The Naked Gardener by L B Gschwandtner

fish. I spotted a tail. I cast out and watched the little feather lure float through the air. Arching above the water, the line dropped and landed the white feather slightly beyond and in front of where I’d seen the tail. I jigged it. Jigged it again. Watched the tarpon tail again and then roll, its silver belly like a big crystal log. I jigged the line inches past where I calculated its mouth would be and wham. It hit. Yanked hard at the line. Pulled the rod tip down. I hauled up with all my strength to set the hook in its bony throat. If this was a good set I would have a struggle ahead. If not, the tarpon would spit my hook back out and the rod would snap back up. But it curved down in a half circle, dipping toward the water. A good set. My father and Buddy pulled in their lines.
    I walked my line back along the gunwale following where the fish was headed.
    Buddy was on it in a second. He lifted the pole and leapt onto the bow. He watched the water. Guides spend almost every day year after year out there on the water. They can read a shadow in the water like a lynx on the hunt. They could tell how many fish were in a ripple, what kind of school made a wake, if one fish was hunting another. They could spot the shadow of a tarpon, as it swam alone or in twos or threes in the channels.
    “Set him again,” Buddy yelled. “Set him hard before he jumps.”
    It was too late. The giant fish broke water. It leaped high into the air, its glistening muscular body twisting, head shaking to get rid of the lure. I dropped the rod tip to let up on the tension. If you pulled when the tarpon breached, you’d yank the hook out and lose the fish.
    “Give him slack,” Buddy yelled. “Don’t lose him, now.”
    Down he went flat on his side, splashing water, making waves that rocked the small skiff. I pulled at the rod to raise the tip again, trying to lead the fish toward the boat. But the tarpon had other ideas.
    It plunged down under water again and then it did what no one expected. It started to run. Straight out toward the open Gulf waters. My line sang as the fish pulled it farther and farther. I tried to reset the drag but the line was running too fast. Besides, when you have a hundred plus pound fish on a fifteen pound test line and he’s running away from you, setting the drag too tight will just snap your line.
    Buddy stuck the fourteen foot push pole into the water and started to pole after the fish. He ran the pole along the side of the boat and pulled it up when he reached the very stern, then ran back up to the bow and started again. Over and over he poled after the fish while I hauled my rod tip up against it and reeled in on the downward drop. After fifteen minutes of this, the fish seemed to be running out of steam. Buddy quit poling and I reeled in steadily.
    Finally we could all see the tarpon coming closer to the boat.
    “A monster,” Buddy said. “A cow if I ever saw one. Must be a hundred and forty pounds if he’s an ounce. If you can boat that one, my hat’s off to you.”
    I pulled up on the rod again and reeled the fish closer. Buddy got out the gaff hook. He leaned over the side, getting into position to hook the fish and haul it in for a picture.
    As he held the hook over the water, I walked toward him, pulled the line alongside the boat, steering the fish in for the final catch. The fish came within six feet of the boat and then it leapt into the air completely clearing the water with a huge splash that soaked all three of us. The huge fish thrashed its silver body back and forth and with one last swipe of its tail and fling of its head, spit out the hook, plopped back down into the water and took off like a torpedo. Just when you think you’re in the clear, you’re looking down at an empty hand.
    * * *
    By the time we had eaten and cleaned up, doused the fire and repacked the canoes, the afternoon sun had cleared the trees and was full on us. I had put my pants and T-shirt back on when I emerged