A few months ago I began a Writer's Boot Camp that I found online. Every day you're given a new prompt to practice your writing skills and work that writing muscle. The boot camp was created as a weapon against writer's block. On the second or third day, the prompt given was to create a story concerning an ex-love that you felt was "the one that got away." Being that I've been with my wife for nearly quarter of a century, I felt the assignment was a bit inappropriate. Reflecting on past relationships, and expressing in words my desire to be with them, didn't sound healthy to me, so I wrote the traditional "one-that-got-away" story, and here she is:
Canada was strange ground for me. Sure it was still attached to my homeland, but I was out of the country nonetheless. The day on the boat had been hot, much like earlier in the week. Hours would be spent on the boat each day before we made our way back to the tollgate, paid our coin, and hit my home in the United State of Mitten. Michigan had some great lakes. Yes, it's a pun, but Canada had great lakes with monsters in them; one of which would end up on my line.
Canada was strange ground for me. Sure it was still attached to my homeland, but I was out of the country nonetheless. The day on the boat had been hot, much like earlier in the week. Hours would be spent on the boat each day before we made our way back to the tollgate, paid our coin, and hit my home in the United State of Mitten. Michigan had some great lakes. Yes, it's a pun, but Canada had great lakes with monsters in them; one of which would end up on my line.
My arms hated me. They threatened to give up and just let the fish have the whole rod, reel, bait and all. I began shaking. I needed this fish. I needed that picture of me; the one where my teeth are clenched, my neck turns into a capital A complete with bulging tendons and veins, while my shaky arms struggle to hold the monstrosity above the ground. The obvious caption below reading "Help me. Please."
Nearly 20 minutes into the battle, my arms, in a desperate second wind, pulled back at the moment the Muskie's panic heightened, but in the opposite direction. Physically, I had sudden relief. My muscles sighed while my mouth screamed "Noo!" The monster had taken my bait as trophy; hook still in mouth, a souvenir piercing to boast to his friends. My adrenaline tapered slowly into heavy defeat as I realized I had just experienced "the one that got away."
Completely unrelated, my shark "Dead Jim" (yes, that was his name) died recently. He was awesome!
The bite began like any other; an unsure tap followed by a very sure tug, followed by an all out assault on my pole. This attack was from no throwaway nor from any average keeper. It was from the top of that lake's food chain. My pole bent, teasing the water's surface with a kiss. I thought for sure the fiberglass would give and my pole would go plural. My dad instructed me on the first 10 minutes or so. "Don't pull back too hard. Easy. Let him come to you." Let him come to me? What creature in their right, panicked mind would come toward their assassin? This monster was doing nothing of the sort. More time under the hot sun went by as the beast revealed himself above water. "A Tiger Muskie!" my dad yelled. "That sucker must be 40 inches long!" Declarations only adding to my already anxious 12-year-old stomach.
"Dead Jim"
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