El Gran Catan II

Martie Vela
Mar 25
3 min read

The warmth of the room woke him up. He was laying on the couch, his skin moistened with sweat. The afternoon was hot. He didn’t know how long he had slept. He could hear the birds singing seemingly in deep conversation, perhaps complaining about the heat. The flies and bees were buzzing around the lakeside. He sat up and reached around the side of the couch for his tackle. His bait was on his mind. He imagined the silver spoon swimming in the murky water, the hungry fish chasing it; the bite and hook. He took out a silver spoon with blue etchings. He studied it closely and let the sun catch the colors. He looked at a smaller bait with feathers known as a rooster. He grappled with the idea of one over the other and set up two rods. He didn’t compromise his gut instinct.

He grabbed a third rod and stuck a red worm on the hook. He had three more rods rigged for catan. He could never take too many. It always became an internal argument for him. He poured hot coffee in a mug and sealed it. He packed three Miller lights and a jug of water. He put everything in a backpack and put the rods in a green bucket that also had a cast net, scissors, pliers, gloves, and a flashlight. He liked to read the weekly fishing report from the week before. “Full of shit,” he mumbled as he read the report. “He always leaves out details, I know this isn’t complete,” he complained of the author. He headed toward the back door. He walked down the hill to the lakeside. It was a familiar walk. It looked close from the house, but the sweat was beating above his lip and down his high cheeks. His dark hair glistened. It was a humid afternoon. There were sudden bursts of cool air on the slope toward the water. He could hear boat engines moving; the vibration echoing.

As darkness took over, the bopper rested on the water, gliding and occasionally jumping. The red and white ball danced around the top of the water. Suddenly a tug of the bopper pulled it under. There was a swirl in the water and a gurgling noise. The line screamed. It was instant and whatever took it was moving fast. He loosened the drag, a trick to give the animal some rope to keep moving. The game was a long one. It was one to exhaust. The fish or the man. One would give. Tonight, it would be fish. He slowly reeled in any rods within arm’s length. He set them aside and still didn’t feel much movement on the live rod. He looked at the moon. He admired the stars. He was trying to be patient. A quick move could ruin the catch. He waited for the thump. Boom the tug was hard and the line screamed again. The rod was rattling with the line flushing through.

He looked up at the moon again. He calculated thirty minutes had passed. The tug was still tight, the fish occasionally coming up for aggressive splashes while it fought to get loose. He pivoted on the strength of his legs. Opening his lunge taking the weight off of his back, he slipped on a rock and almost let go of the rod, composing himself to fight again. Every indication was that it was a catan. A big wild one.

He kept reeling, using his breath skillfully to keep the weight flowing with the tugs. The line went left with one, two, and three tight tugs. It was moving fast. He tightened the line. He continued to flow the line in steadily. Suddenly, the fish splashed up and sprayed him with water, but it was dark. He was sure it was the end of the fight. The line darted right and sped north. He repositioned the rod on his stomach and reeled faster. The line went quiet. He continued to reel. A huge splash scared him. It was right in front of him. He reeled hard. He brought it up and pulled with all of his strength. It was a twenty-pound catfish. He was catfished.

@Martie Garcia Vela

@Martie

Disclaimer: This is an editorial, not a love letter. The views expressed here are based on documented facts, sworn depositions, and publicly available records. Any opinions are the author’s own and don’t claim to represent legal advice, divine truth, or the official position of FRONTeras.

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