–Season 3 Episode 28— “Fish your own waters, it’s a big lake!”
Day three of the tournament and the top five weights were tight. The girls were sitting in the five spot, and they both agreed it would take a thirty-pound bag to boat away with the championship.
This was no fishing derby—no siree—this was the Canadian mega bass tournament of the year. Two hundred and eighty teams were gathered on Lac des Bois for the Pro-Am’s most exclusive event of the summer season.
With so much competition, Sally Squatsnfishes found herself lucky to be paired with a local professional guide who was hard nosed enough to intimidate the fiercest opponent with a laser glare that screamed “Fish your own waters, it’s a big lake!” Meaning? I find you so much as pre-fishing my spots, there WILL be hell to pay! Again, in this situation and with a $500,000 purse at stake, Tawny Bishop was an excellent partner draw.
Tough stik—Magic wand—High hook setter—Eat—Sleep—Fish—Sexy as a smallmouth bass on a spawning bed—Tawny was THE GOAT when it came to fishing her local waters.
For those of you in the know—Pro Am’s are run as a random team selection. During the week or pre-fishing, you have one Professional who is paired with one Amateur for the week. Practice together, hang together, fish the three-day tourney together.
Most pro’s ask little of their amateur status partner other than… Stay out of the way—Don’t ask stupid questions—And when I say, “get the net!” you’d better already have it in your hands. Not exactly the sort of adventure Sally Squatsnfishes is accustomed to, but her agent urged her to participate in this event to expand her international notoriety.
“Keep your ego and your overly competitive nature in check,” were his exact words. “Your demeanor may fly in the states, but our friendly neighbors north of the border tend to be a bit more reserved.”
August was a tough smallmouth bass bite. Many anglers would compare it to chasing isolated trophy musky. You fish a very specific location—deep submerged bolders—soupy weeds—offshore reefs—or shoreline treefall. And it’s in these areas that you search for ONE fish. One smallmouth bass that will contribute to a limit of five in the live well per day. Yes, you’re looking for a six-pound average per fish to win. Tough competition—tough tournament.
As an up and comer in the outdoor fashion industry, and relatively unknown in the province of Ontario, Sally was just another name on the list to Tawny Bishop. When Sally was busy playing with dolls, running lemonade stands in the local neighborhood, and spending long afternoons on the family lake house beach building sandcastles—Tawny was running around Lac des Bois in a fourteen-foot tin skiff with a 10-hp Evinrude two stroke, chasing piscatorial dreams and flipping boats in rough water just for the fun of it.
Learning curve—this is something innate that you can’t teach or coach—something untouchable—something (fishing) that is more less ingrained in your soul. And this is Tawny Bishop. aka THE GHOST (you will never see her on the water, but you will feel her presence, and you know she is catching fish). Arguably, at a very young age she was a modern-day fish whisperer. Reserved, yet intimidating. Calm, but aggressive. Quiet, but speaking volumes with a fishing rod.
It took the entirety of day one of the tournament during pre-fishing for Sally to ask all the WRONG questions to Tawny:
–Where are we going to find the bass?
In the water…
–What technique will we be using?
I’ll be using what makes them bite…
–How do you know where to go?
I go where the fish want to be…
–Is it always this windy?
Fish the wind…
–How far is it to the next spot?
When we get there…
–Do you eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day?
They’re my favorite… And you have officially passed my daily allotment for questions. And you need to be quiet or you’ll scare the fish.
Prior to takeoff on day three of the fishing tournament, Sally was repeatedly reminded by Tawny, “When we get to a spot, you remain at the stern of the boat, you fish the middle water to the back of the transom—I have the middle to the bow at a forward forty-five degree angle and I’m always the first to cast. Always. Got it?”
“Yes,” Sally replied with a deep sigh and a roll of the eyes from behind her green tinted Costa Del Mar sunglasses. “I’ll stay out of your way.”
“Welp, it’s got us into fifth place with a shot to win, hasn’t it?
“Yes, fearless leader, it has.”
The insistence for Sally to remain a noncompete onlooker became unbearable. Their first stop of the morning had Tawny pitching jig-n-pigs at a sunken tree while Sally sulked in the back, bit what was left of her tongue, and aimlessly casted jerk baits off the back of the boat.
Then lightning struck and a miracle happened! Like a spark to a dry twig. But this time it was SALLY breaking the proverbial ice with the first bass. The bright sunny sky with a cloudless ceiling had pushed the fish deeper off the edge of the banks. Water clarity was excellent, and so was the five- and three-quarter pounder that took her Rapala for a ride down the Reading Railway. One cast—one twitch of the jerk bait—one fish in the livewell of which required Tawny to man the landing net. This was new territory for someone accustomed to calling the shots.
“What…. No, nice fish…. No, good job partner….” Sally taunted.
“Even a blind squirrel finds the occasional nut,” was Tawny’s response. Followed by a thirty second stare down, a raised eyebrow, and tilt of the head as if to say, “You want some of this Squatsnfishes?”
“Ok, but the last time I checked, this IS a two-person tournament, so whatever.”
“Exactly…. Let’s move on….”
One fish in the box, next stop the floating dock at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters. When the amphib bush plane landed and taxied toward them, the pace of the construction project dwindled. From a distance—when Tawny Bishop watched Rusty and Cos greet the plane—the arrival of Ms. Sally Squatsnfishes brought the entire project to a screeching halt!
Immediately, Tawny unbuckled her tool belt, marched across the lawn of the camp and began screaming, “Fish your own waters, it’s a big lake!” over the roar of the Cessna 185’s prop engine.
Sally practically shit twice—could read Tawny’s expression a mile away like a doomsday explosion—and instinctively felt for the pistol on her hip. “Unadvised, but potentially necessary,” she thought to herself.
–To Be Continued—
