You Don’t Know If You Like It Until…

By Ben Hanes, Writer

Northwest Bass Pro Staff

                It’s the night before show time.  You just purchased a newer eighteen foot Triton boat; you figured you’d start out with a medium-sized boat before you really step it up.  You have spent time meticulously going over your game plan, and you’ve studied tournament results and articles relating to the particular body of water your first tournament will be at.  Your expectations are high, although you really do not know what to expect.

                It’s now bedtime.  Your stomach is in knots and you wonder if sleep will ever greet you on this night.  Thankfully, you finally get to sleep about two hours before you must rise.  That’s alright, though.   To you, the alarm going off was a blessing.  Sleep was only a necessary curse before the coming day.   You quickly get up, make coffee, hurriedly go through an important checklist, and then drive away from home while it’s still dark. 

Although the drive is only an hour away, you give yourself an extra full hour, just in case something goes wrong.  You’re prepared, driven, nervous, but are ultimately sure that the results and conditions of the tournament will be in your favor.  You’ve done your homework, and you know what you’re up against…The big local boys.   You’ve seen them in regional articles, and have read about their techniques and fishing style.  You’re prepared.  And you should be, lest it will definitely be a humbling experience.

                A million thoughts run through your sleepless mind on the way to the tournament destination.   And then you see it…You’re driving along the tournament reservoir in the morning twilight, the sun barely starting to turn the sky a lighter black color.  The stars are still out, but you can see the water.  It’s calm and high, just how you wanted it to be.  You realize at this moment that truth be told, there is really no other place you would rather be at this moment.  At this sudden realization, you get chills up your spine, a smile comes to your face, and then, unexpectedly, your stomach starts to hurt and you get nervous like you’ve never been before.  But it feels good.  You know you’re ready for this…

You can see a bass boat in the distance.  It looks like a newer boat.  You have no idea who it is, but on the back is a 250 Mercury Pro XS.  You squirm in your seat knowing that the boat you purchased has a 150 Merc on back.  You know, though, without a doubt, that you’re better than a lot of these guys.  Right now, it’s not about the boat, it’s about your ability to fish.  You know you can do that.  You’ve been doing it all your life, albeit not in tournaments.  But you’ve spent countless hours on the water, and have studied the fish that is popularly called a bronzeback.  You know its characteristics, habits, seasonal traits, and you’ve spent enough time on the water to practically follow this fish based on its seasonal patterns.  You’re ready for this.

It’s 4:45 A.M.  Blast off, as they like to call it, is at 6:00 A.M.  You’re finally there.  You pull into the normal launch site and what you thought was normal now looks entirely abnormal.   There is a long line of big, shiny, new, and surely fast bass boats.  Their lights are bright, at least it seems that way because there are so many.  You suddenly feel small.  However, after pulling into line and getting your boat ready, a few anglers greet you and are surprisingly friendly.  You talk a little about the fish, and it helps to alleviate the nervousness that has polluted your body all morning.  You look up to these guys, though, and you realize that soon you’ll have one of those fancy, nice tournament shirts, and be able to spread what you’ve learned about fishing and the fishing industry.  You just have to prove yourself…You’re almost there.

The mechanics of launching, boat maneuvering, and politeness are all normal to you.  However, you’re incredibly shocked by how fast these guys launch and tie up their boats.  They know what they’re doing.  They’re the cream of the crop.  You’re used to the weekend crowds with long lines and people who are unfamiliar with their equipment.  You’ve never seen so many boats with “Nixon’s Marine” across the gunnel.  You wonder where this place is; it must be the place to go.  Apparently so, because these guys are nothing short of machines when it comes being in order and prepared. 

After launching, you go up and stand around, drinking your coffee.  Again, you’re surprised by the friendliness of these anglers in Northwest Bass.  You figured they were all just Bass Heads, probably stuck up thinking they were Gods Gift to Women with their sweet boats and expensive trucks.  The latter might still be the case, but at least they’re not stuck up!

