BOB KORNEGAY: The fish whisperer converts to fish screamer

I am the fish whisperer.

No, there have been no books or movies based upon my life and work. I host no television show. I do not whisper to horses. I do not whisper to dogs.

I am the fish whisperer.

I approach the lake. It is early morning. Rising mist shrouds the dark water. It is calm. Brother Wind is at rest. All is serene. Therefore, I am serene.

“Thank you, Brother Wind,” I murmur. “Shall Brother Bass honor me today?”

I am the fish whisperer.

I scull my small boat along the placid shoreline. My paddle swirls silently. Lily pads part at my passing. They know me. I am the…

Wham! Screech!

There is the sound of riveted aluminum unexpectedly encountering an unseen cypress stump just beneath the water’s surface. Every fish within casting distance swims rapidly away. My self-control is sorely tested, but I resist the urge to react as a mere mortal might.

The fish whisperer paddles on.

Ah, here it is. A favorite spot. A shallow, sandy flat just off the creek channel. It is the place where big bluegills feed in the early mornings of warm, balmy days. I shall make a wraith-like approach followed by a silent ultralight bait presentation. Brother Bream shall not be alarmed when Brother Redworm sinks slowly into his strike zone. All is well. I am the…

Kaloosh!

The anchor slips from my hand and hits the water. It sounds like a depth charge destroying a Japanese submarine in an old World War II movie. Six or seven of the fleeing panfish look as if they might weigh a pound.

Watch it, now. Deep breath. Count to ten. Chant a mantra.

“Good, my son,” intones the Great Spirit of Angling into my ear. “Proceed.”

I scull onward, quiet as the grave. The fish whisperer, one with his universe.

I approach the cove. A Great Blue Heron watches me from the water’s edge. He makes no sound, no frenzied flight. Such is my stealth. The turtles basking on the half-submerged tree trunk do not drop off at my passing. An alligator floating lazily upon the surface of the black slough pays me no attention.

My keen, clear eye focuses on a long, dark shadow beside the broken outline of a sunken log. The shadow is of classic proportion, the shape of a huge she-bass lying in ambush.

“Aha!” I whisper. “It is not, dear fish, the unsuspecting minnow you shall breakfast upon this morning. Nay, it is my three-hooked Devil’s Horse.”

Only the sound of my well-oiled, fine-tuned baitcasting reel is heard as I make my cast. The lure settles lightly on the water. One tiny twitch and the geyser erupts. Fish on!

No raucous ‘hot dog,’ ‘hoo-boy,’ or ‘honey hush’ escapes my lips as I fight the big sow. I only think, “Eight. No, ten. Maybe even twelve.”

The head comes up, the mouth opens wide, and the plug comes free, flying away in a shower of spray as the fish sinks back into the depths from which she arose.

Closed eyes, deep breath, then, “Gaah! You stupid no-hook-setting son of a live-bait fisherman!” at the top of my lungs.

Sorry, Great Spirit of Angling. All that infernal whispering was giving me ulcers.

I am the fish screamer.