reel-in. Willy taught me fishing four years prior and took me out several times to places like Fern Ridge Lake, Siuslaw River, Sutton Lake, The Long Tom River (although he hated that spot), and many other freshwater locations.

When we left the truck, we were in a parking lot with many angled parked cars on gravel. There was a tent set up near the restrooms, a large speaker system, and a man who was the announcer. He picked up a megaphone. I heard the man from the parking lot announce, "Derby starts in fifteen minutes. Find your places."

My friend's dad got our attention by letting out a loud whistle. We turned to see him standing to the left of the dock, which was the only fishing dock at the entire pond. He looked to us with red on his cheeks, wearing reflective sunglasses, and said to us, "Over here, boys. Here's the best spot."

"Grab those chairs from the back." My friend's mom said.

I climbed into the back of the truck by stepping on the top of the back tire, holding onto the side of the truck and hoisting myself into the back. I handed four folded up chairs to my friend, who then sat them on the ground while his mom relayed them over to the fishing spot.

After all the chairs were removed, I scanned my eyes around the parking lot, seeing it filled with cars and people all over. I estimated about 150 to 200 people were there that morning. I climbed out from the truck and went over to our fishing spot, the place where four chairs sat next to one another. There were rod holders in front of the two chairs on the right side. I walked to one chair, the farthest one on the right, and sat myself down. My friend sat next to me, and shortly after finding our seats, his dad brought over our fishing poles.

I tied the hook onto the line, added two sinkers, and applied chartreuse Powerbait to the hook. The speed at which I tied the hook impressed everyone who saw me do it, especially my friend, who gave his pole over to his dad to rig it up.

The announcer spoke through the speakers saying, "When I fire my gun, cast your poles. I wish you all the best of luck." I looked in his direction and saw him point his cap gun (marked by the orange tip) to the sky; he pulled the trigger, then I heard the snap of a shot.

I tossed out my line, and first try, it went a considerable distance of at least thirty-five to forty feet away, not bad for this little rod. I saw kids standing on the other side with their parents, casting out their lines as well. My friend's dad tossed my friend's line considerably further and far to the left of my line, but I felt confident in my cast. I didn't want to cast it out to the middle of the pond and perhaps get it tied up with someone's line.

Sitting for roughly forty-five minutes, I had no luck, no bites whatsoever. I reeled in my line, and after seeing the bait mocking me on the hook, I pouted in my seat. "Why no bites?" I asked. Nobody answered. My friend had no bites either. I casted the line out again back to where I had it. Within forty-five minutes, I saw three kids on the dock catch some decent trout. None of us, however, on the chairs to the left of the dock had any luck.

There was a man sitting on a park bench behind us who wore a blue jean jacket and matching blue jean pants. He wore cowboy boots and a slouch hat. He came up to me, and in a real noble, soft masculine voice he said, "Reel it in."

"Okay," I said, noticing my friend's family taking no notice of the man talking to me.

"I want you to cast it a bit further." He dropped to a knee next to me.

"Okay." I tossed out my hook further, again noticing the gentleness in his voice.

The man studied diligently where the hook landed for what felt like a couple minutes and said, "Do it again, but further."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

I reeled in the line once again, tossed it out, and watched it land a bit further.

"Do it again." The man said. "Further."

"Seriously?"

"Do it. Out there, but not too far. See that ripple on the water?"

I did. I reeled in the line a third time, tossed it out, and watched it land even further.

"That's good. Now, after tightening the line, put the pole in the rod holder, and don't touch it until you get a bite," the man said, turning around and reclaiming his seat on the park bench.

My friend and his parents never looked over and noticed the man who spoke to me during that engagement.

I waited for over an hour, sitting on the seat and spacing off toward the tip of my pole. I looked back toward the man, who kept a close eye on me and mouthed, "Wait."

It felt like another hour of waiting. When I looked back to find the man, he was gone, and his seat was empty. A group of kids started flocking to the bench. No matter where I swiveled my head around to find the man, I could not find him. I looked to the dock and saw kids with buckets of trout, perch, crappie, catfish, and even some carp. But I didn't see the man. The contest was for trout. I had the goal to catch the biggest and best one. My friend had no bites either, and although his parents helped him the most, casting and re-casting, they had no luck, and neither did I. The temptation to reel in the rod was strong. I thought my bait might've fallen off by now.

Something, however, inside told me to wait, just as the man in blue had told me to do. My friend reeled in his line many times. He had no luck despite tossing it back out there over and over with different kinds of Powerbait. Kids around us were catching great fish. Hours into our angling, doubt started to seep through, and I wondered if either of us would ever catch a fish. Maybe Powerbait is to blame?

I wanted to walk around the pond and ask what bait people were using, but seeing the pole in the holder kept me planted on my seat. I didn't want to leave and have a bite. I often went into my thoughts sitting there, especially thinking about a time when I was fishing at The Long Time River between Veneta and Elmira. I caught carp, catfish, and trout, all while I was between the ages of six and nine. I believed I had more luck at The Long Tom River than the JC Pond (although Grandpa Willy abhorred The Long Tom).

Suddenly, the tip of my fishing pole bobbed down, and the zipping sound of my reel let out a loud whistle. It first caught my attention, then the attention of my friend and his parents, and other kids nearby who were holding their fishing poles next to their parents, uncles, aunts, and whoever else was there. I felt stares from all directions, so I knew I had a fish on my line and what I needed to do. I grabbed my fishing pole, flicked it up, and I set the hook in the fish's mouth. I now found myself standing along the pond's shoreline.

I remembered about a year prior fishing at The Long Tom River where I caught a carp that was half my size. As I reeled in the fish, the hook came loose, stopping the giant fish on the clay shoreline, flopping and rolling back into the river. However, I jumped onto the carp, wrestled the fish until my mom came over with a net and secured it. We threw the carp into the oven for dinner that night.

Recalling the strength I had that day, I retained a firm grip on that foreign fishing pole, one that felt so strange in my hands. It had 12 lbs. test line which was much different than the 35 lbs. test line that I had back home on my reel. I told myself that this would have to do, and as I held my grip, I saw through the sparkling water the rainbow stripe on the side of the fish. It had to be huge. I saw several people nearby reel in their lines, so that our lines don't tangle together, and become a huge debacle. My friend's dad grabbed the fishing net and brought it under the fish. When he pulled the fish to shore, I noticed the effort it took him to keep a strong wide stance. I was impressed by the strength of my friend's dad, who had a cigarette hanging out from his mouth. He took the fish over to one of the buckets with water in it and said, "Yeah buddy this is a good one."

I scrolled my eyes side to side in search for the man in blue, but I still couldn't find him anywhere. I looked toward the bench, but the man was not there, nor at the dock, nor anywhere in the parking lot. He wasn't to my left either where the thick bushes reached out into and around the pond. I didn't focus on my friend's dad who seemed more interested with getting the hook out of the fish's mouth. I desired for that mystery man to see my catch, but he was no longer in sight.

"It's 24.5 inches long... good grief," my friend's dad cheered, extending a tape measure into the bucket while holding up the fish under the gills. "This will definitely be a contender for the grand prize."

My friend stood next to his dad who was looking into the bucket, motioning for me to come over. I stomped over in my rubber boots, the kind with rounded loops at the top. I looked in the bucket and saw about half a foot of water and the long-curved body of my trout submerged and splashing in it. Kids from the dock came up and looked into the bucket as well, congratulating me and asking me what bait I was using.

"Powerbait," I said. "I used Powerbait."

"That's a great catch." My friend's dad said again, "Congrats. Let's catch some more. Perhaps it's time for them to start biting."

"Alright," I replied, walking back to my pole to apply more bait and recast my hook.

After casting, I heard a loud yelp from next to me. It was my friend holding a bobbing pole. He was reeling faster than I ever saw a person reel. "Careful there, not so fast. Don't want to lose it," his dad said, reaching underneath his chair for the net. My friend didn't listen, but somehow, the fish stayed on the hook, and he was able to fight the fish until it came close enough to the shore for his dad to pick it up through the net. It looked equally large as mine, perhaps larger. I saw his dad strain to lift the net from the water once more. He lifted the fish in the net to a different bucket, and I went over to him. My friend's dad worked to unhook the trout, holding the fish under gills. He measured it the same way as mine, then said: "Dang, this beats Sammy. We got a 26 incher right here."

My friend jumped a couple of times, and, after I walked over to my pole, I dropped back down in my seat. I tossed out my pole, and immediately, I caught another fish. "Fish on," I shouted, standing and giving the pole another good sharp tug.

"You got 'nother?" my friend's dad said, pleased and alert, dropping the unhooked trout into the bucket. He went over to me, not without picking up the second net first.

At 3:00 PM, we heard a loud blast from a blow horn, and the announcer on the megaphone said, "Time is up. Reel in your poles, everyone. It's time to announce the winners." By that time, my friend caught seven more fish, and I had caught eight. There was no legal limit since this was a derby. None of ours were as large as our first two catches. We took our largest fish and strung a string through the gills and out the mouth. We carried our fish to an area in the parking lot where the announcer stood on stage, and I saw a long table stretched out on the right. The side nearest the stage had prizes of various sorts such as hats, candy, shirts, tackle boxes, gift cards, gift baskets, and fishing poles. The announcer said, "Each person should go to the table to my left with their biggest fish, and we will compare them to see who caught the biggest." My heart was racing. I felt the pressure of the populated crowd surround me and almost choke me. Although I didn't have a fish as big as my friend, I thought I'd be a contender for at least one of the top prizes, judging by the look of other kids' fish as I walked through the crowd. When we arrived at the table, a teenager with red hair and many freckles took my trout, attached a tag on it, and wrote my name on it. Then they passed the fish along to be measured, weighed, and recorded.

I stood back from the crowd with my friend's family, feeling the overwhelming tension dissipate and fade, but nevertheless grow when I thought about winning a prize in front of all these people. After a rather long moment of waiting, the announcer said, "We have many sponsors to thank for this special annual event." He then listed each sponsor one at a time and gave them each special recognition. This killed the excitement in the air, but I still felt the twitchy nervousness in my hands, sweat sliding down my spine, each breeze felt itchy and cold.

After what felt like fifteen minutes of hearing the recognition of sponsors, the announcer said, "Now I'd like to award the honorable mentions for this fishing event. We have 35 fishing poles and 10 tackle boxes to hand out, all donated by our wonderful sponsors."

He read off several names, but none of them were me. I became worried that my fish wasn't good enough (which I knew wouldn't make sense since the fish in this category were smaller than mine). I believed then that I was in the top three. I looked at the crowd and felt dizzy, unsure how I'd could get up on stage in front of all these people.

"The bronze winner is...," the announcer started, unfolding an envelope with 3rd written on it. "...here it is. Sammy Figura."

I looked at my friend's dad who gave me a toothless grin and pointed toward the stage. "Get your prize, Sammy." I nodded, and then I walked up the side stairs onto the stage and turned to the substantial crowd. I had energy to show an enthusiastic wave to the crowd. I felt blessed and thrilled about the third-place award. I looked to the announcer, who then handed me a fishing pole, a tackle box, and put a hat on my head. While I stood there, I looked to the crowd for the man in blue who helped me earlier. But I didn't see him anywhere. After the applause, I went off-stage to look at the items I won, admiring them.

The announcer gave the second-place prize to my friend. His fear caused him to turn around instead of walking up the stairs. The announcer walked off stage after him and the crowd erupted in laughter. He handed him a pole and a tackle box, which my friend found no issue in picking up. The fishing pole had taped to the reel a gift card in a small envelop that said, 2nd place - Bi-Mart. We all gave my friend a big applause. I felt delighted to see him win second. The announcer put a hat on my friend's head. It was a matching hat. He ran back toward us with all his new items. His mom and dad cheered with their hands in the air; his mom blew kisses in his direction.

"Great job," I said, looking at his freckled face. "I'm proud of you, bud."

"You too. We did it. Yeah!" The 'yeah' sounded like: YEEE-UH!

The first-place winner was announced last. It was a 16-year-old girl and was fishing across the pond. She caught a trout that was 29 inches long. I couldn't believe my ears when I heard how large her trout was, but either way, I was happy to come in third place. I wanted to tell my grandparents and my mom about this. At one point, I didn't think I would catch anything. But thanks to that man in the slouch hat and cowboy boots, I caught a third-place winner. I knew my grandparents and my mom would be proud of me.

After picking up my prize-winning fish from the table and helping load up the truck, I sat on the back seat with my friend as we traveled the many roads that go through Junction City to Elmira and toward my grandparents' home in Veneta. After 45 minutes, we made our way back with two bucketloads of fish. I looked to my friend who had his eyes closed and head leaning against the window sleeping. His dad looked back and said, "Great job."

"One's asleep back there," his wife said.

"Ah, well good job Sammy. That was fun. It really made my day. We don't eat fish, never cared for the taste, or the bones, so we're going to give you and your family all of it."

"No way," I said, trying to keep my volume down for my friend to sleep.

"Yes way," he said. "Your friend doesn't like fish; he hates them because he's afraid of choking on the bones."

"Are you sure about it?"

"Of course. Please take the fish. Less cooking for us to worry about. And less in the freezer," his wife said. "Just bring the buckets back after putting the trout in the freezer."

"Okay. Thank you for taking me to my first fishing contest. I had fun."

"You're welcome, Sammy," she said, looking at me with a warm smile from the passenger's seat, reaching for a Camel cigarette from her husband's half-empty pack.

Above * Picture of my friend (right) and myself (left) at the fishing contest in Junction City, Oregon.