The first time my dad took me fishing was when I was about 7 years
old. He was renting some farmland in central Alabama, which the Coosa River
ran through. He packed up the fishing gear, set my line, gave me a few pointers,
then went off to work on the farm.
I had the line in the water for only a few minutes, when it was hit by a huge
(by 7-year old standards) catfish. I was so excited about catching my first
fish that I accidentally reeled the rod in backwards. After I succeeded in creating
a permanent backlash, the reel seized. It was at that point that I decided the
only way that I'd land the beast was to turn around and run away from the river
with the rod, while simultaneously screaming for my dad.
This is where the story gets a little fuzzy. Evidently in the course of running away from the river to beach the monster catfish, I ran into a tree, which knocked me down. I then rolled down the bank, still holding the rod. By the time my dad got there, the catfish, the rod and I were all lashed together, flopping around on the bank like some slimy monster with 4 bug eyes.
Wrapped Up in Fishing Line