Years ago my brother-in-law, Jim, started a friendly competition between us that I could have gone an entire lifetime without.  While fishing one Fourth of July he accidentally impaled himself with a fish hook.  We were fishing up in some small willow trees and he got his crank bait hung up on a little limb.  He gave it a quick tug, the bait came loose, flying through the air and striking him in the thigh.  One of the treble hooks penetrated his jeans and went deep into his leg.  It wasn’t a really big hook, but it was what is known as a “triple grip” hook.  In layman’s terms that means that once it sticks in something it’s damn near impossible to get out. I won’t go into the details, but it took about twenty minutes to get it out and Jim wasn’t a happy camper.  It was 100 degrees with 100% humidity and not a breeze stirring that day.  If that combination doesn’t make you nauseous, nothing will.

    In August of that same year, not to be outdone, I managed to one up him by getting two treble hooks in my fingers at one time.  Of the six barbs, four were embedded in my fingers.  One was under the fingernail of my right index finger, one was between the fingernail and cuticle on my right middle finger, one was stuck into the tip of my right ring finger and one was completely through the side of my right thumb.  Oddly enough it wasn’t very painful.  The worst part was trying to work with my left hand to get them out.  I’m so right handed that operating pliers with my left hand was like trying to eat English peas with a two by four.

    Not satisfied with being one hook up on Jim, I increased my lead by getting another hook in my right forearm in September of that same year.  This one was pretty deep and hadn’t rotated at all when it went in, so it was buried way down in the muscle.  I thought it might be in a tendon because when I moved my fingers the bait wiggled back and forth.  It had a rattle in it, so it was pretty impressive when I did that. I debated cutting the eye off the crank bait but it was one of my favorites and was no longer being manufactured.  There happened to be a lady standing on a dock nearby that saw what had happened and volunteered to help, claiming she was a nurse.  When she said we needed to cut the lure I told her I didn’t want to because I couldn’t replace it.  At that point she said I was an idiot.  So much for bedside manner!  I managed to cut the shank of the hook off.  Since it was bleeding and I thought it might be in something important, we went to the hospital and had it removed.  The only difference with their technique and mine was they deadened it first.  They took a pair of pliers out of a Craftsman toolbox (no lie!) and forced it around and through the skin.

    I think it was the following year I did it again.  This time I waited until we were through fishing and in the parking lot.  I was putting my rod in the boat rod locker when a lure popped loose and stuck in the tip of my ring finger on my right hand.  I rode home with my finger stuck in a cup of ice.  I took it out every so often and tried to pull the hook out.  After about twenty miles I finally got it out.  What was interesting was that the hole in my finger had a little tuft of meat sticking out.  I was pretty sure I had a substantial lead in this contest, but you can never count Jim out.

    We went hook free for the next couple of years and it looked like I had won hands down.  But in August, Jim made a slight comeback.  He had taken his cap off for a minute and the next thing you know, zzzzziinggg!  He had yanked his lure out of the water and caught himself right smack in the top of his head.  It was an interesting sight...a grown man sitting there with a little crank bait “hat” on.  I thought about letting him try to take care of it by himself, but it would have been too distracting for me.  It was pretty easy to get out since it was in his bald spot.

    The contest has been dormant for the past few years, but I’m betting we’re not done yet.  Jim hates to lose.