Big-O-O-Oh!

While handing over the money, Jaybird muttered, “Boy, you’re a sucker for advertising. This money — a loan, mind you — will be wasted on yet another lure as fish-frightening as the Pearly-Eyed Wobbler you foolishly had to have and that I foolishly loaned you money to buy — just another piece of junk designed to catch fishermen, not fish.” Ignoring the wise old black man, my boyhood mentor and best friend, I hurried to Clyde’s bait shop, hoping he hadn’t sold all of bass-fishing’s hottest lure: the Big-O. Angler fanatics like myself had never seen anything like it. Made of balsa wood, the body’s top half was green, separated from its ivory belly by a black line, nose to tail. The most innovative feature was a transparent plastic, protruding lip, shaped like a flat spoon, and positioned so that a few reel cranks would send it diving to the deep, murky depths trophy bass love.

Knowing how badly I wanted a Big-O, Clyde saved one for me; the rest, priced at a whopping $20, sold immediately. The next day, a Sunday, I headed for one of my favorite fishing spots — a “honey hole” — that teemed with bass, known only to a few anglers. Jaybird wouldn’t join me, but promised that, in church, where I should be, he’d ask God to forgive earthly preferences that were more attractive to me than worshipping in the Lord’s House on the Sabbath, a request I soon learned went unheard. Arriving at the honey hole, I paddled quietly into willow bushes and cypress trees, and made the first cast. God’s wrath struck. Instead of plunking down in the water, the lure sailed beyond my control and lodged its treble hooks high above the water in a willow tree. Hoping not to spook all those trophy bass waiting to ambush the Big-O, I jerked gently, which only drove the hooks deeper into the tree. Then the line broke. Determined to retrieve the lure, I edged close to the tree. God’s wrath struck again. As I leaned over and grasped the tree, the boat skittered from under my feet, the tree snapped and fell over on me, and down we went. Clawing up through the branches, gasping for air, I was shocked to see that the boat floated far out of reach. My thoughts were no longer on the lure, but on survival. Then I heard the voice of an old man fishing from the shore: “Lord have mercy, what the hell is going on here? Hold on — I’ll untie my boat and come out to get you.” Half drowned, cold, ashamed, and mindful of Jaybird’s remonstration, I clambered into his boat, and he took me to my own. Aware that finding the lure in the tangled mass from which I barely escaped was hopeless, I thanked the man, who was still shaking his head in disbelief, and departed the honey hole. From that day to this, whenever I think of that lure, all I can say is: “Big-O-O-Oh!”