WIWAB - Got one

He retrieved the two rods-and-reels from the ground near the car, pulled the worm bucket from the cooler, and picked up his tackle box. "OK, down the bank once more. Careful."

The bank was getting easier to negotiate each time we used it. I made it to the bottom, took my rod from him and we walked up the bar to where the minnow buckets were. "Let's cross over.", he said. "Don't want to disturb the poles we set." and started across the river to the sand bar on the other side -- upstream this time.

I splashed through the shallow water behind him. The sand bar was in the sun, the river curving away on our left. The far side was in the shade. The water ran deep and cool there. The bank dropped steeply into the water.

We hooked nightcrawlers from the bucket to our lines - just once right through their 'nose'. Heavy lead shot was crimped around the monofilament line a couple feet above the hook. We waded out into the stream. "Cast as close to the bank as you can." I immediately threw mine into a tree over hanging the water. I pulled and it popped loose. I cast again and this time got the worm in the water. Not too near the bank, but good enough for me. And so we stood with the sun in our faces and the water swirling around our legs. It was quiet. Clouds of insects swirled above the water. Water skimmers danced across the surface. Once in a while a breeze above us would make the tops of the oaks and maples whisper like they were telling secrets to each other. Was the secret "There's no fish where they're fishing."?

We reeled in and recast three or four times with nothing. Dad walked upstream 50 yards or so and cast again. I walked a few yards farther upstream from him and made my cast.

Just as my worm hit the water I heard from my left "Ho! Got one." He had the tip of the rod high in the air, the butt braced against his stomach. The rod bent slightly and then seemed suddenly to bend nearly double. "Good one. He wants to get into that brush pile and break my line. Look at him go." With that the line shot off up the river. The reel sang as the fish pulled line from the spool. Then it turned and swam straight at my father. He reeled fast to keep the line tight and the rod bent. As the fish reached shallow water it again turned and swam toward the shadows of the far bank. Again the reel whined as line disappeared off of it. The rod stayed bent the whole time. "Can't do a damn thing with him. It's a good one, I think." And for five minutes that seemed like an hour, he battled the fish.

Eventually, constant pressure of fighting the bend in the rod wore the fish down. Dad reeled him close and then began backing toward the sand bar. Once he stood on the shore he dragged the fish up onto the sand. It was a catfish. Its mouth gaped open and closed. It flexed its scaleless body and flopped in the sand. "You've got to watch out for the barbs.", he said reaching to pick up the fish. Despite the warning to me, he almost always came home cut by the sharp spines on catfish fins. He lifted the fish and worked the hook from its mouth. He dunked it in the river, washing off the sand. "Well, we got one anyway." and in answer the fish let out a croak. "And he's not happy to be the one." The fish struggled and its black 'whiskers' waved.

"We'll put him on the stringer. Get it for me, will yah?" I lay my rod in the sand and ran to the tackle box. I brought the line stringer to him. He ran the pointed metal end into the fish's mouth and out the gill opening then threaded the point through the ring at the other end of the stringer. "Well, we didn't get skunked. Find me a good stout stick." I ran across the sand bar to the bank looking for a stick and finding one I hoped would work and ran back to him. "Perfect. Push it deep as you can into the sand by the water." He tested my work with a wiggle from his free hand, then tied the stringer to the stick.

He tossed the fish out into the shallow water near the shore where it began slowly swimming back and forth at the end of its tether.

"Let's get another."