The Fishing Hole in the Wall

Image of grass and water

In the garage

I was in the garage inspecting a hole in the wall. The drywall had to be torn out to repair a leak in the inflow pipe of the water softener. I’d been promising myself to fix it as soon as the weather cooled off. Well, here it is November and I can’t put it off much longer.

I studied the hole for a few minutes. Two pipes ran directly through the center. It was going to be a difficult job to make it look as though there never was a hole in the wall. I started to search through my old wooden toolbox to locate my circle cutter. I was definitely going to need it if I wanted to avoid relying on compound and tape to fix the hole.

The fishing gear

I started clearing a space around the water softener tank to make room to work. I was about to move the fishing rods that were standing next to the tank when I noticed my favorite freshwater rig: a Shimano 4000 Quickfire spinning reel mounted on a Rhino seven-foot solid tipped medium action spinning rod.

I’d been thinking about getting rid of my canoe and gear for some time. I had a valve replacement and aorta reconstruction done almost two years ago. I’m completely recovered now and feeling better than ever; however, I feel I’ve reached a point in my life where the opportunity and the means to write has presented itself and fishing doesn’t hold the same interest.


Fishing is great. The most vivid and memorable dreams I have are about catching fish. On a few rare occasions a fishing trip has an almost dreamlike quality of non stop action. I remember one trip that took place about 10 years ago that qualified as dreamlike.

It was early in the month of September on a Sunday morning. I set out in my canoe in the early morning hours armed with two dozen live Shiners and my spinning outfit.

I paddled out to the lake, then paddled onto a weedbed to secure the canoe in place. I turned around to face the open water and rigged up my first bait. It was a simple rig with an attached weighted float placed about three to four feet above the hook. This would give the bait plenty of room to swim freely.

I cast the first bait and waited. The float soon began to rotate and suddenly it dove under the water. I set the hook and the rodtip began to twitch and bend towards the water. I held the rodtip high, reeled when the fish wasn’t pulling line off the reel and I cupped the reel and applied pressure when the fish pulled line off. The 12 lb. test wore the fish down quickly and soon I was able to place my thumb on the lower jaw of what I guessed to be a four pound Peacock bass.

The rest of the morning went like that—one fish after another—a strike on every cast. Both my thumbs were bleeding from holding the abrasive jaw of the fish while the head shook wildly. I only had a few hooks with me so it was necessary to extract each one. Finally, I ran out of bait, called it quits and headed home. It was a good day.

I had to wear bandages on my thumbs for an entire week. I suppose the stinging sensation I felt when I bent my thumbs was a bittersweet reminder of that morning. Oh well, back to the hole in the wall

One Reply to “The Fishing Hole in the Wall”

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