A Fishing Trip

Part of the One Page Series

The grey sky threatened a storm, but that was not going to deter Lancaster. The sky rumbled like a thousand drums as he pushed his small motor boat into the river. Rumors had spread all over town of a gigantic bass that swallowed men and boats whole. Even in his 60s, Lancaster had a young man’s courage, though most called it folly when he said he would go alone. He had a young man’s pride as well and he wanted to catch and kill the beast himself.

His boat tranquilly floated down river and with lines cast and spears and hooks ready, all he could do now was wait. He wore his prized boots that he won 20 years ago, a reminder he had been one of the best fishermen in all of Canada. But his skill had declined over the years and his hauls of fish grew smaller ever year. He told himself it was because the fish population had declined due to too many chowder heads over fishing, but sometimes he spent sleepless nights thinking he had lost his edge.

As his boat listed around the bend, he saw the bass. Even far off, its size was incredible. Its tail fin broke the surface of the river and it was headed towards the boat. Lancaster grabbed his spear as lightning crashed behind the mountain. Close came the bass and Lancaster held his breath.

The beast was all the more unsightly by its gigantic size. Its green scales glowed rancidly and its huge black eye looked directly at Lancaster. He thrust his spear just as the thunder crashed and he missed the heart, the spear skidding off the scales. The bass flailed and turned the boat over with its tail fin. Lancaster was now underwater, clutching his spear. The bass’ mouth opened as wide as a cavern and inside was black. The vacuum effect swallowed Lancaster and his spear.

The bass closed its mouth and Lancaster felt his left shoulder dislocate. He was drowning inside the bass and he heard the rhythmic thump of its heart. He drove the spear in all directions, one handed, flailing like a fish out of water. He could not see, but he felt the blood pouring into the mouth. The bass opened and closed its mouth, bringing in light. Lancaster thrust the spear towards the opening it landed in the roof of the mouth.

Now the bass could not close its mouth and Lancaster swam out. They had not gone far and he boarded his boat. The great fish flailed and flailed as black blood darkened the river. Lancaster shoved his limp arm back into its socket; his scream echoed off the mountains. He threw more spears at it with lines attached to them. Three of them hit their marks and the fish was dead.

Lancaster, despite the pain and exhaustion, danced a jig on his motor boat. With the lines secured, he headed back to town in the pouring rain, bass in tow. When they took his picture next to the behemoth for the newspaper, his smiled beamed as bright as fresh fallen snow.