During the war, which was number two, Cecil ran black-market rubber, stored the tires in the garage attic. Catfish was playing with matches. It wasnât that the garage burned down, but the rationed tires were worth more than the entire house. And if youâve never seen a bunch of tires go up, well, itâs a big black smoke signal for several counties. The police could have been blindfolded and just followed the smell. Those were the deepest of the scars on Jebediahâs buttocks and thighs.
Next to that transgressionâor even in front of itâthe cardinal rule: Never, ever touch Dadâs prized frog-darter fishing lure. It was Cecilâs secret weapon for catching fish, passed down generation to generation from his great-grandfather. And if anything ever happened to it, there would be a beating that would make the Spanish Inquisition wince. Jebediah had seen photos of the record catfish his dad had landed at the lake cabin, thanks to that lure. The boy had never caught a catfish. The frog-darter became the forbidden fruit.
Just before dawn on a Sunday when his pa was running moonshine halfway to Drip Rock, Jebediah took the skiff out on the lake, manning the small motor till at the back of the boat like Bud from Flipper . He anchored at dawn and went to work. Casting and casting, nibble here and there, then thoughts of a big one when the hook snagged something monstrous, but it had just gotten caught on the bottom, and the boy pulled up weeds. Hours passed. The line snapped on another bottom snag. Jeb wiped his brow. He opened his dadâs tackle box for a fresh hook. At the bottom sat the frog-darter. The boy glanced around the lakeâs distant shores. Nobody would ever know. He took a deep breath, then attached the lure and cast.
And you canât make this up: almost immediately a bite from a catfish larger than anything in his dadâs photos. Jeb reeled with all his might. The fish hit the surface a couple times, getting closer to the boat. Suddenly something huge caught the edge of Jebâs eye. What the hell? A great horned owl swooped down and snatched the catfish in its talons and flew off.
The frog-darter still attached.
So now Jeb is reeling again, facing upward as the bird circled the sky over the boat. Finally, it released the fish, which splashed into the water next to the skiff. But something was wrong. The fish wasnât on the line anymore. The owl was. Somehow the lure had pulled from the fishâs mouth and gotten caught in the talons. And the bird was trying to fly off with the darter. This wasnât about a trophy fish anymore; it was survival. Jeb reeled like never before.
The owl slowly came down, flapping spastically with all it had. Come onnnnnnn, please donât break the line. Forty feet, thirty, twenty . . . But how did you land an owl? Jeb freed his right hand to grab a paddle from the bottom of the boat. Frantic reeling resumed. Ten feet, five, three, then all hell broke out. Paddle swinging and missing, wings flapping, screeching, feathers flying. Then a brushing swat from the paddle clipped a wing and more feathers. Every few swings, Jeb began finding his mark. Nothing direct, just glancing blows with only minor effect. But after a while they began adding up. Wham, wham, wham. The owl didnât feel so good anymore, and not flying too well either.
Finally a smack to the head, and the bird spun down into the boat, running around like a chicken in the confined space. Wham . The owl staggered. Wham . It fell over, still. Jeb rushed to retrieve the lure, tugging and twisting. He pricked two of his fingers, drawing blood, but nothing like what awaited him back at the cabin if he didnât get this job done. No luck. It was in one of the talons good with a reverse barb, and Jeb didnât have the right tools in the boat. The task required completion back onshore. The boy pulled up anchor. From his vain work trying to free the lure, Jeb could
Next to that transgressionâor even in front of itâthe cardinal rule: Never, ever touch Dadâs prized frog-darter fishing lure. It was Cecilâs secret weapon for catching fish, passed down generation to generation from his great-grandfather. And if anything ever happened to it, there would be a beating that would make the Spanish Inquisition wince. Jebediah had seen photos of the record catfish his dad had landed at the lake cabin, thanks to that lure. The boy had never caught a catfish. The frog-darter became the forbidden fruit.
Just before dawn on a Sunday when his pa was running moonshine halfway to Drip Rock, Jebediah took the skiff out on the lake, manning the small motor till at the back of the boat like Bud from Flipper . He anchored at dawn and went to work. Casting and casting, nibble here and there, then thoughts of a big one when the hook snagged something monstrous, but it had just gotten caught on the bottom, and the boy pulled up weeds. Hours passed. The line snapped on another bottom snag. Jeb wiped his brow. He opened his dadâs tackle box for a fresh hook. At the bottom sat the frog-darter. The boy glanced around the lakeâs distant shores. Nobody would ever know. He took a deep breath, then attached the lure and cast.
And you canât make this up: almost immediately a bite from a catfish larger than anything in his dadâs photos. Jeb reeled with all his might. The fish hit the surface a couple times, getting closer to the boat. Suddenly something huge caught the edge of Jebâs eye. What the hell? A great horned owl swooped down and snatched the catfish in its talons and flew off.
The frog-darter still attached.
So now Jeb is reeling again, facing upward as the bird circled the sky over the boat. Finally, it released the fish, which splashed into the water next to the skiff. But something was wrong. The fish wasnât on the line anymore. The owl was. Somehow the lure had pulled from the fishâs mouth and gotten caught in the talons. And the bird was trying to fly off with the darter. This wasnât about a trophy fish anymore; it was survival. Jeb reeled like never before.
The owl slowly came down, flapping spastically with all it had. Come onnnnnnn, please donât break the line. Forty feet, thirty, twenty . . . But how did you land an owl? Jeb freed his right hand to grab a paddle from the bottom of the boat. Frantic reeling resumed. Ten feet, five, three, then all hell broke out. Paddle swinging and missing, wings flapping, screeching, feathers flying. Then a brushing swat from the paddle clipped a wing and more feathers. Every few swings, Jeb began finding his mark. Nothing direct, just glancing blows with only minor effect. But after a while they began adding up. Wham, wham, wham. The owl didnât feel so good anymore, and not flying too well either.
Finally a smack to the head, and the bird spun down into the boat, running around like a chicken in the confined space. Wham . The owl staggered. Wham . It fell over, still. Jeb rushed to retrieve the lure, tugging and twisting. He pricked two of his fingers, drawing blood, but nothing like what awaited him back at the cabin if he didnât get this job done. No luck. It was in one of the talons good with a reverse barb, and Jeb didnât have the right tools in the boat. The task required completion back onshore. The boy pulled up anchor. From his vain work trying to free the lure, Jeb could
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