Chapter 1: Una Anguilla

https://thewalrus.ca/2008-12-environment/

     “That’s my fish, Ernie,” cries Robbie Reed as I back away from the dark pool dragging in something big.

He had tripped running for the pole and his bloody nose convinced me to grab the reel before it was pulled into the freshet of the Middlebrook running off of First Watchung Mountain.

“It’s yours,” I say with relief, handing over the rod as whatever is on the other end writhes in wild figure eights in the darkening waters of dusk.

__________

     We had decided to go fishing that spring when Robbie had gotten a rod and reel for his tenth birthday. On our next family shopping trip across the Talmadge Avenue bridge to Target I had shown my father a Zebco spincast set I was eying over in sporting goods. He inspected the sealed plastic pack and then led me over to a bargain rack.

“Tu quieres esto,” he commanded, picking out a saltwater rig and a little jar stuffed with salmon eggs.

The next day Bobby and I met up at the bridge after fourth grade at LaFollette School.

“What kind of rope do you have on that thing?” he laughed.

“It’s for big fish,” I lied, embarrassed by the thick tan line and extra-large hook.

“My dad says the big ones are down by the trestle,” he advised.

     Sure enough, we spotted a long green fish sitting in a pool beneath the railroad tracks. Bobby cast his plastic worm as I threaded my huge hook with bright pink eggs that went flying off with the first cast. I ended up dropping the baited line into the pool from up on the tracks in between Bobby’s casts under the bridge. That big fish just sat there with an occasional wiggle of side fins.

     “Try a bread ball on a baby pin,” advised my older sister Elena that night in the upstairs apartment bedroom we shared with four young cousins.

I did the next day and snagged one from a silver-sided school shimmering around the pin.

“That’s just a shiner,” laughed a teenager from up on the bridge. “A worm will get you a real fish.”

     A few nights later bare-footed Ellie came charging into the apartment from a spring shower with a big grin.

“Yuck, I squished something slimy out on the sidewalk,” she laughed.

We scrounged up a flashlight and found hundreds of night crawlers wriggling in the puddles. They were fast and slick but we managed to fill a milk carton before the flashlight died.

__________

     “Dios mio, a water moccasin,” I shout as a dark green thing thrashes over the rocks tangling itself in the line.

“Nah, it’s an electric eel,” proclaims Bobby, leaping back as it squirms up a white-barked sapling.

“It’s an eel alright,” calls Bobby’s father from up on the newly completed levy where he’s walking his yellow lab. “Just cut the line close to the mouth and it will slither back into the brook.”

     “Thanks Mr. Reed,” I smile after the snake-like fish disappears into the deep pool under the bridge. “I was afraid to touch it.”

“Those eels come all the way up from the Caribbean,” he marvels, “but they say there used to be a real monster at the point.”