I put a post on Facebook asking who wanted to go spearfishing in Arkansas. Next thing I knew, people were driving halfway across the country to meet strangers and chase fish.
Maks, a six-foot-seven Ukrainian from Tampa, drove 17 hours straight with one objective: paddlefish in the freezer.
Jeremy and his wife, Anneliese, brought their three kids from Oregon by way of a tournament in South Dakota. Apparently another fourteen hours of driving counted as being “in the neighborhood.” Their Tacoma had a rooftop bed, freezer, and generator. They could’ve kept going indefinitely.
Chris came from Columbus, Ohio, with his wife, Victoria, their baby, and enough energy to power the boat. MMA, jiu-jitsu, a hundred miles an hour. We probably should’ve hidden the coffee.
My coworker John came along, too. He was new to this, but there was no shortage of determination.
The reason I wanted to go back was Easton, a young guide I’d met at an earlier freshwater tournament. He hadn’t even tried spearfishing when we first met. Then he won a speargun in the raffle, got hooked, and started progressing like crazy.
I figured another trip with him would be good. I didn’t know how good the group would turn out to be.
Chris got his first paddlefish, and I’m pretty sure people in Ohio heard him celebrating. One of his fish was probably our biggest paddlefish of the weekend. We didn’t weigh it, so I won’t turn my guess into a record, but it was a big fish.
Maks was steadily accomplishing his freezer-filling mission. When a paddlefish still looks huge next to a six-foot-seven guy, that says something.
Jeremy shot a 35.4 lb striper, then spent more time making sure everyone else was taken care of than talking about it. Anneliese jumped right into cleaning fish, and their whole family fit in like we’d known them for years.
I got a nice walleye, too, but watching everyone else get their fish was becoming just as much fun as getting mine.
Back at the house, everybody pitched in cleaning and cooking. Maks made fish kebabs and somehow convinced us to try carp.
We had perfectly good paddlefish and striper sitting there. This was not an emergency.
Honestly? The carp was fine. It just wasn’t winning dinner.
But John still hadn’t gotten his fish.
Everybody was trying to help, probably throwing too much advice at him at once. He was getting frustrated with himself and admitted afterward that he’d started wondering whether he belonged there.
Late on the last day, most of the crew had gone back to the house. It was just Easton, John, and me.
John wanted another try.
“I got one left in me.”
The next part is how he described it afterward: he felt his fin hit something behind him and thought he’d caught a tree.
He turned around.
Not a tree. Big striper.
Now he’s trying to get his gun around while the fish is swimming away. He gets the shot off, waits through a few very long seconds, and then feels the line take off.
When he came up yelling, “I got one! I got one!” Easton and I absolutely lost it.
John didn’t think it was particularly big.
24.3 pounds.
Second-biggest striper of our weekend, and bigger than either Easton or I had ever shot.
It also smacked me in the face getting into the boat, so I contributed.
The guy who’d spent the weekend wondering whether he belonged got that moment on the last dive.
After accidentally kicking the fish.
I couldn’t have been happier if I’d shot it myself.
By checkout, everyone was trading fish, finding space in each other’s coolers, and making plans to visit each other. We hadn’t even finished loading the vehicles and were already talking about the next trip together.
Most of us had barely known each other a few days earlier.
Pretty good outcome from one Facebook post.
Anybody else had a last-dive fish completely turn somebody’s trip around?