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Hand Grappling (Latin: Stupideous Fishermaious) Extreme fishing; involves wading into dark and murky water, ramming one’s hand and arm into muddy underwater hiding places and attempting to “grapple’ out a catfish. Generally practiced by good-ole-boys in the Deep South. Synonym: bold, reckless, fearless. Antonym: Beringer Vineyards, White Zinfandel, 1999.
“Just as easy as picking apples from a tree!”
These words rang in my ears as the daunting task began. Our host, Quinn, used this phrase to describe how easy it was, in his opinion, to “hand grapple” catfish.
Stuart and I were in search of adventure, and Stuart had found just the right venue with his friend, Quinn. It was late June and we were deep in the Mississippi delta, the early morning sun brilliant as it glimmered off the dark green surface of the oxbow lake. We were moving fast, pushed by the 70 HP Yamaha, duly camouflaged and mounted on the transom of Quinn’s 18 foot john-boat. Too soon he cut the motor and our forward momentum carried us to a grove of magnificent cypress trees, lower trunks swollen from the water covering the bottom three feet of the beautiful trees.
“Time to pick apples”, Quinn said as he dropped over the side of the still-gliding boat. His fall was aborted at three feet when his feet touched the sandy bottom of the lake. He shivered, reflecting the chill of the early morning, then began his job of apple picking. He slowly walked, waist-deep, among the water-covered cypress. Soon he stopped, obviously having located something with his diving-shoe covered feet. His face grimaced as his mind worked to sorted out what was occurring three feet under the surface of the murky water. Gently he lowered his body until his shoulders, then his head, disappeared under the surface, the back of his white cotton tee shirt floating high above his back, filled with delta air and, for a brief moment, refusing to give up. Finally, the shirt, too, disappeared and the surface of the lake quieted down, ripples dispersing in ever widening circles.
If Quinn’s young, pleasant face and trim 5’9 frame caused one to doubt he was a man’s man, it could be quickly dispelled by viewing his rearview mirror adornment. Where others might have a faded Hawaiian lei, or a scarred and pocked Olt duck call, complete with lanyard and two or three shiny duck bands, Quinn’s told a different story. He had a simple brown nylon cord on which hung, like so many fish on a stringer, 15-18 rattlesnake rattles, captured, caught or found Who Knows Where. It spoke volumes about the man. Quinn is living proof that strength, power and audacity don’t have to come from a 240 pound man.
Quinn’s head gently broke the surface of the still water and he slowly emerged and rose to a standing position. He, slowly and deliberately, wiped the murky water from his eyes with the back of his right wrist, left hand still submerged. Then his left hand came straight out of the water, and in the same motion, he threw a 3 pound catfish in the general direction of the boat. It landed with a thud, thrashing and sliming across my still-dry still-white New Balance 870’s.
Quinn was immediately back on the job and before I had a chance to hunt down the slick-skinned catfish and deposit him on the ice covering the bottom of the 120 quart Igloo, another fish, even larger, was thrashing between the seats. For ten minutes Stuart and I, while keeping an eye out for flying, flopping fish-missiles, were kept busy scooping “apples” off the floor of the boat and onto the ice.
Soon it was time to move on and a short boat ride carried us to another fertile area. Again, we were in the midst of beautiful cypress. This time Stuart followed Quinn in the water, confident from his experience the previous year. Success was immediate and Stu and Quinn were both lobbing fish at the boat. I, meanwhile, was trying to balance picture taking with fish grabbing and wondering when and if I should venture in and join the “fun”. That question was answered as we coasted into the third picking area, and Coach Quinn called my number.
