Three Minutes Late

Jessica Oliver

There are two kinds of fishermen in South Florida: the ones who fish for fun, and the ones who swear they fish for fun right up until somebody puts a trophy and prize money on the dock. I was the second kind.

Every year, fishermen from all over showed up for our snook tournament. Nothing professional. No television cameras or million-dollar boats. Just people who knew these waters and were absolutely convinced they knew them better than everybody else. I'd entered four years in a row and won exactly nothing. That didn't stop me from showing up for number five. Before sunrise the ramp was alive with engines, coolers, tackle, and fishermen checking knots they'd already checked three times.

Then there was Frank. Frank won the year before with a thirty-one-pound snook, which apparently gave him permission to remind us about it every fifteen minutes. "You bring enough gas to make it back this year?" he called. I looked over. "You bring a bigger fish?" He smiled. I should've known right then the day was going to be difficult.

At six o'clock we were off. The rules were simple: catch, measure, weigh, photograph, release. Biggest verified snook won. Lines out at three, back at the dock by four. Not 4:01. Four. I had ten hours. Plenty of time. By eight I hadn't caught anything. By nine, I'd lost two baits. At ten I hooked a decent fish for about three seconds before it spit the hook. Then I caught a catfish. Not exactly what you want in a snook tournament. Around eleven the radio came alive. Twenty-two pounds. Then twenty-eight. Finally Frank's voice crackled through: "Thirty-four pounds, eight ounces."

Of course it was Frank. I could practically hear him smiling through the radio. By one o'clock I was losing badly. I pushed farther into the backcountry, working mangrove shorelines I'd fished a hundred times. Cast after cast. Nothing. Two o'clock. Nothing. Two-thirty. Still nothing. At 2:40 I finally admitted it: I wasn't winning. Frank had thirty-four pounds at the top of the board. I had a catfish, two lost baits, and one little snook I'd already released. I started the engine, then looked toward one last cut in the mangroves.

Every fisherman has one of those spots–the place you check even when you know better. I'd caught snook there before. Nothing enormous. Nothing worth risking the clock over. I checked my watch. 2:42. Time for one cast. Probably. I killed the engine, picked up the rod, and sent the bait beneath the mangroves. It hit the water.

WHAM. The rod folded and my reel screamed as line disappeared. The fish shot toward open water, changed its mind, and headed straight back for the roots. "Oh no you don't." I leaned back. She didn't care. The boat turned sideways. Then she jumped. For one second there was nothing between us but air: silver, huge, thick across the back, with a tail that looked entirely too large to belong to a snook.

She crashed down hard enough to throw water across the boat. I checked my watch. 2:47. Forget the tournament. I wasn't cutting this fish loose. She ran for the roots and the line began rubbing against something underneath. One sharp edge and it was over.

I started the motor with one hand and eased the boat toward her. The line went slack. Worst feeling in fishing. I reeled as fast as I could. Then the line tightened so violently the rod nearly left my hands. She wasn't gone. She was swimming toward me. "Clever." She shot beneath the boat and I stumbled around the console trying to keep the line away from the motor. Somewhere in the chaos I kicked my tackle box open and hooks went everywhere. Didn't care.

At 2:55 she jumped again, and this time I saw enough to know Frank could keep his thirty-four pounds. Whatever was on my line made his fish look like bait.

At three o'clock everybody else stopped fishing. I didn't. At 3:10 I was still fighting her. By 3:20 my arms felt like they belonged to somebody else. By 3:30 I knew there was no chance I was making the dock by four. Funny thing was, I didn't care anymore. Ten hours earlier I wanted the trophy. Now I just wanted to see what was on the other end of my line. Finally she surfaced beside the boat. I had a net. The net was useless. I tossed it aside and got down on my knees.

First try, she took off again. Second, I got a hand on her and lost it. Third, I got both hands around her and somehow brought her aboard. For a moment I just sat there breathing. So did she. I'd caught big snook before. This wasn't a big snook. This was ridiculous.

I measured her, photographed her, then put her in the weigh sling and lifted the certified tournament scale. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. It kept climbing. Seventy. Then it stopped. 75 pounds. "No." I reset the scale and tried again. 75 pounds. I started laughing. Ten hours, a catfish, two lost baits, and with eighteen minutes left in the tournament I'd hooked a seventy-five-pound monster. Only problem? It had taken nearly an hour to land her.

I checked the time. 3:38. Twenty-two minutes to make a trip that normally took closer to thirty. I released her anyway. No grand decision. Those were the rules, and after the fight she'd give me, she'd earned her way home. I held her in the water until that giant tail kicked, then she disappeared.

I started the engine. I've driven boats fast before. That afternoon I discovered they go considerably faster when there's a trophy waiting at the other end. 3:46. 3:51. 3:57. I could see the dock. I could also see everybody standing around it. Four o'clock came and went. I reached the dock at 4:03. Three minutes late.

Frank stood beside the leaderboard: First place, 34 pounds 8 ounces. He smiled. "Couldn't find one?" I tied off the boat. "Found one." "How big?" "Seventy-five." Everybody laughed. I would've laughed too. So I pulled out the photograph. The laughing stopped. Then I showed them the scale reading.

Frank looked at the picture, then at me, then back at the picture. The tournament official checked the time. "Three minutes late." "I know." "You're disqualified." "I know." Frank tried not to smile. He failed. "Guess I still won." Technically, he did. Frank got the trophy, the prize money, and his picture beside the leaderboard. I got nothing.

Well... that's not exactly true. I got a photograph of a seventy-five-pound snook, watched her swim away, and got to spend the next year listening to Frank tell everybody he beat me by three minutes. He still brings it up. So do I.

The difference is, Frank has to point at his trophy to prove he won. I just ask him one question: "How big was yours again?" Funny thing about fishing. Sometimes the biggest catch doesn't make you the winner. But it sure gives you the better story.