Game Time: The Big Tournament
Dawn patrol: In darkness and bright headlights, 70 contestant bass boats and their towing vehicles arrived and began launching into Lake Calabozo. We were utilizing a solid dirt peninsula, which was handy, since boats could be launched on both sides for several hundred yards. It was the start of a 21-hour day, if you counted the long dinner and awards ceremony, after 12 hours of fishing…But these guys could handle it, and so would we. Several volunteers directed traffic in the dark with flashlights, waving each boat and trailer into an open spot. They peered into our truck and said, “Ah, the Yankees,” and we grinned over our coffee mugs. In three minutes we backed into water. Boats were splashed all around and outboard engines rumbled into life up and down the line, and the eastern sky grew pink. There was some banter, but many anglers had on their game faces. As the light improved, we could see that every boat crew had matching team shirts. We had dug around and found three somewhat-matching blue Columbia Wear shirts, and that sufficed. You have to cover up from this sun, after all.
Then we were off, running fast through big clearings and old creek beds in submerged forests. My favorite cap flew off, but we were too fired up to turn around and retrieve it. I had a spare, anyway. Our day had begun. You know the program: In a tournament you fish hard all day, with little time to rest. Lower backs and casting elbows begin to ache, but you keep drilling out those casts with gradually less precision. We caught a fish here and there, and gradually realized that with several more, we could win this thing.
Last year’s overall winners were very young, and these guys are said to be fishing machines, not stopping for a sandwich, nada. Last year they racked up heavy limits. This year, low water levels slowed them down, like everybody else. Very frustrating.
This lake is very murky, lacking hydrilla or water hyacinith that would clear the water. But it might also clog this big shallow lake, which is used to provide electricity, drinking water and irrigation for many people. In this case, clean, muddy water is far more valuable than clear, aquatic weed-infested water the fish like. Who knows, the fish may like muddy water. There’s no way of knowing.
Only live fish could be weighed in and then promptly released, so several weigh stations were sensibly located near prime fishing areas on the eastern shore, sheltered from the prevailing wind. You could weigh fish and return to casting within minutes.
There were no docks; you waded ashore in warm water, weighed each fish about 10 yards away, and eased them back in the lake. We heard later that if a fish surfaced or floated back ashore, it soon found home in a cooler. These fish are very fine to eat, compared to black bass.
There was at least one tournament medic, who removed treble hooks from several anglers, after first numbing them with a shot. With about 200 casters, usually three per boat, you expect a couple of people to get snagged. One guy had a treble hook removed from his buttocks, while nearby tourney staff and gawkers offered encouragement and advice.
Our boat driver Bruno put up with about 12 hours of our tournament casting, and without complaint. At least we weren’t rookies, and nobody was hooked. Flipping snagged lures out of timber, back towards the boat, means you have to dodge incoming, as well as outgoing treble hooks. Bruno took us back to spots we had already identified and fished, made recommendations on changing plugs during the day, and landed our fish.
Every fish bigger than (I think it was) 1.2 kilos counted for points. Action was tough, with the lake down from a lack of rain. If we’d caught a single big fish, like my initial 7-pounder several days before, we’d have placed in the top-5. Bruno said if we won, we deserved a night in the finest disco in Caracas. “No problem, plenty of guards there.” Our wives back home might not have supported this idea. Shoreline fishing means using an electric motor, hour after hour, and our twin batteries gradually petered out. By later afternoon, the boat’s progress slowed to a standstill…
Spirits sagged. I’d laid out hundreds of good casts close to countless trees, to no avail. Ye Gods, what a day to get skunked! Ron and Preston had landed four good fish, and had another ruled ineligible by an ounce or two. Spirits were revived back at the boat ramp and crowd. Somehow we the Yankees had placed 11th out of 70 boats. A few Polar beers settled me down, and we conversed with other boat crews around us.
The crowd back at the ramp was large; this was a big event for the town. Even an Army truck was parked; a few soldiers wandered around, everyone looking at the new hot bass boats and tackle from all over the country. To the east, a line of thunderstorms had been growing for hours, and slowly advanced. But they didn’t hit until everyone had gone home in the dark. And the rain by good fortune entirely missed our outdoor awards banquet later that night…
