Standing on the floating dock and looking down through about eight feet of water at the bottom where they’re swimming, I am sure that the catfish are laughing at me. As best as I can judge, the three that are wriggling past my hot-dog-baited hook are about as long as my forearm. They must know that I find them delicious, they might be able to tell from my expression that I was picturing them fried up with a side of tartar sauce and a cold beer, and they may also have heard from around that I am a terrible fisherman. Those frolicking fish probably know they are safe.
Lazy Afternoon Reruns: “A Terrible Fisherman’s Summers at the Lake”