by Jon Edward Edwards
Anchored off the sandy beach of a barrier island south of Cocodrie, Louisiana, we were in them thick. Speckled trout, all sizes – hand over fist – we whacked ‘em.
Hill Pohlman, a buddy close enough to call my brother, had Bay Hawk at the time, which had poorly designed scuppers that sat low in the stern and allowed water to pool in the hull while the boat was at rest. Within the flaw, however, was a silver lining in the form of a makeshift live well. Therefore, we unhooked them and dropped them into the boat, saving time and catching more fish.
It may be hard to understand for someone that has never experienced it, but the rush of getting into a ravenous bite such as this is part of what it’s all about. The angler and sportsman in us are on a never-ending quest to duplicate the experience. Not as intense as playing in a football game that your team is winning, but close. Everyone is hooting and hollering and high-fiving.
Coming from Florida, I wasn’t used to the 12” minimum size for Speckled Trout. Therefore, I took a break and began tossing the smaller ones out. Hill witnessed my efforts and stammered, “Hhhhey, man! Hey, man! Wwwe’re kkeepin em all … we’re keepin em all!”
Larue, the big guy with a deep voice, emphasized Hill’s statement in his Mississippi drawl, “Yeah … We’re keepin em all.” (A Mississippi drawl is different from a North Louisiana Drawl or a Texas twang. Southern ears denote that difference.)
“Even these dinks?” I asked.
“I want some fish in the freezer,” Larue said, confirming the demand. Twenty-five per person bag limit with five people. Let’s see …, I learned algebra from Granny, same as Jethro. That’s … a lot of fish. Every one of them was cleaned and iced to be shared and enjoyed by all of us with freezers. For some reason, I felt like I needed to clarify that.
“Tttwelve inches, Man. Twelve inches,” Hill said, reminding me of the starting slot size.
When excited, Hill stutters and stammers, spewing jumbled sentences, sometimes inventing new phrases in the process. He has ever since we were kids. It was so funny we would often provoke or bring on these bouts of silliness. It became a favorite past-time, all in good fun. As you will soon see, I was usually the one getting hazed, which is why I waited a few minutes and started again.
I bumped into Thomas, another childhood friend close enough to be a brother, while sloshing around, making a spectacle chasing fish around. “Dude …,” Thomas says, alerting Hill in deep concentration on the bow. Hill turned around to find me chase a particularly slippery one around Taylor’s legs, catch it, and throw it out. Taylor – Larue’s son, a spritely teen at the time.
“LLLarue! Larue! Hhhe’s dddoing it again! He’s doing it again!”
“Boy … Don’t let me see you do that again, or I’m gonna throw YOU out of the boat,” said Larue. Only his voice seemed much deeper at this point.
Hill was wild-eyed, unable to think of anything to stammer. I read the dare on Thomas and Taylor’s faces and knew I had no choice. Picking up the biggest trout I could find, I moved closer to Larue so that he got a good look and let it slide over the side.
I didn’t have time to think to myself – “He’s not kidding” – before I was in the water. I may have beaten the fish I had tossed out – it was close. I dog paddled around while they laughed at me, all the while they continued to catch fish.
You see, Larue was a man of his word. He never wore a wristwatch and did deals on a handshake. If he said, “Don’t touch the radio,” or, “Don’t let me see you do again, or I’m going to throw you out of the boat,” he meant it. Thomas can attest to the former.
I’m now vividly reminded of the harrowing game of Duck – Duck – “who’s going to get the electric fillet knife with a short in it,” that Larue and I played later that afternoon. A slight jolt every few seconds for the length of time it takes to clean a fair share of 125 speckled trout, plus a good haul of redfish can be maddening. I lost.
Post Script:
Issuing this clarification postscript was important to preserve the integrity of the original story I pulled from, “Big Guy With The Deep Voice,” eulogizing my dear friend, Larue Byrd. Also, within the story is the spirit of “Pop,” Mr. Jimmy Pohlman, an essential figure in my younger life.
Considering the content isn’t from our area, I asked my editors if it was suitable for our local publication. It does jive with the recurring theme of me falling, jumping, or being jettisoned from the confines of the vessel. I haven’t planned it this way, one story has led to another, and here we are. In addition, it pays homage to a beloved area that was devastated this year by Hurricane Ida. Hill told me that Cocodrie was “Gone.” Regardless of their answer, the exercise allowed me to feel Larue in my heart again. Because they were cool enough to say yes, maybe you can feel him in yours, too.
