When it comes to phones, don’t add water

Get a grip when fish come calling

A little incident while fishing the other day prompts the question: How many cellphones are at the bottom of Beaver Lake?

It was one of those sunny and mild December days on the big lake. Black bass had an appetite for jerk baits, those long minnow-shaped lures that find favor among anglers when the water chills.

Fishing buddy Dwayne Culmer and yours truly hoped to wrangle a few of those bass into the boat. I use jerk baits to a fault during winter, sometimes when I ought to be casting something else.

Dwayne has the same dedication for his beloved plastic worms. He lobs a blue-ish colored plastic worm most of the year, even when our teeth are chattering in January and February.

A miracle happened and I was able to cajole Dwayne into using a jerk bait to start our trip. I darn near fell off my seat on the back deck of his boat when he agreed. Dwayne tied his fishing line to a Smithwick Rogue jerk bait that’s popular with Beaver Lake bass chasers. It’s my favorite cold-water lure.

Dwayne knows I’m a Rogue-aholic in the winter and figured he’d throw one too, at least for a little while. I got my habit honestly years ago when I caught my largest Beaver Lake bass, a modest 6-pounder, on a Rogue.

It’s great fishing with Dwayne because he has these positive fish ions that cancel out my anti-fish magnetic field. We always do well when we get together, way better than when I’m fishing solo.

Those positive fish ions were having the desired effect. We were both catching spotted and largemouth bass. Whenever Dwayne would battle a fish I’d whip out my phone to document the splish-splashing fight. I’d get a nice photo, then Dwayne would toss each fish back in the lake.

I made a cast and had barely started working my Rogue to the boat when Dwayne hooked another one. I set my rod down on the deck with my lure still in the water and whipped out my phone. Right then a bass grabbed my lure and pulled my fishing rod straight into the water. I dropped my phone on the back deck like a hot potato, lunged for my slowly-sinking rod and grabbed the handle.

I saved the rod, but when I looked around on the deck, no cellphone. We checked behind the seats and in every nook and cranny. Nothing. Evidently I’d knocked it overboard during the rod rescue.

Visions of visiting the cellphone store danced through my head. “Oh how we love fishermen,” the young clerk would laugh.

On a whim, Dwayne said, “Why don’t you check under the deck, down by the battery and bilge pump.”

There, friends and neighbors, laid my beloved cellphone. The wave of relief was a tsunami washing over me. “Yesssss!” I hollered when I picked it up and showed it to Dwayne.

When I dived for that rod, my knee must’ve sent that phone sailing across the back deck and down into the bilge in front of the outboard motor. That was the last picture I shot with my phone.

Next fishing trip I’ll bring a regular camera. A waterproof one with a big float attached.