Once in, the water was refreshing, slightly warmer than the cool morning air, and it actually felt clean. I did not have the feeling I was in an oxygen-starved, organic material infested pool. It was like, well, swimming in a lake. My fears and apprehensions were suppressed, outwardly at least. I must admit I did have one of those brief “standing on the edge of a cliff wondering what in the hell I was doing there” kind of moments, but I repressed it well. The air was cool and that, of course, would account for my shaking. I boldly walked/swam to where Quinn was pointing. With his instruction, I carefully and gently located, with my foot, the structure he described. So far so good. Then things tightened up a bit. As instructed, I went under water and, by running my hand over the surface of the underwater object, found the hole where the fish entered and exited. I somehow got the toe of my 870 into the doorway, blocking the exit of whatever may be lying inside the dark underwater cocoon. I came up for air, toe of shoe still blocking the exit, but knowing the next step would require more, shall we say, nerve.
Like any good coach, Quinn gave his pupil final instructions. Even I was able to understand and couldn’t think of a single delaying question I could ask. His instructions:
Dive down and cover the hole with your left hand, take your right hand and ram it into the hole up to where your shoulder is blocking the hole. Then feel around for the catfish. When you hem him in, grab him by the head and squeeze the s—t out of him. Drag him out, stand and throw him in the boat.
Simple! Who could argue with that?
I remember the hesitation I felt when time came to “ram” my arm into the dark and unknown underwater lair. I thought of all the bad things possible, the creatures that really didn’t want my hand in their house. I thought of the horror stories I’d hear about beds of snakes, of giant loggerhead snapping turtles, the kind that bite and won’t release ‘til the sun sets. Too late to back out, I went under. Eyes squeezed shut, I held myself underwater by holding the structure, then pushed my hand inside. The hole was small, but I could easily get my fist in…then my arm…up to my shoulder. As I waved my arm within the confines of the structure, something brushed against my hand. It was a fish! A few moments later I had him pinned against the side and was busily trying to get a solid grip around his head.
A catfish has four ways to hurt you; two strong and very sharp saw-blade fins on either side of his upper body, a sharp and erect dorsal fin, and a strong jaw that will bring you to your knees if he gets your finger or hand in his mouth. I was doing my best to avoid all four, but as the struggle intensified, and as the exertion depleted my oxygen supply, I was forced to grab for anything. I felt my hand close around his head, luckily avoiding the sharp fins. Success!
I somehow got the large fish through the small hole before my lungs burst and I exploded to the surface with a yell that rocked the boat of every quiet and cautious crappie fisherman on the lake. What a rush!!!!
Just like picking apples!
It became easier after that. I got the hang of it as the morning moved along. Stuart and Quinn worked hard and soon the three of us had the Igloo half full of green squirming catfish. I did my share, one time finding and evicting three catfish from one structure. Stuart man-handled a nice ten pound fish, puffing and straining to extract him through a very small hole.
Midmorning I looked around. The sky was a magnificent blue; the white on the nearby heron especially brilliant, the cypress leaves deep green and the view down the lake screensaver material. I turned to Stuart and said, “Do you realize it’s just 9 in the morning and we’ve already seen more beautiful and unusual sights than some people see in a life time?” It was that kind of day.
Later, we were all waist-deep and wading, when Quinn spoke, “Now, they don’t bother me, don’t know about y’all, but there’s a snake right there.” The snake was roughly six feet away and at belly button level. The natural inclination of mankind, probably from the days of Eve in the Garden, is to make a very hasty retreat from snakes. Stuart, never a snake lover, took a couple of steps toward the boat. I showed restraint by remaining fixed in my tracks. Thankfully, the snake’s head, the only part of his body we could see, was not the identifiable diamond shape we feared and we proceeded with our apple picking.
Too soon, the chill of early morning changed to searing Delta heat, the Igloo was filled to three quarters and the apples had been picked from the tree. We loaded up and Quinn cranked the Yamaha.
As we slowly motored toward deeper water our wake behind the boat was filled with hundreds of small, white fish jumping and flying across the waves, sun reflecting off their shiny bodies. It was a magnificent sight, and one that served as a reminder that we are blessed to live in a state that possesses so much beauty.
“People tell me I’m crazy for grappling for catfish. They say it’s dangerous and I shouldn’t be doing it, but I tell them it’s easier than picking apples off a tree.”
Indeed, Quinn, Indeed!