Editor’s Note: This edition of Eric Church’s column, “Church Country,” appears in the new Game Fish Issue of the Field & Stream Journal. To receive the issue, become a member of the 1871 Club, or purchase individual copies here.
Some of the best friendships—and damn sure the best memories—are made on the water. There’s something about the solitude, the rhythm, and the way the world slows down. Not long ago, another lifetime memory was made while friends and I were drifting in old wooden fishing boats on a warm late-autumn day, where the only thing louder than the splash of a lure was the laughter of good company.
The story begins with a phone call from Ben Weprin.
“Hey, Bo is in town and wants to go fishing.”
“Jackson?” I replied.
“You know any other Bo?”
I told him not to be a smart-ass and then said, “LFG.”
We called up our friend Seth to even out the boats, and I felt confident it was going to be one of those days I’d never forget. I didn’t know it would also involve treble hooks, pliers, blood, and a severe case of hiccups.
Trust me—it’ll all make sense soon enough.
I invited the guys over to my bass lake, located on the property I wrote about in my first column for Field & Stream—you know, the time when my then-girlfriend-now-wife, her father (aka Captain Q-tip), and I came home after our first visit to the property covered with blood-sucking seed ticks. I arrived early to re-rig—and to reinforce—some of my fishing reels. Why? Because I’ve seen a thousand videos of Bo Jackson climbing outfield walls, throwing lasers 400 feet on a rope, splintering bats over his thighs, and breaking middle linebackers in two. I bet he can cast a lure a mile, I thought. So I added about 100 feet of line to each reel, not knowing which rod he’d select. I fully expected Bo to rear back and put a lure somewhere on the dark side of the Moon. (And if he did so, knowing the Legend of Bo, he’d probably land a lunar lunker.)
After about an hour of spooling and five boxes of line, the guys arrived—first Ben and Bo together, then Seth shortly after. We said our hellos, and I immediately noticed Bo had a bad case of hiccups.
“You want some peanut butter?” I asked him.
“Why?” he replied.
“For the hiccups.”
After he explained that it wouldn’t do any good, I said to the crew, “Let’s go fishing.”
The four of us jumped into the boats and set sail on a pristine day. Ben and Bo went to the far side of the lake, while Seth and I decided to hit some nice structure near the closest bank. Seth was using a jighead tipped with a green-pumpkin worm, and I was throwing the same worm but wacky rigged. In no time, we were hooking bass. Three- and 4-pounders were hammering our baits as soon as we could cast them. Seth and I were having a blast—so much fun that you’d never have guessed this was our first time fishing together.
After we’d caught more than our fair share, I decided a topwater would be interesting to try. I tied on a double-treble-hooked Whopper Plopper and fired a beautiful cast next to a tree protruding from the bank. Bam! A big largemouth exploded on the surface, and I moved to set the hook—except I did so a fraction of a second too early.
Next thing I knew, Mr. Whopper Plopper was traveling back at Seth and me at the speed of sound—six -razor-sharp hooks spiraling, like Edward Scissorhands in flight.
Next thing I heard: Thud. Two of those six hooks had found their target—and buried themselves in Seth’s arm.
I apologized profusely, then immediately became aware of two things: (1) Those hooks were deep in his flesh. (2) As the closest thing we had to 9-1-1, I would have to extract them.
I grabbed my needle-nose pliers, and as I started to pull and prod, Seth began to sweat and shake. I worked on removing those diabolical things from his arm for a solid 30 minutes but couldn’t get the barbs to retreat even a millimeter.
I let out an exasperated breath. “I can’t get it,” I said. “I think we’re gonna need a doctor to look at this.” Seth nodded, so I started up the motor to go alert Ben and Bo about the situation.
I wish I could describe Ben’s face when we pulled up beside their boat. He mouthed at me, “WTF?” and I just shrugged. “I think we need to go to the ER,” I said.
Then Bo chimed in. “Nah, I can get that out,” he said nonchalantly. “Give me those pliers.” I tossed them to Bo and, shocker, he caught them.
After we docked the boats, Seth followed Bo into the cabin, where they first gathered some rubbing alcohol and bandages. Sensing some trepidation on Seth’s part, Bo set him at ease.
“I got this,” he told Seth. “This isn’t my first rodeo on this kind of thing. This won’t take but a second.” Turns out, Bo knows first aid too.
They went into the kitchen, and Bo told Seth to put his arm on the counter. With the pliers in his hands, Bo said, “You might want to look away.” After Seth turned his head, Bo told him that he was going to pull out the treble hook on the count of three.
“One”¦two”¦” Hic.
Of all the times for Bo to hiccup, it had to be at the exact moment when a person he’d known for only a couple of hours was trusting him to rip a bass plug out of his arm. We couldn’t believe it. Bo took a breath, then he started over.
“One”¦two”¦” Hic.
“One”¦two”¦” Hic.
I kid you not. Hiccups kept interrupting Bo on the three-count over and over and over. At this point, Seth was understandably starting to get a little worried—but he kept his cool. Now it was his turn to set Bo at ease.
“Bo,” Seth told him, “I got faith in you.”
Everyone knew it was about to get serious when Bo told Seth to tighten the skin on his arm around the embedded hooks. He took a breath.
“One”¦two”¦three!”
Bo yanked the Whopper Plopper out of Seth’s arm, sending it flying across the room faster than a baseball leaving the stadium at the crack of his bat. The lure hit a wall and fell to the floor. Seth looked down at his arm, which was barely bleeding. Bo had removed the lure clean as a whistle.
“I told you,” Bo said. “I got you.”
Bo and I signed the lure (I added “sorry” next to my signature) and gave it to Seth. Just like that, Seth has the greatest souvenir in fishing history to go along with a good story and a scar I fully admit I’m jealous of.
Before long, we were back on the water. We weren’t going to let a little detour keep us from those bass. I did, however, go back to using jigs.
I’ll save the Whopper Ploppers for another day—when I’m fishing solo.
THE 1871 CLUB
