The Same Ole Pond
Posted: Thu Oct 16, 2025 11:21 pm
I rolled into the pond parking lot at 5:30, which was about thirty minutes later than planned. The dreaded pre-fishing Costco run got me, and if you’ve ever tried to get in and out of a Costco parking lot, it is harder than sticking a wet noodle up a wild cat's ass.
By the time I reached the pond, I was already agitated.
It had been three months since I last fished here. I’d fallen off the wagon and landed headfirst into the saltwater (literally and figuratively as I took a nasty spill on the jetty and ended up in the drink my last outing, losing my wallet and my phone in the process), and had become a full-blown Spotted Bay Bass addict. These pugnacious pissed off pugilists make you forget how small they are. Kind of like the yacht owners that live above them. But when they average 2 pounds, becoming addicted was the easy part.
Fishing the pond again was part of my 12 Steps.
Still, standing at the edge of the pond again felt like seeing an old friend you hadn’t seen in some time. No hard feelings. You pick up right where you left off. The smell’s the same, the ducks are still getting fed by the duck lady while the "Do Not Feed the Ducks" sign hovers behind her, and the same half-dozen characters are wandering around pretending not to recognize each other.
Before I’d even tied on a lure, I heard it—a splash the size of a manhole cover. That could only mean one thing: Mr. Follows was throwing his ginormous swimbaits. I call him that because he never actually catches fish, but he sure gets a lot of “follows.”
“What up man! Long time no see!” he yelled across the pond. “Check out this new swimbait I got off Temu! Got four follows today!”
“How many did you land?” I hollered back.
His grin turned quizzical. “None...but I did get four follows!”
It’s always struck me that in fishing, we’ll count anything as success if you phrase it right.
He walked over, and after swapping updates, exaggerations and self deception, he nodded toward the opposite bank. “Your boy over there’s got a five-pounder on his stringer. Fish tacos tonight!”
I looked where he pointed and sure enough, the Resident Poacher was in his usual spot—five rods out, seated on his trademark orange Home Depot bucket. Even from across the pond, I could see the metallic glint of his stringer flashing in the water. Naturally, I wandered over.
“You get any?” I asked.
“Uhhh… nope.”, he replied, with a pause.
“But you’ve got a stringer in the water...and it's moving,” I said.
“Oh, those? Just two bluegill.”
Right on cue, one of the “bluegill” surfaced—a thick, five-pound largemouth, with another sub legal one dangling beside it like a bad sidekick.
“Oh... I also caught two bass,” he admitted, as if he’d just remembered.
“What’d you get the big one on?”
“A live bluegill!” he said proudly.
So, to recap, he had five rods out, no license, was using live bluegill, and one of the bass was undersized. The throw net was in the bucket. He's like the Jim Thorpe of poachers.
“Are you trying to set the world record for most poaching violations in one sitting or something?” I asked.
“Whadya mean?” he said.
“Nevermind.”
The Poacher is what the city calls “residentially challenged.” I prefer “urban camper.” Everything he catches, he cooks—including, on this particular day, two turtles that sat in his bucket on top of the throw net, looking at me like I was the Governor and could have their death sentence commuted.
So I made him a deal. “Tell you what,” I said. “That bass is about five pounds. I’ll give you three pounds of tilapia fillets if you let her go.”
“Hmm...Deal.”
I walked the 2 blocks to the local grocery store, and 30 minutes later, he was frying up the filets on one of the park's grills, and the five-pounder was back in the water. For a moment, the world felt halfway sensible again and both man and bass got a happy ending.
As I was congratulating myself on being a regular conservation hero, the nasal honking of a scooter horn cut through the evening. Omar—the Resident High School Dropout—was rolling up, grinning like a kid with a new toy.
“Nice ride,” I said.
“Yeah, I just bought it. It goes 35 miles an hour!”
“Cool. Where’s your helmet?”
He squinted, obviously confused. “Helmet?”
“Nevermind.”
Omar’s latest business venture involved catching koi that someone had dumped into the pond a few weeks ago and selling them to local aquarists and backyard pond keepers. He caught them on single kernels of corn and claimed to have already made twenty bucks. “So basically,” he said, “you can say I’m in the ornamental fish import business now.”
I nodded approvingly. “That’s the American dream, Omar.”
As the sun began its slow crawl behind the court house, I made a few last casts and landed a respectable pound-and-a-halfer on a Texas-rigged worm. Then, just as I was packing up, a solid 4 pounder slurped my popper off the surface like he meant it. He fought like a wet sock as they wrapped themselves in vegetation, but it was still the kind of small victory that keeps you coming back.
Across the pond, a Gen Z kid was “fishing,” which these days means staring at his phone while his line drifts aimlessly. When I landed my fish and packed up to leave, he looked up, ran over and cast in my spot, and then went back to scrolling before his lure even hit bottom.
