Rocky VII

I’d never had much luck with this surf rod in the past so I had no idea how heavy it quickly got with a five-pound fish and a river pulling against it. I held the rod at the reel base between my right middle and ring fingers while bracing the butt against my forearm for extra support. I felt like Sly Stalone in Over the Top, engaged in the arm wrestling match of my life.
I swung the rod to my left pitting the fish against the current hoping to tire him out, while retrieving line every chance I got when the monster wasn’t paying attention. My out-of-shape bicep, tricep and forearm began to burn, but I kept that rod tip high. My prey made a sudden move towards me, out of the direct line of fast moving water, permitting a significant percentage of what remained of the 50 yard cast to be re-spooled. He was now hugging the bottom near the bank close to my position, tired and ready to concede. I gently pulled my prize to the surface to see a beautiful striped bass turned on his side, now submitting to the decade old Shakespeare.
Casino had been keenly observing the fight from the front row, and now stood with tail wagging, and walked over to the rocks where the losing party had been beached. I laid the rod down and jumped over my dog to behold my first James River striped bass, which incidentally was the largest fish my veteran rod had caught. I clasped onto the fish’s bottom lip with my left thumb and index fingers while removing the single hook from the diamond jig with my opposite hand’s digits, and lifted it for a better viewing.
“Ha ha! Look at this girl!” I said to my four-legged companion who was keeping a safe distance from the foreign animal while trying to catch a whiff of its scent. I pulled out my pocket tape measure and laid it and the fish down for a quick measurement and picture. The catch measured 23 inches and was stout; not fat, but didn’t appear to have missed a recent meal.
I had made enough noise laughing and woo-hooing to overmatch the noise of the rapids and draw the attention of the two other fishermen in my vicinity. The man upstream showed little interest following a brief sight of my catch, and kept casting into the Fall Line. The angler downstream at the bridge was a bit more intrigued.
“Nice fish!” The man yelled as he waved at me.
“Thanks!” I returned.
Luckily they both held tight in their current spots instead of moving closer to me. They still hadn’t noticed the water continuing to churn.
I re-clasped the fish by its lower lip and lowered it back into the James while brushing off the small pebbles stuck to his slimy striped sides. He was happy to be back in his element; an inference proven by the unexpected burst of energy he’d mustered to dart back to the river’s bottom and out into the current to fight another day.
As excited and thankful as I was to have caught this fish, I knew there were many more still out there, waiting for a delicious looking two-ounce piece of shiny metal to fall in front of them. I brushed the striper marinade from my hands onto my shorts, picked up my rod, and went looking for another fight.