                It’s the drivers meeting now.  The tournament director is an amazingly well spoken man, and is obviously in the position he’s in for a reason.  This circuit is efficient and ran like a well oiled machine, you realize…A man sings the National Anthem, and in the early morning sunrise on your favorite reservoir, with the company of two hundred other men who are after the same thing as you, and the sweet fumes of exhaust coming from the sound of smooth Mercury and Yamaha motors, you realize once again this is awesome.  You’re addicted and the tournament hasn’t even began!

                It’s time now.  In the host marina there are at least another 100 boats.  The early morning quietness is now filled with the anxious rumbling of outboard motors, and the voice of the tournament director calling out boat numbers over a microphone.  You’re incredibly nervous.  But you’ve triple checked everything, and you’re prepared.  Therefore, just before they’re about to call out your number, a calmness unlike one you’ve ever experienced before overcomes you, and all goes quiet… Success is only 13 miles away.  You’re dialed in and in the zone.  You’re primed, you’re ready, and when they call out your number, it’s all business.  Period.

                You race down the lake, and although you’ve been extremely impressed with your present boat and its accessories, you realize it doesn’t quite compare to that brand new Triton 21X with a 250 Pro XS that just passed you with ease.  Maybe next year you’ll have one, when you’re ready, you tell yourself.  You then say a silent prayer amidst the bright sunrise that no one will be at your spot when you arrive.

                A few minutes later, you’re there.  The tops of the reeds are just out of the water.  The canal is full of water, and that rock-pile a cast-distance away from the mouth of the canal is exactly two feet underwater, precisely how you like it.  It’s game-time…

                Nine hours later, after squeezing in every last minute on the water before having to leave, you race back to the launch.  It’s warm, now, albeit overcast.  The conditions were perfect, and the fish in your livewell are nearly the same.  You’re content with your results.  The rock-pile paid off big dividends.  Your Yamamoto 176 Spider Grub fooled several nice smallmouth.  You realized that once the leadhead hit the rock pile, you’d pause, slowly crawl your lure over, and then let it abrubtly fall off the other side.  The fish decided that was what they wanted, every time.  The nearby reeds, though, were both a blessing and a curse.  Throwing around weightless Senkos, you were able to get two solid largemouth, but unfortunately your line broke on a green fish close to six pounds.  That moment might have defined the tournament, but you’ll soon find out.

                When you arrive at the weigh-in, the place is loaded.  A large stage is set up with banners and an efficient, aerated weigh-in system.  A sizeable crowd surrounds the area listening to the tournament director call out the results of each team.  As you wait in line, there’s a seventeen pound bag that was just weighed in.  You’ve read about this guy, he’s good.  Real good.  You think your bag could go seventeen, but it will be close.  The nervousness then starts all over again.  You’ve been thinking about nothing but money, and excitement, but after witnessing several fifteen to seventeen pound bags, you’re twisted up inside.  It’s your turn now, and you’re tense.  You know your bag is close to the top.

                Sixteen and twenty six hundredths pounds.  You’re close.  Very close.

                After weighing in, you become a part of the crowd.  You are anxiously noting the size of other bags, wondering if your catch compares to the local big boys.  There’s very few larger than yours.  You know you’ve placed near the top, and you’re elated, but now you have to wait, and the apprehension now is worse than ever.  The tournament director proficiently weighs the remaining teams’ bags, and soon the checks will be issued.  You stand around for a little while, talking with these guys you’ve looked up to for quite some time and have been anxious to meet.  You’re content with your results, but you realize you probably didn’t win, and you’re just ultimately happy to be there.   The checks are issued, and you get a pretty good one…8^th place.  Not bad.

                Now you know you like it.  Now you know you love it.  The only difference though, is that although 8^th place made you happy today, it won’t make you happy next time.  After all, now you want to be one of the big dogs.  And you will be.  Hopefully sooner than later.

Ben Hanes, the author, is sponsored by: Nixon’s Marine, Cascade Sign and Design, Columbia River Bank, and writes articles and is on the Pro Staff for Northwest Bass, the largest tournament circuit in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho.