In “From the Back Deck,” columnist Rob Newell takes a lighthearted look at all aspects of competitive fishing – from pre-tournament meeting to post-tournament celebration.
Fighting a big bass during a tournament is the most potent drug in the world. The trembling hands and shaky knees that follow the battle are subtle reminders of the natural high.
How people act under such a powerful spell is part of the magic of our sport.
I can distinctly remember a piece of video where Rick Clunn and Larry Nixon are gunning for the title. At one point Clunn catches a nice bass on a rattling lipless crankbait. As he is unhooking the fish, Clunn’s intense excitement is given away by the bait rattling in his hand.
From off-camera someone yelled, “Rick, it looks like you are shaking a little bit.”
Without hesitation Clunn replied, “If you ever stop shaking, you need to find something else to do.”
Right on, brother.
After a lifetime of catching bass, Clunn makes no excuses or apologies for shaking uncontrollably with the excitement of a good fish. I have had the privilege of fishing with Clunn on several occasions, and he still gets shook up when he catches a nice bass – even in practice.
In fact, I have fished with several seasoned veterans who have to stop and take a few deep breaths to control the shakes after battling a big bass.
Getting all shook up over a big fish is a phenomenon that never goes away. Sometimes, the shakes even make anglers do some pretty wild things.
I’ve seen the most subdue anglers suddenly become break dancing fanatics in the frenzied excitement of fighting a big fish. They kind of squat down and shimmy to the left and shimmy to the right, do a couple of knee spins, and then lie down and do “the caterpillar” across the deck to untangle the fish from a brush pile.
Other times, I have seen 250-pound men morph into agile athletes as they run between the front and rear decks, leaping over seats and consoles like Olympic hurdlers.
Some guys lose their sense of depth perception when playing a big fish. I remember one pro on Lake St. Clair who hooked a huge smallmouth at the end of a long cast. As soon as he hooked it, the big brown fish jumped and the he started screaming, “NET HIM! NET HIM!”
I remember thinking, “Well, the handle on your net won’t reach quite that far.”
Big fish can also bring out the know-it-all in an angler. I’ve seen solemn anglers catch big fish and suddenly become experts on everything from the microscopic pigmentation of crawfish to interplanetary travel and everything in between.
Of course, it is easy for me to poke fun. The truth of the matter is that when it comes to playing a big fish in a tournament, I turn into a massive spaz.
My biggest problem is an uncontrollable urge to run. Maybe it’s because the first fish I caught as a child, I did exactly that. I threw the rod over my shoulder and ran up the bank to land the fish. That effective technique must have imprinted on me.
When I set the hook and the rod bows, I totally forget about that handy device in my hand called a reel. Instead, I run down the length of the boat until I bump into my pro partner at the other end.
The bigger the fish is, and the closer it gets to the boat, the more of a tornado I become. Suddenly, I am tripping over seats, getting myself tangled in the net, and somehow hooking my partner’s lure on my pants leg.
I can turn an otherwise pleasant day of fishing into 20 seconds of pure chaotic mayhem. My pro partner usually goes from just trying to net my fish to protecting himself, and me for that matter, from harm.
If we actually get the fish in the boat without losing rods, reels or eyeballs, it’s a miracle.
Maybe someday I will be able to calmly play a big fish to the boat, net it, put it in the livewell and make another cast without the slightest tremble.
Then again, if that happened, I would have to find something else to do.