“We’ll have to beach him,” I replied. “Work your way toward shore, but take it easy. I want this fish and I’m willing to fight him all day if necessary.” The fish rolled and wallowed near the surface, but I had to hold my rod well up to keep him there. He seemed to want to dive deep again, but his fighting powers were waning and I had full control. Would the knot where the line met the leader hold— would the plug pull from his mouth—would my rod snap? The next ten minutes gave my heart the greatest strain it will ever endure. When we had worked the fish within ten or fifteen feet of the beach I directed Phil to leap from the boat and gaff the fish, then haul him to shore, and I didn’t care how far up the beach he pulled him, either. Phil did a swell job. He made his way slowly and carefully toward the big wallowing musky, gaff in hand ready for the final operation. He looked funny in the waters up to his waist, raincoat still on and bulging around him as the air entered underneath. His hat was a mess on his head—wet and out of shape, but still glistening with bass bugs, spinners and flies. I was getting more excited as I realized how many big fish have been lost at this point of the battle. It’s difficult for me to recall exactly what happened next, but there stood Phil on the shore beside the fish, its glistening body looking like something that weighed all of one hundred pounds. I wilted in the boat, and I know that my son, who is 23 years old, was a nervous wreck, for he was pale and trembling. We loaded the fish into the boat, cranked the little two-and-onehalf horsepower outboard, and sped around Moccasin Bar back
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