Boy goes Fishing with Grandma, Discovers his own Competitive Nature
Summer has always been a favorite season of mine. It wasn’t for the warm weather, nor was it the break from school. Summer is near and dear to my heart because of my family’s annual fishing trips to Alum Creek Campgrounds.
Every year, my grandma and mom would argue ineffably as to how we’d pack the cars, and my grandpa and I just tried to stay out of the way until something was agreed upon. After the near-murder that took place when setting up tents and the eerily peaceful campfires, the best part of these trips was going fishing.
Upon the third day of camping, after the battles of tent claims and preferred breakfast cereals had been fought, my grandma lugged me away from my hammock and handed me the tackle box to sling over my shoulder. Alum Creek had a lovely campers’ beach not too far from the site my grandma staked her claim to in early January, and the hiking trails that led to it provided the most secluded fishing spots where one could sit for hours and not have to deal with anyone at all.
The alcove of trees we stopped at framed a small little shore with thick, moist sand that never seemed to dry even in the Midwest summer sun. Pebbles taunted my feet no matter where I stepped, even through my itchy water shoes as I waded into the chilled water. My Grandma cursed behind me as she fumbled with her chair, but all I could hear was the trickling current and the sound of peaceful, accompanied solitude.
After a good ten minutes worth of west-side profanity, we had two shining fishing poles ready for bait.
As I ripped a worm in two for my hook, the slimy gunk of it already caked under my nails, my grandma, ever the confident and competitive, began her ritual: catching the first fish.
”I’m gonna catch it this year, I know it.” She smirked, leaning back in her chair. “Pass me a worm.”
I did, giving her the abused other half of my own, and waded into the water once more. The cold clung to my ankles like a gasping breath as I cast my line, imagining the hook diving down into the water and snatching a fish before it could even taste the worm.
My grandma caught the first fish, a bluegill. She always did. But 3 hours in, we were tied, sitting at 5 fish each. The sun was going down. I’d normally have thrown in the towel by now, I’d always been quick to bore. But this year felt different. This year, I wanted to win.
”You wanna pack it in? Admit defeat?” My grandma asked, a smug glint in her eyes.
“You wish,” I bit back. I reeled in my pole and hooked another worm.
The atmosphere had changed. No more was the calm, dully throbbing sun rays and teasing taunts of my grandma. This was a competition, and one I actually cared about, no less.
I felt a tug at my pole and my gaze latched onto my line. My grandma flicked her pole at the same time, like she felt something and was trying to jolt the hook just right to snag a perch. Then we stilled again.
The hairs on my arms were standing and my shoulders were tight, a sensitive trigger that could be set off by the slightest hint of movement from my line.
I went off with a bang as a weight latched onto my line and I flicked the poles tip high, watching as it bent and curved to point right back at its victim. I reeled like my life depended on it.
I stepped back as the fish was yanked out of the water by my racing line. The ferocity with which I reeled may have been excessive for the tiny bluegill caught on my hook, but it didn’t matter.
I had won.
On the walk back to the campsite, I realized that I had never felt that way for my grandma’s harmless competitions. I’d never been so prideful about winning, nor had I ever blabbered about it on and on for the rest of the week without an end in sight. Maybe she and I were more alike than I thought.
Author’s Note:
I wrote this for a school assignment. I forget what it was, something about a moment of self-realization or something. I was really proud of it. I don’t know if anyone will find any meaning in it other than me, but I just wanted to share.
Kaydence Baker | 15 | Upper Arlington, OH | @.rudido on TikTok
