Smallmouths and F-Bombs

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Smallmouths came up into the marina three weeks ago, at the big lake down the hill. I’d almost despaired of their arrival—such whacked-out weather—so had gone down to match two new rods to lines when I saw four bronzeback males skirmishing beside the dock gangway. One or more, or all, had fanned a nest there; but ultimate ownership depended upon the battle each now joined with the others.

Clear water, polarized sunglasses, a convenient railing to lean over: we’re talking front row seats for a sunfish gang-bang, red-eyed mean-mugging proceeding into smack-down bouts fought for something that counts.

I presumed size mattered—one warrior was half again as large as his challengers—but hard to tell. No quarter offered: whenever a combatant tired the others bore in on him, united for a coup de gras. Inevitably, however, before a concerted attack drove the weary fellow away, one of the aggressing allies would divert to bully his buddy of the instant before. Instant confusion—and time enough to rest for the object of collective disaffection. Revived, he’d quickly join a new assault.

Clearly “The enemy of my enemy is my friend” is true in boy bass world. But as with us, not for long.

I watched for 20 minutes what I suspect had gone on for hours or days and could continue quite a while. By then I’d reminded myself, repeatedly, that this seemingly wasteful fracas served a larger purpose. Yes, even if sparring prevented eating…suggested a reason, rightly or wrongly, why males rarely get big as females—or seldom live as long, I bet…also why triploid trout, lacking any sexual organs, grow so big so fast.

Meanwhile, back at the dock…

I watched my pal Sal paddle his float tube out from behind the northern point of the cove. He waved and headed toward me, casting a popper along the shore. I watched him pick up a small fish, which he held up for my nod of applause. “About a pound,” he called.

Like the bully-boy bass, however, Sal and I were also distracted.

Also by a thuggish trio, as it happened, this one of anglers who occupied the marina’s southern point. They’d been there when I arrived. I’d seen them throw bait, hardware and baited hardware straight out from shore, hitting the same water over and over, working beds, pausing occasionally to pop a brew. They’d caught nothing so far and complained about this in voices that carried across the cove loudly enough during “casual,” non-stop conversation, but reached a cacophony when one at last landed a small fish.

Mea culpa maxima, but about the 20th time one or another of them had dropped the “f-bomb” a nasty descriptive lunged into my mind. They’d reached that milestone the first minute, so by now, with the f-count soaring into the high, high hundreds, that same dirty phrase was playing a loop in my head, kind of like dumber but even more addictive line than the chorus of “Louie Louie.” Seriously: as verb they used F—, as noun, as adjective and adverb; also a punctuation—comma, period, exclamation mark and even ellipse….

All this, in a conversation morally unworthy of a feral dog pack, and too mundane to entertain, say, a colony of blowfly larvae.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t the f-bombing that annoyed me most. Nor was it the suspicion they were trespassing on private property, though that should have been the issue. No, what galled me, foolish man, was how casually they spread this pointless filth in front of a woman I guessed was one of their wives; and, far worse, all over a quiet boy of six or eight whom I heard call one offal-mouth “Dad.”

So…

I doubt I’m allowed to write “white trash.” So Sal said it. That’s my story, though not his real name. Sal said it aloud, the phrase that might have been vaguely similar to the one bothering me, then he shook his head and grimaced as he approached the gangway

Sal’s like that, I can tell you. A foolish man even more prone than I am to provoking the less savory types we often find in these parts.

Way too often.

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