Three old LGH lures from Finland.
Photo by Jukka Sirviö
A few years ago, my wife and I bought a lake cabin. This past year, our son Connor had really taken to fishing. Earlier last spring, Connor was playing with the lures in my tackle box. He picked out an old Rapala and asked if he could have it. “Sure,” I said.
With much anticipation, and not quite enough patience, Connor waited until I found his fishing pole and quickly tied on the Rapala. He then started casting from our dock. Shortly thereafter, as I was still straightening up our boat, Connor called out.
“Dad, can you help me take off this big fish?”
As I ran over, I saw a small northern pike on his line. This “snake,” as my grandfather calls them, wasn’t much bigger than 18 inches long. To my son, however, this fish was a monster compared to the bluegills and pumpkinseed sunfish we usually catch off the dock. The Rapala quickly became his favorite lure.
Over the next few weekends, using his new favorite lure, Connor easily out-fished me.
One morning, we were fishing off our pontoon boat and Connor got his line snagged on something. Trying to be helpful, I gave his line a little harder tug and proceeded to break his line and lose his cherished Rapala. At that moment, I’m not sure who felt worse, Connor or me. I put my arm around him and told him to go pick out anything he wanted from my tackle box. Eventually, he picked out another lure but his disappointment was still evident.
About 30 minutes later, Connor was reeling in his line and yelling. “I got my Rapala back,” he was shouting. “Dad, I got my Rapala back!”
With disbelief, I looked over and saw that his new lure had somehow hooked his old Rapala and was pulling it toward the boat. Taking no chances, I grabbed the net and scooped up the lures. Life was good again and Connor and I were both very happy. I asked my three fishing guests on the boat if they were ready to go in for lunch. Connor was the first to answer, “No, Dad, let’s fish some more.”
After switching spots on the pontoon, we started fishing again. Not more than 10 minutes later, Connor’s fishing pole slipped out of his hand while he was casting and fell in the lake. By the time I got to the back of the boat, the entire pole was under the turbid water and could not be seen.
Once again, I started to console Connor. Once again, he saw something in the lake.
His Rapala was floating to the surface. I scooped it up with the net and pulled all the loose line in. Luckily, the line was strong enough so I was able to retrieve the pole.
It was definitely time for lunch. As the others put away their poles,
I leaned back in my captain’s chair. The sun had come out and a light breeze was in the air. I smiled at my son, who was, of course, still fishing – darting his Rapala into the water for another try.
Paul Hassing is a really nice guy as long as you don’t plan an event that prevents him from spending a summer weekend at the lake.