“How Larry G. Got Hooked on Jerkbaits”
by Chuck Bailey
(A handful of years ago, I lost my fishing buddy of 17 years. But I still think of him often: he always made me laugh! And so I thought I'd blow the dust off of one my favorite Larry Gonczy stories and let you in on some of those laughs. I can't believe this event really happened! )
Larry’s face was white! Gasping for air, his trembling lips managed to sputter an almost inaudible cry, “Chuck, I’ve… I’ve hooked myself.”
Standing erect and motionless on the front deck of his Lund, my fishing partner of 10 years was expressing the kind of silent pain that every boy who has ever fallen on the crossbar of his bicycle could relate to: intense.
In Larry’s quivering left hand a G. Loomis rod pointed aimlessly upward. My eyes quickly located the shaking rod tip, and began trailing the line toward his source of terror. It arched past his elbow, beyond the belt buckle, and disappeared into the mysterious shadows below.
Had Larry been wearing the thick protection of denim jeans, a zipper might have defended his delicate anatomical features. But being a large man he preferred the comfort and freedom of gray sweat pants. Too bad.
Did I say Larry was a big man? The Creator, in His humorous desire for variety, genetically designed Larry to look like one of the M&M characters on TV commercials. Only Larry’s arms and legs weren’t as long.
And now, at the southern pole of this gray M&M hung a clown-colored Rapala Husky Jerk. And much to Larry’s chagrin, all three GamaKatsu treble hooks had found their way home. The light gray sweat suit material had done little to prevent the laser-sharpened points from carrying out their designed intent: to pierce and not let go.
Now I suppose, being a Lutheran minister, I might have shown stronger character through serious and instant concern and compassion. Perhaps an Apostle or Saint may have been able to ignore the comedic character of this delicate situation, and immediately rush to the rescue of this brother in distress. But I, a hopeless sinner, could do nothing but sit down and laugh.
Every wave of seriousness that tried to wash over me was instantly dashed upon the rocks of temptation.
“Quick Larry, set the hook!” Again howls of laughter engulfed me.
Larry, however, failed to see the humor in the situation. Normally this sharp-witted salesman and Pro-staffer was capable of using his silver-plated tongue to unleash a devastating counter blow so as to cripple any contender who dared step into the arena of humorous sarcasm. But alas, the king of verbal gladiators was silent.
Eventually his golden vocal cords, (once bass but now soprano), produced only two words. “Help me...”, he pleaded.
This was not the verbal lashing I had expected. Confused, I momentarily paused from rollicking on the deck and glanced into his pitiful eyes. The pain they portrayed was sobering. Larry was serious!
“Well, what do you want me to do?” I asked, as I picked myself up off the floor.
“Get the pliers!” he replied.
“Are you serious?” I asked in disbelief.
“JUST GET THE PLIERS!”
My hesitation to leap into action stemmed from the fact, that like most men, I’m a very private person when it comes to certain portions of the male anatomy. I feel uncomfortable using a public bathroom. Therefore I had no desire to look at another man’s crotch, yet alone play Dr. House with Larry’s family jewels.
“I think you better do it yourself!” I suggested.
“Chuck,” he gasped, “I not only can’t see it, but every little movement seems to drive one of the barbs in deeper. Get the pliers!”
Glancing around the boat, I discovered two sets. I chose the longest pair.
Timidly I approached the bow of the boat. I had to kneel to survey the damage. Then I leaned back, and looked up at Larry.
“Well?” he asked impatiently.
“Good news. There’s no blood.”
“Well try not to make any!” he snapped. Apparently the shock was wearing off.
“Well… here goes. Shut up and stand still.”
I received an angry frown, but any negative comments were kept in check by the knowledge that he was on my operating table.
I began with the treble hook closest to the Rapala’s bill, only one barb was impaled and I suspected its removal would bring the least pain.
I was wrong.
As his scream echoed across the silvery lake, I feared that he might faint and fall on me. “You OK?” I asked.
The glazed look in his eyes caused me to assume he was experiencing a second wave of shock. I waited until he resumed normal breathing before I headed for the tail hook.
“So tell me,” I asked, “how did this happen?” I hoped his explanation might distract him from the fact that I was performing surgery without anesthetic.
“Well,” his weak voice slowly replied, “I had just finished putting new GamaKatsu hooks on my Husky Jerk, when it slipped from my hands. The rod was tucked under my arm and pointing up. The lure swung out and then came back a lot faster than I expected.”
While he was focused on his story I seized the moment to grasp the tail hook.
“I knew these hooks were sharp,” he continued, “but I never expected them to…”
What I thought was a gentle tug ended Larry’s story.
After another scream that caused a flock of ducks to take flight, there was a brief silence, then the rapid succession of short breaths. Except for the whimper that followed each breath, it was a splendid display that would have made a Lamaze teacher proud.
His head was leaning a little more to the left now, and I felt more distraction was needed.
“Ya know Larry,” I announced, “you’re a lucky man!”
“How’s that?” he gasped.
“Think about it. For centuries men have been asking their buddies that hypothetical question - ‘If I were bit on the butt by a rattlesnake, would you suck out the poison?’” I eased up to the remaining hook. “Heck, the way I see it, this is just another version of a test of friendship. After all, not many buddies would get caught doing this.”
“Well, maybe. But whatever you do, hurry up and finish before someone sees us.”
Hmmm. It never occurred to me what this might look like from the shore. “My word!” I thought to myself, “anyone with a telescopic camera could black mail us forever!” All thoughts of tenderness vanished and I yanked down unmercifully.
I reckon I must have caught him exhaling, because the anticipated scream never occurred. Glancing up at Larry, I resisted the urge to yell “TIMBER!” even though I was sure the big man was going down.
It wasn’t easy lowering him into a sitting position while holding the crotch of his sweat pants away from his previously crucified anatomy. The Rapala was still imbedded in the sweat suit but I was eager to return to the stern of the boat.
Was it not enough my personal integrity had been tested beyond normal limits? And had I not passed this frightening test of manly friendship? Larry could remove the jerkbait from his own pants.
“You OK?” I asked.
“Yeah, just a little woozy,” he replied.
“Any blood at the South Pole?” I turned my head while he gingerly checked it out.
“Naw,” he replied. “Lucky I guess.”
“Yep,” I agreed, “it could have been worse.”
“How so?” he asked.
“You could have been alone.”
I said no more, and left him to contemplate that last frightening thought, while he cautiously picked at his sweat pants with a knife and pliers.
Looking back I learned a lot that day. I discovered how razor-sharp GamamKatsu treble hooks are, (leaving one to wonder how any bass could ever throw one!)
And I learned about friendship and what one buddy might do for another.
But more importantly, the experience provided an answer to a question that bass anglers have pondered for generations.
Any angler who has ever thrown a monster sized bait and retrieved it to find a three inch bass impaled upon it has asked, “Now how could that have happened?” Thanks to my friend Larry, I know now how it’s possible that something so small could be hooked by something so large.
It just got too close.
Now, some of Crankbait Central’s more sympathetic readers might think it’s a little unkind and insensitive for Larry’s partner to share his embarrassing moment with the rest of the bass fishing world. So I am quick to remind the readers of Larry’s sharp wit, of which I am a constant and favorite target. After ten years the score is so overwhelmingly lopsided in Larry’s favor that I shall never be able to “even the score” in the lingual arena.
But as a famous author once said, “I does tend to write a bit”. And so it only seems fitting to share with the fishing world how a great friend and a local bass fishing legend got hooked on jerkbaits.
Besides, I won’t tell him if you don’t.
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