"plop...splash.AIIEEEEEEEEEEEEE..." The 3 pound smallmouth smashed the popper in an instant, swapped directions and streaked off. It came tight against tightly clenched line. She was giving nothing. Even that good a smallmouth can't break 20 lb test Maxima, so his momentum carried him about 8 feet in the air, right off the rod tip. "AIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Pulled forward off balance, w-b girlfriend butted against the gunwale of the little jonboat and dropped on the rail, shipping in Pond. I threw myself backward to stop the tip. The next few seconds are a little hazy, there being no part of any anatomy showing above the rocking, sloshing boat. When I looked up, w-b girlfriend was raising her head, wiping water and slime from her face. The smallmouth was now swimming in and splashing water OUT of the boat. "See", she said, "it's not that hard." That relationship never did work out, for obscure reasons. One morning I was working the lily-padded cove near the inlet for pickerel. A young boy about 11 was fishing with a dime-store outfit from a sandy beach right next to the cove, casting about 5 feet and obviously disturbing nothing. This was the second or third time I had seen this boy at this spot so I figured he lived in a cottage or house nearby. He obviously was just dying to catch a fish, any fish, but was behaving with modesty and decorum while watching me with intensity. I hooked and released a really big pickerel, about 6 pounds. When I let it go, he flopped down in disbelief and looked like he was about to cry. I was feeling generous, and could easily remember how I felt about such things at his age. "Would you like to try this rod?", I yelled over to him. He about nodded his head off. "Me?...........Really? I got him squared away in the boat and paddled back out into the pads. I stood behind him with my hand on the rod and began to cast with him, together. A few minutes into this an ocean wind swirled during the backcast, he pulled when I was pushing, and I felt a THWACK and tugging on my scalp. We had managed to bury a 2/0 popper to the hilt right dab on the top of my head. It doesn't hurt, if you want to know. Once we got the line slacked off I contemplated my options. I could not see to do anything myself. He had no meaningful medical experience. I didn't think I could talk him through any reasonable process. It was two hours back to Boston and I had the whole day of potential fishing ahead of me.
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