(Editor's note: The following was submitted by BassFan Doug Ruby of Magnolia, Ark., who's partnered with his father to fish many tournaments in southern Arkansas, northern Louisiana and eastern Texas over the past 20 years. We thought it was worth sharing because it exemplifies the passion exhibited by BassFans everywhere.)
Boat Number 58
“Boat number 43!”
Standing on the end of a long dock, the tournament director is getting closer to calling out our boat number. The misty cove at the launch ramp is still as the massive two-stroke is rumbling on the back of our 20-foot water rocket.
I glance to the left and see that my teammate has his PFD buckled up and is firmly planted in position. I can’t see his face through all of the cold-weather gear, but I know he’s smiling just like me. We did our homework and we both know we are on enough to win this one. Hooks are sticky-sharp, knots checked and rechecked, fresh line on every reel ... all we need to do is execute flawlessly.
The sun is starting to inch up over the horizon as rooster tails are powering off in various directions – all tied at zero for the moment. I strain to see if anybody dares to run the cutoff this morning. There goes one. I hope he knows what he’s doing; those stumps are big and mean.
“Boat number 51, Jones and Jordan!”
Those two guys will have a heavy bag at the end of the day – they always do. Engine temp 122, trim down and purring like a tiger. She’s ready to drink some fuel.
“Boat number 58!”
That's us. We rumble past the end of the dock and get the thumbs up from the tour official, close the livewell lids and edge toward the no wake buoys. This is what we live for ... hammer down ... game on!
A slight ripple on the top makes for perfect running conditions. This thing is flying today! Another quick glance over at my partner and he gives me the thumbs-up, still smiling, I’m sure of it. The hotfoot stays pinned to the floor as we cut through the sweeping turns in the river. Fifteen miles of hard driving and duck-dodging later, the small shoot leading to our cypress backwater hawgfest appears. Should we run it today?
When we come off plane he gives me a different look, this one not as enthusiastic. I hear him mutter something questioning my mental stability. He knows he would have done the same thing if he were at the controls. We’re here, no harm done and we’ll get 25 extra casts in today. In the blink of an eye we are both seemingly teleported to the massive front deck, standing shoulder to shoulder, locked and loaded. How’d he get his gear off so fast? I’ve never seen him more focused.
The first cypress tree we approach yielded a heavy bite on a jig in practice yesterday – shook her off, of course. She’ll be home this morning, I’m sure of it. My spinnerbait sails under the limbs, landing softly just beyond the target. I can see the flash of the big Colorado blade as it thumps past the pad stems and approaches the tangle of ancient cypress knees. A blue heron, completely focused on his job, is perched on an island of smartweed 20 yards away. I hope he sees that gator creeping up behind him. God created a masterpiece here!
The surreal silence is shattered when my teammate suddenly slams the hook home on a heavy fish. She was on the left side of that tree today, and she’s mad as heck about the half-ounce jig in her face!
“Big fish!” are the only two words he can muster. He didn’t need to say anything; I felt the weight yesterday and already have the net in hand as she digs under the boat. “Just give me one shot at her”, I say as I see a 4-inch-wide green back just before she digs in again. “Okay ... give me one more shot." He finally gets the upper hand and she slides into the net.
“Those boys are going to have to bring everything they’ve got today, Dad. We’re on 'em big-time!”
