Facing the Flop.

August 17, 2014 - Jessica's return to fisherwomanship.

The real-life setting of this true story.

I'm from the northwoods of rural Wisconsin. If you don't like (or can't tolerate) fishing, hunting, ATVs, football, and mosquitoes, you can't live here. Not because we wouldn't welcome you - we're very agreeable people - but because you would die of boredom and blood loss (those skeeters are pretty feisty). I grew up skiing, traipsing through the woods with my dad, feeling the tension of Packers vs. Vikings games, and going fishing.

As fourth of five daughters, I can't say my family was one to make fishing a sport; it was more of a pastime. Anywho, in all the fishing experiences I've had throughout my life, one thing has always been true: I do not like when fish flop. Actually, I hate the flopping of fish. Detest. Loathe. Despise. It sends shivers through my spine and I inevitably utter some sort of guttural sound of disgust. Even as a small child I couldn't handle the unpredictable gyrations of the small, slimy, underwater creature - when I was on duty to help clean the fish, I always approached the task with two weapons: a fish scaler and whatever I could find that would serve as a small mallet. The utilization of the first was self-explanatory; the latter was the render the fish unconscious so that I could do the deed without enduring the fish's struggle.

On August 17, I faced my fear of the flop.

I've always gone fishing with Dad and/or one of many uncles who find fishing fun and can help me with the parts of fishing that I'm not so good at. I don't have a problem baiting the hook, casting the line, or landing the fish. My problem lies in removing the fish from the hook (or vice versa). You see, when a fish is caught on a sharp barb attached to a thin filament line and yanked out of its watery home, it freaks out a little bit, and this freakout session is manifested through flopping (please see preceding paragraph for why this is an issue). In order for any fisherman or fisherwoman to remove the hook from the fish, they must take firm hold of both the hook and the fish, which is generally complicated by flopping of one of these members.

A bluegill. Is this not at least a little bit frightening?

Here's another important tidbit of information for those of you less informed on northern Wisconsin aquatic wildlife: bluegills are not ready to be prey. This small species of panfish comes equipped with razor spines of death running the length of its back and part of its belly. Coupled with the ancient kinesthetic art of flopping, this makes these small fishes a formidable opponent. And really kinda scary.

I've always had Dad or an uncle remove the fish from the hook, except in some cases of ice fishing in which I could pin the flopper to the ice using my gloved fist. But August 17 is not a date predisposed to ice fishing; no, our adventurous group of four (me, a couple sexagenarians, and an nonagenarian) set out on the open water of No-No Lake by way of pontoon boat. The first few catches were just small fry to be returned to the water, and after a few tries of unsetting the hook on my own with some audible grunting and yelps, I turned the line over to Dad with chagrin.

"I'm going to take the next keeper off by myself!" I cried. Then I wished I hadn't cried aloud; then I felt I would cry. My unmitigated outburst of self-confidence had been heard by 2/3 of the crew and they assured me they'd hold me to my claim; I was as trapped as my next catch. I cast my line out again as I tried to talk my way into a compromise. I'd hardly started into my spiel when my bobber started dancing and plunged out of sight. A good-sized bluegill - a "keeper", no doubt - flashed its razor sharp spines as I reeled it into the boat. I set down the pole and grabbed hold of the line, gritting my teeth and steeling myself against the inevitable shudders. I lowered my hand toward the fish, gingerly reaching out with my fingertips, lightly brushing across the fish's slimy side... FLOP.
I jumped, rocking the boat in the process and rustling up giggles from my somewhat sympathizing compatriots.
I tried again, with more teeth gritting and shoulders hunched, just waiting for the fish's next move.

FLOP.
*yelp*
FLOP FLOP.
*grunt*
FLOP FLOP spin wriggle.
*mumble grunt*

On the struggle went for a very lengthy 35 seconds. I finally grabbed hold of the fish with the most awkward pincer grip ever utilized and began working the hook.

FLOP.

Dad offered tutoring on the correct hand positioning once more. By this time, the fish was tiring; my own endurance (and ability of breathing out of water) was proving helpful. I gingerly slid my thumb down the fish's back, pinning down its weaponized dorsal fin, wrapping my white-knuckled fingers around the mini monster, then dislodging the hook.

Oh, the satisfaction.




"'Come, follow Me, and I will show you how to fish for people!'" (Matthew 4:19, NLT)

I'm not so good with all the skills needed to be a good fisherwoman. Some are hard. Some make me feel really uncomfortable. Some are scary. But I've got an Expert showing me how to do better. I've just got to follow directions; to take firm hold of both the Hook and the Fish.
And oh, the satisfaction when I do.