The Old Man and the Fish

As dusk fell yesterday, I unscrewed a grayed light bulb after it blew its final pop and headed to the laundry room cupboard to look for a new one with “75W” stamped on its fat nose.

However, I heard a lot of commotion on the deck, so I paused in mid-stride to investigate.  On the other side of the picture window, a 15” bass flip-flopped in mid-air as it hung suspended from a 3” triple-barbed lure (two clusters of 3 barbs each) connected to my hubby’s line and pole.  He’d been fishing along the shoreline, and brought this catch to the house as a show-and-tell.   “I’ll get the camera!” I yelled through the glass.  “Kids, stand by Grampa and you can be in the picture, too!”

As Grampa’s attention shifted from the handsome fish to the attendant prancing grandkids, he also grew careless.  Pow, the fish thrashed and drove one of the lure’s other triple-barbs into the old fisherman’s middle finger.

Being people who are basically water rats at heart, we’ve had our share of hook impalements – but nothing like THIS.  The barb was largely submerged, perhaps at bone level, in the finger’s fleshy pad.  “Grab the fish and HOLD HIM DOWN so he stops yanking my finger!” Grampa bellowed while kneeling on the deck just as I returned with the camera.  “OH MAN THAT HURTS!  OWWWWWWW!”

The kids’ eyes popped wide – the older ones with recognition and the younger ones with curiosity.  I held the fish down with both hands, even as it continued to flop beneath my hold, sticking me with the spines of its dorsal fin. “We need to kill the fish!” I proclaimed.  “Otherwise we can’t get the lure out of his mouth without him jerking you!”

Grampa was reluctant at first, not wanting to sacrifice the fish - one he’d intended to release.  “We’ve got to kill it!” I repeated at least two more times.

“Owwwww – oh MAN!” Grampa moaned.

Mercy! Have mercy, Lord Jesus....

At one point a two-year-old granddaughter slipped behind Grampa and solemnly placed her hand on his shoulder.  It was a firm grasp, and not at all tentative.  He turned briefly to look at her, and she gazed with all due seriousness into his eyes as if to say, “I’m with you.  And I’m so sorry.”  Gulp.  No froth or panic, just compassion.

Our daughter-in-law ran to alert the rescue squad: a neighborly fisherman who de-headed the fish and removed the lure from its mouth. 

The kiddos were herded inside the house by their mama to get ready for bed, and Grampa and I headed for the not-so-local hospital emergency room with the lure dangling from his throbbing finger. He was sweating.  Profusely.  And pale.

At the ER, he received more than the expected anesthetic (two burning-hot shots since the first one didn’t seem to take very well) and then the doc put down the syringe and headed for the door.  “NOW I’m going to get the Big Tools,” he said with a serious nod.  “Be right back.” 

I thought, well sure, surgical tools, he’ll probably end up cutting this thing out.  I pictured scalpels and tweezers and such.  But lo and behold, he returned with a plastic toolbox holding various pliers, wrenches, and other manly tools right from the local farm implement store, except they looked old and well-worn.  Seriously.  I mean these could have been in any average guy’s garage workshop.  No hammer, though, just tools for holding, prying, and grabbing.

We all laughed at the collection.  “Sometimes we just need…the Big Tools,” the doctor chuckled.  He proceeded to cut the barb free from the lure with something that reminded me of my Dad’s old tin clippers (huge, stubby, wide scissors), and then grabbed the cut end of the hook with needle-nose pliers.  After several minutes of firm pushing (he couldn’t get the hook to push out point first), and pulling (he finally reversed his efforts and pulled it out backwards with the barb tearing all the way), the deed was done.

Despite the drama, it all ended well. Today Grampa says he’s had no residual discomfort despite the fact that heavy-duty pain meds were prescribed.  We can’t believe it.  NO pain.  No physical pain, that is.  He’s still very regretful over the fish’s death, which seems so trivial to me under the circumstances.  “That was a beautiful fish,” he said several times today.  “I’m so sorry we couldn’t save it.”

Fishermen.  An interesting breed of humanity.