The One That Got Away

A story of Karmic retribution … for knocking over outhouses.

The scream tore into the estuary’s mid-morning stillness like a chainsaw ripping through aluminum siding. Dozens of cranes and egrets that had been hiding in the bay’s thin cordgrass darted into the azure sky, and several canoeists putting into the water swiveled their heads toward the source of the high-pitched wailing.

Several months earlier, my parents had purchased a kayak. Most weekends, the Urish clan – composed of my folks, sister, brother and 9-year-old me – would head to the Upper Newport Bay Nature Preserve, in Orange County, CA. Dad would take one or two of the kids out on the kayak while Mom stayed ashore, assembling lunch and managing to keep an eye out for any number of shenanigans carried out by my brother Jeff and me. She had plenty of good reasons to be vigilant.

One balmy spring day, Mom, Dad and my sister, Flori, headed out in the kayak, trusting that Jeff and I wouldn’t try to – oh, take your pick – fling rocks at the cranes and egrets, torch the abundant cordgrass, deflate car tires, harass the local wildlife, or knock over another outhouse. Thankfully, my fellow hellion-in-arms and I had a distraction: a recently purchased fishing pole.

While Jeff practiced casting out into the water with the pole, I hunkered down about 10 feet behind him, using a pen knife to cut anchovies into bait-sized pieces. I heard the distinctive “plink” of hook, float and sinker entering the water’s surface, followed by the “tick-tick-tick” of the fishing pole as Jeff repeatedly reeled in the line for yet another practice cast.

A few minutes later, he turned to me and said, “I’m ready.”

I handed him a piece of anchovy, eagerly anticipating when it would be my turn to cast a line out into the water.

Neptune, Roman God of the Sea, was apparently smiling upon us, since my brother managed to snag a creature on his very first cast.

Me.

Releasing his fishing line a moment too soon as he reared back with the pole, the silly bastard hooked me.

The monofilament cord, sunlit against a gorgeous blue backdrop and jerking with every frantic back-and-forth shake of my head, ended at an unseen point somewhere below my nose. I let loose with a bloody scream as my bugged-out eyes crossed and recrossed, trying in vain to focus on the fishing line. It didn’t take long to realize that, like any seasoned fisherman, Jeff had hooked me right on the kisser.

I knew, right then, what it felt like to be a mackerel.

My right hand groped along the line and felt the sharp piece of metal attached to my upper lip, at which point I screamed again, louder and longer, at the prospect of my still-oblivious brother pitching me out into the water. Thankfully, Jeff heard my Satanic howling before he managed to do any further damage, dropping his pole and scampering back to see what the hell had happened. Upon hearing my panicked screaming, Phil, an adult friend of the family who’d joined us that morning, ran over to see what the commotion was all about.

Phil stopped a few feet from my brother’s 75-pound bounty, hands on hips, shaking his head.

“Wow. You don’t see that every day,” he said as he stepped closer. “Uh … I guess we need to unhook you.”

“Denk yee,” I managed to mumble in a feeble attempt to show gratitude, the end of the fishing line dancing miserably with both syllables.

“Now what are the odds?” my savior added, gently negotiating the hook with one thumb and forefinger. “You, son, are one lucky fisherman.”

For whatever reason, I felt the need to correct him. “No. I eh bay cuttah.”

“What was that?”

My brother, shocked at the sight of his recently beached younger sibling but managing a sheepish grin, chimed in. “I think he’s saying, ‘I’m the bait cutter.’”

“Ah. Well, kiddo, you’re one fortunate bait cutter.”

Why, pray tell, was I lucky? After all, I’d just been hooked and nearly tossed into the water.

Here’s why: Despite the fact that the silver barb was indeed latched onto my preadolescent pie-hole, it didn’t break the thin, tender skin of my upper lip. Nary a single drop of blood had been spilled. Lucky, indeed…

Phil removed the hook and, with an enthusiastic “Alrighty then,” headed back to his lawn chair.

That’s when my brother and I locked eyes. And we began to laugh.

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In the well-known saying, “Comedy is tragedy plus time,” the word “time” refers to years, perhaps even decades, between a serious triggering incident and the resulting hilarity. In our case, however, the comedy emerged mere seconds after the heart-seizing occurrence.

As Jeff and I continued to giggle, it never occurred to us that, had the hook connected with flesh about two inches higher, I could’ve had an eyelid yanked loose or, worse yet, lost an entire peeper. As it was, a pretty hefty chunk of my upper lip could’ve wound up in the Back Bay, “kid-sourced chum,” as it were.

Instead, two young, clueless, rambunctious boys shrugged and ambled shoulder-to-shoulder back to the family beach blanket, kicking dirt clods, swiping aimlessly at the cordgrass and waiting for the rest of the family to paddle in. As we sat on the blanket, gazing out over the still water, our unspoken agreement was clear: No more fishing … at least not that day.

To his credit my brother did say something aloud: “Uh … sorry about that, Larry. It was an accident. Thanks for understanding.”

I hesitated a moment, glanced in his direction and smiled before replying. “Ooh welgum…” Which initiated another laughing jag.

There’s no question that the Back Bay of Newport has seen countless fish hauled ashore over the years. However, I surely remain the only 9-year-old ever hooked by an anchovy … an anchovy that he himself had baited.

Truth be told, I’ve gone fishing a few times since that fateful day so long ago. And on those rare occasions when I’ve actually landed a denizen of the deep, a certain young, sensitive little boy living forever in my soul always manages to gently, almost imperceptibly, snag me with the same feeling: empathy.

It’s a feeling that has served me very well many times over.

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Kudos to Neha Patel, Linda Kaun, Rick Lewis, Matt Cyr and Alden Cox – all members of our Write Hearted community for their helpful feedback and encouragement.