I went back out to the pier with Jamie Potter the last night of the derby. I'd fished with him for several days that week, and he was getting very desperate because he still hadn't caught a fish. I promised him a fish that night on the pier. We settled down at the second drop off of the pier. The night was warm and fish were still jumping, their dark shadows and dorsals humping through the water below us, so the signs were good. About thirty minutes in, Jamie hooked a fish near the surface. I watched in awe as he was so excited and anxious instead of fighting the fish he was trying to yank it straight out of the water. "Wait dude wait! Let it fight!" I shouted in a loud whisper. Maybe he had that same 8-bit Benny Hill song in his ears, because he kept yanking on the fish and quickly yanked the lure out of the fish's mouth. Then it was quiet, like after a loud and public argument. "Goddammit," he said, reeling in.

Jamie was pissed off. He was casting out and reeling in as fast as he could cast. "Dude, you need some patience," I said, laughing.

"It's easy for you to say, Mike!" he yelled. "You're not one of the organizers of this thing. When people ask you, 'Oh, how's the fishing?' 'What are you guys catching out there?' You can't just say, 'Oh gee, I don't know.'"

I laughed. It was a frustration I was getting to know well myself, and I knew that just because I had caught some fish and broke the streak, it didn't mean I wouldn't hit another dry spell.

"I can't fish for fish anymore," Jamie said finally.

"Ok, well what do you want to fish for?" I asked.

"Beer," he said. "Let's make a bet."

"Ok."

"First person who catches a fish. The other guy has to buy him a six pack."

"Ok," I said, smiling.

"What kind of six-pack though?"

"Winner's choice," I said, feeling a little confident.

"Ok, it's on."

I casted out a few more times, then gathered up my gear. "I'm going to the end of the pier," I said. "Do you want to come?"

"Nah," Jamie said, still bitter over losing that fish and determined to catch it again.

I ran down to the end of the pier and sat down on the concrete ramp where Greg and I fished a few nights before. I was going to win this bet. I casted out to my left and let the current pull the shad under the pier. On my second cast there was a solid hit, the lure with all the current and retrieve stopped like someone had grabbed it. I set the hook and struggled for a few minutes to keep the fish from diving too deep under the pier and soon landed a nice 26-inch striper. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and texted Jamie. "Hey can I borrow your camera for a minute. Haha"

A few minutes later he responded. "Damn you!"⁴

I took a couple quick photos and released the fish. Jamie sat down next to me, grumbling a little. I told him to switch to a shad since I had some good success with those here and he did, tying a white one on. A few casts later I caught another fish, just under his line. Another small one, about 24-inches long, but a fighter. "That's two six-packs you owe me," I said. Ten minutes later I caught another fish in the same spot. By now I was really laughing and Jamie was getting a little annoyed at me for wanting him to take my picture with a fish every few minutes. I was actually rooting for the guy; I wanted him to catch a fish but for some reason I was beating him to it. "That's three six-packs!" I said. That didn't help his mood.

I caught a fourth fish a few minutes later. This time I set the hook and shoved the rod into Jamie's hands. "Reel this one in," I said, starting to feel a little bad. I wanted him to get a feel for the fish, how to let it fight and let the drag do the work, and, most importantly, not to just yank the fish out of the water. It was a small fish so we didn't bother measuring it. I grabbed another shad out of my tackle bag and tossed it to Jamie. "Dude, you gotta change to this one," I said. Watching me hook four fish in a row convinced him. It worked, or something worked for him, because ten minutes later after some Fishing With John-style chatter I noticed he was silent. I was still watching my line and looked to my right. His rod was bent toward the water. He'd finally hooked one and was fighting it to the surface. I reeled in my line so it wouldn't get caught up in his and cheered him on. After a good little fight, we pulled in a nice, fat 28-inch bass—his first one. We took a few shots of the successful fisherman. You should have seen the smile on his face.

The last day of the derby was a warm afternoon for November. We gathered at the park shore as usual and with the nice light and the end of the derby party coming in a few hours, everyone was in a pretty good mood. I was feeling very lazy; very lazy fisherman. It may have been because I knew the park was not really good for fishing and that I knew John Ruffino was going to win easily, but it also may have been because I subconsciously didn't want to lose anymore lures, as I'd lost a lot of lures here over the past month. I just wanted to relax, shoot photos, and throw out the occasional cast. Jamie was happily showing everyone the photos of his fish from the previous night and I was feeling pretty satisfied with the last week of fishing. The warm weather drew lots of people to the shoreline. Little kids obliviously running behind casts and throwing rocks into the water, their parents not paying attention or busy talking with other yupster⁵ parents, also not paying attention to their kids. It was a good day to be in the sun and it shone off the water like the shimmering scales of the fish we weren't catching (I was thinking of everything in terms of fish or fishing at this point).

As the sun began to set the park staff started the arduous task of kicking everyone out of the park, many of whom had showed up just to watch the sun set. That bought us some more time and I looked up and suddenly saw the sky full of birds diving into the water. I rigged up the old beat-up trusty Bomber and made a long, high-arcing cast toward where the birds were diving. I almost thought it was a bad idea and it was. It turned out the birds were only diving because some kids were throwing bread into the water. And also because a seagull dove after my lure and got caught in my line. The bird sat there in the water, its leg tangled in fishing line, my old faithful lure on one end and me on the other end. I pulled on my line a little bit, trying to free the bird but succeeded in only dragging it across the water and pissing it off more and getting it more entangled. I could hear people behind me talking. "Why is he messing with that bird?" "He shouldn't have casted out there." Reluctantly I took out my knife, rather than risk untangling a dumb bird in front of a crowd of self-righteous parents and their kids who would inevitably start crying. I cut the line and watched the lure drift toward the middle of the river, and the bird in another direction. The same lure I'd snatched back from the land of lost plugs so many times, the same one my father used for ten years in Delaware. It's weird to admit to being bummed about something plastic as if it were capable of significance beyond sentiment—I could easily just buy another. But as I watched it float further and further away, out there in so much water, I couldn't help feeling a little lost. I didn't care much for the bird though.

⁴Ben awarded Jamie the "Most Jealous Fisherman" award at the end of the derby.

⁵Hipster + Yuppie = Yupster