It was around 1:30 am. I was fishing beneath an overpass that serves I-5 in Stockton on a summer night. I had some liver on a hook, and a few cigarettes.

It was dark, and I didn’t have any light other than the moon, so I set my rod to stand straight so I could see the tip against the skyline. It was dead, the line was slack. Nothing happening. Mainly waiting to smoke the next cigarette.

Around 1:45 the rod fell over. I went to check on it and decided I should reel it in. To my dismay, I discovered I had a snag. It felt like a log or something of that nature, because if I pulled with great force, it approached. Finally I got it near to the shore where I stood on broken chunks of cement.

A log. I began to follow my line down, toward it, trying to retrieve my hook and weight. Without warning, the whole thing reared up out of the water and began to thrash about wildly. It was a catfish. It was either close to my own size or slightly bigger. It shocked me rather severely. I made a few vain attempts to capture it, but I was not properly equipped. It slipped the hook, and departed.

And I am glad it did.