El Gran Catan

FRONTeras Magazine Vol 1. No. 1

Horacio went to the edge of the lake on the warm April evening as the sun was starting to tighten into the mountains. The walk down to the water was always therapeutic to him. He prayed and meditated with the sun. He played back moments of the line snag, the pull, and the setting of the hook in the stomach of the fish he could not see. He always left the house with the same hope of a fight, a catch. He was a simple man with rugged hands, strong arms, deep brown eyes, and dark hair. He was not one to enjoy the sport with others. He talked to himself as he fought to catch the unassuming pez that ate his bait.

He liked to set up as the sun rose or as the sun set; he meticulously picked his hunting spot. He studied the water quietly as he pulled an old cast net from the corner of his supply set and wound it around his right arm. The toss and pull of the net had become a comfortable motion for him. Often, he found himself casting the net in the air, practicing his swing. He had perfected his wrist movement to get a gliding cast of the net as he sought live bait.

Tonight, as he pulled the net back toward him, he felt something heavy. He pulled and used both arms in a tug of war with the rough brown rope. He immediately noticed the busy catch. It was full of waving tails and the glisten of silvers and blues as the fish caught reflection rays. He plucked nice sized blue gils and some crappie. While filling a bucket with water, he threw back the lucky and tossed the chosen ones into a green bucket. He went to his tools and took out a dark leather case. He slowly unclipped the harness and slid out a sharp, weathered knife. He put his hand in the bucket and took out a scaly, blue-green fish. He put the blade to the fish and made three quick parallel cuts across its body. The blood began to flow onto his hand from the sliced fish, and he put it on a large silver hook. He maneuvered the body onto the hook and twisted the hook through the back end of the fish towards its tail. He tugged at it to ensure that it was firmly placed. He drew the heavy black rod over his back right shoulder and used the strength in his legs and stomach to draw the motion for the longest cast possible. He lunged back and pivoted forward in an orchestrated move to get the bait out into the spot he had chosen in the middle of the quiet lake.

The splash and swoop noise followed as the bait dropped in. The waiting game began. There were a few small tugs. He lured up another rod. He drew a smaller bait from the bucket. He sliced a short angle cut on its body to draw blood. He attached a bell to the rod. He moved to the third line. The cast net action told him the feeding was anxious. The movement was there, and he had a feeling that the full moon in the past few days had spawned a movement. There was opportunity for a monster catan.

He grabbed his biggest rod. He reached in the bucket and pinned the longest, fattest bait. It was feisty and wild. It was not ready to be on any hook. The busy fish flapped and flung. He was able to put it on a hook and quickly move to get the bait back in the water. He had a sudden urge to urinate. He put the rod down and moved toward the brush past the road. As he walked over a rod sang. A bell rang furiously. He rushed to the rod as it flew off the edge and disappeared into the water.

The silence was deafening.

@Martie Garcia Vela

@Martie

Copyright 2025 Martie Garcia Vela for FRONTeras. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.

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.