There I was, just four years old, barely able to contain my excitement for what was about to be the greatest adventure of my young life—my first fishing trip with my “HERO” my Dad. The thought of getting up early didn’t bother me one bit. In fact, it was all I could think about. As the sun began to set the night before, Dad and I made our way to the local Hendersonville bait shop, grabbing a bucket of minnows and a container of worms. I could hardly wait for morning to come.
Before the crack of dawn, we were up and on our way to the famous Gallatin fishing hole. The world was still quiet, with only a slight view of sunlight creeping over the trees. We arrived at the water’s edge right off of Gallatin Rd. and Dad helped me get my line in the water.
Patience, however, wasn’t something I had mastered at four years old. After what felt like forever (but was probably only an hour or two), my interest in my fishing pole faded.
Instead, I found myself wandering around, looking at the ripples on the water, ducks flying over-head and anything else that could catch my eye.
Then it happened. I wasn’t even looking, but Dad was.
My bobber disappeared beneath the surface. “Son,” he yelled out in a excited voice, “you better check your pole! I think you might have something on it.” What I didn’t know at the time was that Dad had already set the hook for me.
When I grabbed my pole and started reeling, my arms struggled against the weight of what felt like a monster fish. With Dad’s encouragement, I pulled and cranked until finally, there it was—a five-pound bass! At least, that’s what I believed at the time. Grinning from ear to ear, I took my trophy home, wrapped it in aluminum foil, and carefully placed it in the freezer.
For the next three years, I was on a mission to show everyone in the Hendersonville area my prized catch. “Want to see my five-pound bass?” I’d ask eagerly, opening the freezer to reveal my glorious trophy.
Then, one day years later, my mother broke the news. “Son, the fish has to go.” I was devastated. How could I part with my prized possession? But when I unwrapped my legendary bass, reality struck. That five-pound monster I had spent years showing off had somehow shrunk into a six-ounce bluegill.
To this day, I will never forget that fishing trip or my not-so-trophy fish. The excitement, the pride, and the laughter it brought me still make for one of the best memories of my childhood.
The fish may not have been the giant I once believed, but the story and the time I spent with my Dad—will always be larger than life.
