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Bass Tournaments Make Size Matter More

August 25, 2009 - VASSALBORO -- The shouts have trouble rattling through the pea soup-thick fog at dawn, but there is no mistaking their urgency.

"Get it in the boat!" they holler to me as my ultra-light, 5-foot rod bends into a perfect upside-down U, extending into the dark water below.

From one end of the small vessel comes a man with a net; from the other end, an extended arm trying to help me steady the rod.

I wrestle to tighten the drag and continue reeling my catch toward the boat, muscling it away from the hull and out into the open water, where it can be netted. We've been out on Webber Pond for less than one hour, working tight areas around rocks, logs and docks while waiting for the fog to lift and give way to bright sunshine.

The fish leaps with verve, flailing and splashing as it flinches and flicks it fins in every direction above the water.

"Keep him in the water!" come further instructions. "Don't let him snap your line! Keep him down until the net is there!"

The double-dose of 4:30 a.m. coffee hasn't even kicked in yet, and I feel like I'm at boot camp.

Twelve other boats join us on the pond, most of them carrying two-man teams for a bass tournament sponsored by the Outcast Bass Club. It's one of a dozen or more bass tournaments held each weekend of the summer across Maine – where men and women treat their fishing like a religion.

I do what I'm told today.

There are more than 30 bass clubs in the state. Members' dues pay for the tournaments – from permits to scales to supplies – and some include membership into larger organizations, like the Maine Bass Federation or BASS, a national bass-fishing body.

And, as one can imagine, the fishing isn't about getting out on the water and unwinding from the stresses of the past week. It's serious business involving boats costing tens of thousands of dollars, cash prizes and plenty of money spent on traveling to and from tournaments.

Prizes are routinely paid for highest weight total for five or eight fish, depending on tournament rules, and for the biggest largemouth and smallmouth of the day.

Unlike fishing with your grandfather, size matters.

"We fish a lot during the week, too," said Art Farris of Unity, who said he and his teammate Jeremy Van Oesen of Dixmont had more than three dozen tournaments on their schedule this season. "But I like doing this. It's something that's different."

Ninety minutes into my first bass tournament – fishing with Chris Steiner and Bob Choiniere – and it's not all that unlike fishing with my brother on any other Sunday morning. The three of us catch fish without too much regard for how big they are, get caught up on gossip involving friends and families and needle one another gently on everything from rod size to lure choices.

But as soon as the first five bass are in the live well, it's another game entirely.

It's no longer enough to simply catch fish. It's all about catching bigger fish – so we can replace the ones in the live well with ones that weigh more.

Just a couple of hours into the tournament, I ask if my teammates have a goal in mind.

"Not really," says Choiniere of Newport, "but you're probably going to need 18 to 20 pounds. That'll have you in it."

For the mathematically challenged, that's an average of nearly 4 pounds per fish.

I'm thinking about that first fish I caught in the morning, the one that weighed in at around 31/2 pounds – likely the largest largemouth I've ever caught. It's still in the live well, part of our five-fish aggregate, and it will stay there until we weigh in shortly after 3 p.m.

As the sun rises higher in the sky, turning the pale skin on our arms, faces and necks all shades, the fishing slows at a proportionate pace.

Suddenly, the notion of competition is beginning to wreak havoc in my head.

When we're in sight of other boats, we all have one eye on our lines and one eye on the other anglers. I swear every fish I watch them pull over the side of their boat is in the 6-pound category.

How on earth, I wonder aloud, do these guys not worry every second about what every other boat on the water is doing?

"You can only do what you can do," Choiniere says. "Honestly, thinking about what everybody else is doing only motivates me to fish harder, to make sure I'm doing everything I can to help myself."

Steiner interjects some of his own wisdom, relying on past experience.

"One time in a tournament on Sebec (Lake), it was horrible. We were plowing through ice in places," Steiner says. "We caught one fish all day long. We caught it pretty early, too, but it was hard fishing and we couldn't get anything else. Nothing. We were pretty frustrated.

"Then we get back (to the weigh-in), and we've caught the only fish all day. So not only did we have the lunker, but we won the tournament. So, you just never know."

Choiniere has multiple sclerosis, so tournament fishing does two things for him. It allows him to pursue a hobby he enjoys while serving as an outlet for competition.

"This is something I can do," he said.

And he and Steiner do it with a ferocity that is almost frightening. Choiniere's tackle bag is filled with a collection of boxes – each one fit for a week-long fishing trip on its own. One box is devoted to rubber tubes of every color in the rainbow and even some colors, I'm fairly certain, that aren't yet named. Another box is filled with top-water "poppers" and still others have mock fish, frogs and bugs of all shapes and sizes.

Having decided we've fished out one spot to its fruition, everything is repacked, our life jackets are secured and we rip off across the pond at 55 mph to another location – skimming across the water with frightening speed.

And we work yet another shoreline.

And then another. And another.

We even circle back around and fish particularly productive areas a second time.

Sheepishly, I reach into my tackle and pull out a peanut butter sandwich.

Steiner casts a steely look in my direction.

"Well, you're lucky," he says to me. "We have fish on the boat. Usually, the rule is 'no eating' until we've caught our limit."

He's only half-kidding, so I choke down half of the sandwich and stow the rest.

Back to work.

By TRAVIS BARRETT, Staff Writer, Portland Press Herald, August 23, 2009


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