My son and I recently visited Corona lake after a prolonged abstinence due in part to lack of available weekends and in part to a resurgence of interest in the oh-so-annoying game of golf. We finally made up our minds to go, readied the boat for a Saturday outing and found to my immense displeasure that I had to work, which as you can imagine rather put a crimp in our angling scheduling.

 

My son’s (and I must admit, my own) disappointment was more than I could bear and as I gently brushed the tears from his reddened cheeks I vowed to once more pursue the sport I once passionately embraced. To my offspring’s pleasure I canceled all appointments on the following Tuesday and vowed that come high water or distressing places infused with suffocating heat that we WERE going fishing. And indeed we did.

 

The night before, we readied the gear, prepared the obligatory ice-chest with sandwiches, organized the tackle boxes, assembled the thermos and strung the poles. We laid head to pillow early and with the oh-so-soothing sound of wind swirling at 40+ mph around my home, I drifted off to sleep with only nightmarish visions of hurricane force winds hurling my vessel into the southern trees of Corona Lake dancing in my head.

 

I awakened both to the beeping of my alarm clock and the incessant slamming of branches into the eaves of my home; the wind had NOT abated. I gently shoved my comatose son from his bed, started the coffee pot, dressed and began hauling the pile of assorted fishing paraphernalia to my boat. This task accomplished, I connected the boat trailer, tested the lights, found that one was not working and offered a short prayer that I would not be pulled over by an early-rising defender of justice as my registration on my Expedition is ALSO expired, bundled my son into the car and away we went.

 

When I said that the wind was swirling, I don’t believe I put it strongly enough… howling would be more appropriate. I tried vainly to explain to my son that as all-powerful as his father was (tongue-in-cheek of course) he was not able to restrain the weather and that while we WOULD be fishing, the degree of success in the endeavor could not be predicted with any degree of reliability.

 

Strangely, however, the impossible happened, the farther from Rialto (the armpit of California in which I for some bizarre reason reside) we traveled, the more the winds lessened. By the time we arrived at the gates of our Coronal destination, a scarce hint of aerial movement could be detected. Our hearts were gladdened and thus assured that our ways were ordained we pulled in.

 

We were in line at 5:30, waited in the waning darkness until the gate opened, slapped the money in the outstretched hand and launched our dilapidated boat.

 

We headed to our usual spot only to find that if we wanted to go EXACTLY to our usually spot we would have had to drag the boat up on the shore a good 20 feet as the level of the lake had dropped at least 10 feet since our last visit in the summer.   Stymied and perplexed, we drove aimlessly for a bit, pausing momentarily to restart the motor after a ROPE DRAPED RANDOMLY BETWEEN TWO STUMPS WRAPPED OUR PROPELLER, and eventually just dropped anchor in what appear to be a likely spot.

 

I pulled out my beloved 7’ ultra-light Fenwick Eagle GT fishing pole with the AG Cardinal reel strung with 2-pound Maxima line and prepared to wage war upon my sworn submerged adversaries.   I also readied my 7’ Bass Pro branded ultra-lite 7’ pole (very nice for the price I assure you) with similar line and two other 4’ ultra-lites, baited all four with a variety of trout hors d'oeuvres, cast two out, snugged them into rod-holders and my son and I began casting and retrieving the other two.

 

Not much time had passed before my Fenwick gave a sharp downward tug and the most adored of all sounds met my ears… the tick, tick, zzzzzzzzzz, of line being ripped grudgingly from a well-set drag.

 

Eagerly I snatched it up, set the hook, and began furiously reeling in, my adrenaline quickly reliving those time-repressed passions, while in the background I vaguely heard a noise. I tried to block it out, concentrated solely upon the thrashing fish, the taut line and the screaming drag but it became louder and louder until I began to make out the words… “DAD!! DAD!!! DAD!!! YOU PROMISED THAT I COULD REEL IN THE FIRST FISH!!!”

 

At first these verbal assertions were as water off a duck’s back but gradually it began to sink into my emotion-rattled brain their signal meaning. Grudgingly and gnashing my teeth, I handed the sweat-soaked pole to my son and hastily grabbed the net. My son did admirably and after a lively battle whipped the fish into submission under my supervision and throat-tearing advice. I net the 3+ pound fish and we did a group happy jig about my boat (which has as much square footage as your average dog house) and nearly had to be “fished” out ourselves.

 

This fish was really quite a pleasure to catch. I had fought him for a while (remember this is on 2-pound test) and my son for another 5 minutes more at least. It ran repeatedly, jumped thrashed and just as we would thrust the net in his direction (I suppose it could have a been a her fish, but I assuming masculinity) he would once again bolt for the wild green yonder (Corona’s water is anything but blue). He fought harder than anything his size I can remember catching at Corona. Battered but eager we put the fish on the stringer, rebaited and recast.

 

Soon, the process was repeated and this time it was I who was able to reel in the 3+ pound beast, much to my delight. My son scooped him up, put him on the stringer and we reset.

 

It was as beautiful sunny day, calm with the occasional gust of wind to provide excitement and was altogether the perfect welcome back for the prodigal angler.

 

We caught fish after fish and soon attracted a bit of attention from nearby boats, one of which (a rented pontoon boat) nearly tied up to our boat in an effort to get a share of the honey hole.

 

My son who had been casting and slowly reeling in scented plastics soon said, “dad, I, I, feel something.” I glanced at his pole which was as steady as a rock and said, “awww, you just hit the bottom.” I was scarcely done with this statement when his rod tip slammed sharply into the water. “SET THE HOOK!!” I yelled. He shortly thereafter reeled in ANOTHER 3+ pounder.

 

Two fish later we caught the biggest fish of the day. My son reeled in a 4 pounder which was fightin’ fool and gave him a run for his money.

 

Unfortunately with success, there can also come negatives and thusly we limited out by 11:00am with 8 fish (I was allowed 5 fish and my son 3 due to his sub-12 year old status) and were forced by the confines of the Corona lake rules to exit the waters.

 

We had a GREAT time and were extremely happy with the quality of the fish caught. We had four fish over three pounds and one at four. The others were around 2 pounds with one being rather small.

 

We took the fish home, cleaned them and cooked two for dinner for my family (see picture). They were so large however, that one fish was enough for myself and my entire family.

 

A new desire is now burgeoning in my breast… a desire rekindled by the tug on the line, by the spray of a thrashing brute, by the smell of Berkley power-anything. I am a new man and while I shall no doubt continue to golf, it shall be tempered by the call of the deep. I hear that double-digit lloyd calling me… “come catch me… come catch me…” I must try, I must try. 

 

I feel an urge to splash my savings into the coffers of Bass Pro, to purchase a half-dozen unnecessary poles, lures and scents because it just might make the next time that much better. Either way, both the fish and I were once again equally hooked.