By Chad Adams
When you grow up in a fishing family in Appalachia, there are a few simple truths. When the dogwoods are blooming, you’re late getting on the river. Late May into early June, we set bush hooks for flatheads. And when someone yells “Get the Net!,” you stop whatever you’re doing, with absolute reckless abandon, and you get the damn net.
My first lessons in getting the net, predictably, came early. In fact, I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t getting yelled at to get the net. But before the chaos of helping my dad land a fish, there was typically a moment of sheer terror. A hushed silence descending like a fog over the boat; my brother, mother and I all frozen in fear. All because Dad felt some perceived tug on his Power Worm in an unseen logjam or rock pile. And none of us dared to draw a mere breath for fear of spooking the fish and facing his wrath.
The paralyzing wait lingered, hammering down on us like a hot Kentucky summer. The wind would die, the air thick and oppressive, with all eyes focused intently on that lone rod tip. Birds would even stop singing, the squirrels halting mid-branch to watch the scene unfold.
The Hookset
Then it would happen. A violent, boat rocking hookset that nearly threw us all overboard. During the many occasions when the mystery fish in question seemingly vanished upon the rip of the rod, the Texas-rigged worm came hurtling out of the water like a ballistic missile launched from a Virginia-class submarine.
Pepsi cans knocked over, a Kent III ultralight dropped from mouth onto marine carpet. Hats knocked from heads even. It was every man, woman and child for themselves when the hookup failed to connect.
But when that offset hook found its lip, then it was on. “Get the Net!”
Get the Damn Net
That was my cue to come out of hiding in my bunker from beneath the console, tripping over baitcasters, tackle boxes, a minnow bucket and a cooler on my way. My 4-foot-tall frame wielding a 5-foot net, terrified of knocking off what must be George Perry’s largemouth bass being worked toward the boat.
I knew that if I knocked that fish off when I plunged the net in I’d get yelled at and called a dumbass, my older brother thrilled and laughing at me the rest of the day. Like any kid that ever helped change a tire, mowed the yard, or held a flashlight for a tough father, you know the pressure cooker then of getting the net.
I would go on to play high school football for that man, my father the head coach. So the tough lessons were only just beginning in that old Ranger bass boat. From backing trailers to driving the boat to tying a proper knot, fishing taught more lessons than I think I’ll ever truly realize about how a man should approach life.
Life, of course, will hit you in so many ways, good and bad. But no matter what, when the time comes, I know I can get the damn net.
