This Is No Fish Story Poem by Tom J. Mariani

We had been up and down Redwood Creek
For what seemed to me to be all day
Watching my grandfather fish for salmon
We started at the mouth of the river

Hiked over sand rocks and slippery green moss
The only reason I was there was
The fried chicken and potato salad
My grandmother made the night before

Lunch seemed so far away
My grandfather was out of sight
He had worked his way upstream
When we heard him yell 'FISH ON! '

My grandmother who had been hanging back with me
Left me in the sand
I had to move fast to catch up
Moving around large pieces of driftwood

He had certainly hooked something
His rod bending if half then straightening
As he let line out
With the reel's drag on

I knew how to fish
I just didn't like to
I had no patience
I wasn't like bird hunting

If I got bored bird hunting
When I was by myself
With just my dog
I could take a shot anyway

Just for practice
To get the dog used to the noise
Because I had no patience
At the age of twelve

I had never seen so much line out before
He kept backing further up the wide beach
It looked to me as if the fish knew the way
And was headed back to the ocean

Hook in his mouth
My guess was he was no longer
In the mood for spawning
He had my grandfather on

Nothing personal on either side
My grandfather wanted to land the salmon
The salmon it appeared wanted
My grandfather in the water

This primal tug of war
Went on for some time
The salmon tried everything
It tried going behind submerged trees

It woud take a run
Straight at the beach
My grandfather reeling in the slack
As fast as he could

The salmon would then jump high
Doubling back away yanking on the line
Trying to dislodge the hook
Or snap the line (he'd been on before)

They were both getting tired
My grandfather timed the next
Pull on his fishing rod
With the jump of the salmon

Too close to shore this time
The beast was on the beach in front of me
My grandfather was still reeling in line
He knew it wasn't landed yet

He was hollering for my grandmother
To grab a piece of driftwood
To club the monster
Who was glaring at me with one eye

His other eye was in the sand
My grandfather's shinning metal lure
Stuck out of a bloody mouth
Gills were grasping for oxygen in dry air

I swear I saw in that eye the reflection
Of my grandmother running
A hunk of driftwood in hand
The eye saw it too

With one last flop like a large wrestler
Just before the count of three
He went up into the air
Snapped the line hit the water and was gone

I'm not sure what pound test the line was
Whatever it was it wasn't enough
My gandfather's favorite lure
With his hand-tied leader

Were following their catch
As fast as they could
Not knowing it was they
That had been caught