We were thrilled when we caught some fish, not very big ones, but, nevertheless, fish. The real drama began, however, after John had caught and landed a fish, and then needed another worm put onto his hook, which my father was occupied in doing for him. I, with my fishing line dipped into the water, stood on my own away from the family, farther along the riverbank, but still well within sight.
Suddenly, I heard and saw, several feet away in the murky brown water, a huge splash, and my rod began to bend immediately. At first, I thought I had caught a fish, so was doing my best to bring him in, but I couldn’t compete with the force of whatever was on the other end of the line. I was panicking, screaming for my father to come, to help me, to hold the fishing rod. The water ahead of me was being churned up, as if it were in a whirlpool. The noise was almost deafening, too, as this so-called fish thrashed around trying to escape. My father ran over to me, instantly grabbing the rod and wrenching it from my hands. He was holding onto it with all his strength, but the rod continued to bend, more and more, till it was like a tightly curved archway. By now, all five of us, including my mother, with her axe, were gathered on the bank of the river, watching in silent awe, as my father did his very best to get that prize catch to shore. His muscles were rippling, his legs set sturdily apart, his entire body bent backwards as he strained against the weight at the other end of my line. Who was going to win this battle? Man, or fish?!
Well, I have to say it wasn’t man, in the end. Despite my father’s Herculean efforts, it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to hold onto the rod, as it bent further and further, amidst the churning waters of that river. We couldn’t see what the fish was, but the spectacle and the noise of its massive attempts to free itself from my hook, were quite terrifying.
It was only in the immediate calm, following the complete disappearance of the rod, as our family stood silently watching the lower part of the rod descend, dragged down through the waves, that my father suddenly said quietly, “I don’t think that was a fish, Susan. It was probably a crocodile, swallowing the fish caught on your hook. That’s why he couldn’t escape.”
“A crocodile?!” I was horrified, imagining what could have happened, if my father had managed to reel it in onto the bank. Would we have been mutilated, or even killed, by that angry creature? How big was the crocodile? Would we have been able to escape?
I was immediately traumatized by the whole experience. So, too, was my mother. I don’t know which of the two of us was the more scared. However, we two females certainly decided, there and then, that we never again wanted to go on a family fishing expedition.
And we never did.
In any case, I no longer had a fishing rod, did I?
