I learned this early on in my fishing career. Not many of my fifteen-year-old peers appreciated the sport as much as I did. One summer night, bored of television, I convince my best friend to do some evening fishing. He reluctantly found his fathers pole and we made our way to the lake. I patiently worked the edge of the cove with my rapala, as my restless partner casted furiously in every direction. He swung over his head and to the side. He casted the rod hard tiring to reach deepest water he could. Much like a novice golfer who hits the ball with all his might only to land in the trap and not send his ball any further than the experienced players. I gave him a few pointers as the sun disappear below the horizon. I could here is rod whipping in the night air. Just before I was about to call it a night WHACK I felt the sting of the rod tip across the center of my back. I winced in pain as I realized I was hooked. When we got back to the house we surveyed the damage. Two of the three treble hooks were embedded under the skin, as well as a tell tale welt in the shape of a rod tip and eye. My untraditional father, who feels he’s medically qualified, calmly entered the room with a pair of needle nosed pliers. What happened next remains a little fuzzy but when I came to the hooks were out. I learned two important things that night, leave the doctoring to the doctors and the fishing to the fisherman.

eric