By the time I reached the parking lot, the pond was quiet again. The same guys were still fishing, the same ducks still bickering, the same beer cans still shining on the grass. It struck me that for all the changes in the world, this pond hadn’t budged an inch.
Maybe that’s why we keep coming back—not for the fish, not for the follows, but for a place that refuses to move at the same breakneck speed as life does.
And if you time it right, you might even catch a fish or two.
By the time I reached the pond, I was already agitated.
It had been three months since I last fished here. I’d fallen off the wagon and landed headfirst into the saltwater (literally and figuratively as I took a nasty spill on the jetty and ended up in the drink my last outing, losing my wallet and my phone in the process), and had become a full-blown Spotted Bay Bass addict. These pugnacious pissed off pugilists make you forget how small they are. Kind of like the yacht owners that live above them. But when they average 2 pounds, becoming addicted was the easy part.
Fishing the pond again was part of my 12 Steps.
Still, standing at the edge of the pond again felt like seeing an old friend you hadn’t seen in some time. No hard feelings. You pick up right where you left off. The smell’s the same, the ducks are still getting fed by the duck lady while the "Do Not Feed the Ducks" sign hovers behind her, and the same half-dozen characters are wandering around pretending not to recognize each other.
Before I’d even tied on a lure, I heard it—a splash the size of a manhole cover. That could only mean one thing: Mr. Follows was throwing his ginormous swimbaits. I call him that because he never actually catches fish, but he sure gets a lot of “follows.”
“What up man! Long time no see!” he yelled across the pond. “Check out this new swimbait I got off Temu! Got four follows today!”
“How many did you land?” I hollered back.
His grin turned quizzical. “None...but I did get four follows!”
It’s always struck me that in fishing, we’ll count anything as success if you phrase it right.
He walked over, and after swapping updates, exaggerations and self deception, he nodded toward the opposite bank. “Your boy over there’s got a five-pounder on his stringer. Fish tacos tonight!”
I looked where he pointed and sure enough, the Resident Poacher was in his usual spot—five rods out, seated on his trademark orange Home Depot bucket. Even from across the pond, I could see the metallic glint of his stringer flashing in the water. Naturally, I wandered over.
“You get any?” I asked.
“Uhhh… nope.”, he replied, with a pause.
“But you’ve got a stringer in the water...and it's moving,” I said.
“Oh, those? Just two bluegill.”
Right on cue, one of the “bluegill” surfaced—a thick, five-pound largemouth, with another sub legal one dangling beside it like a bad sidekick.
“Oh... I also caught two bass,” he admitted, as if he’d just remembered.
“What’d you get the big one on?”
“A live bluegill!” he said proudly.
So, to recap, he had five rods out, no license, was using live bluegill, and one of the bass was undersized. The throw net was in the bucket. He's like the Jim Thorpe of poachers.
“Are you trying to set the world record for most poaching violations in one sitting or something?” I asked.
“Whadya mean?” he said.
“Nevermind.”
The Poacher is what the city calls “residentially challenged.” I prefer “urban camper.” Everything he catches, he cooks—including, on this particular day, two turtles that sat in his bucket on top of the throw net, looking at me like I was the Governor and could have their death sentence commuted.
So I made him a deal. “Tell you what,” I said. “That bass is about five pounds. I’ll give you three pounds of tilapia fillets if you let her go.”
“Hmm...Deal.”
I walked the 2 blocks to the local grocery store, and 30 minutes later, he was frying up the filets on one of the park's grills, and the five-pounder was back in the water. For a moment, the world felt halfway sensible again and both man and bass got a happy ending.
As I was congratulating myself on being a regular conservation hero, the nasal honking of a scooter horn cut through the evening. Omar—the Resident High School Dropout—was rolling up, grinning like a kid with a new toy.
“Nice ride,” I said.
“Yeah, I just bought it. It goes 35 miles an hour!”
“Cool. Where’s your helmet?”
He squinted, obviously confused. “Helmet?”
“Nevermind.”
Omar’s latest business venture involved catching koi that someone had dumped into the pond a few weeks ago and selling them to local aquarists and backyard pond keepers. He caught them on single kernels of corn and claimed to have already made twenty bucks. “So basically,” he said, “you can say I’m in the ornamental fish import business now.”
I nodded approvingly. “That’s the American dream, Omar.”
As the sun began its slow crawl behind the court house, I made a few last casts and landed a respectable pound-and-a-halfer on a Texas-rigged worm. Then, just as I was packing up, a solid 4 pounder slurped my popper off the surface like he meant it. He fought like a wet sock as they wrapped themselves in vegetation, but it was still the kind of small victory that keeps you coming back.
Across the pond, a Gen Z kid was “fishing,” which these days means staring at his phone while his line drifts aimlessly. When I landed my fish and packed up to leave, he looked up, ran over and cast in my spot, and then went back to scrolling before his lure even hit bottom.
By the time I reached the parking lot, the pond was quiet again. The same guys were still fishing, the same ducks still bickering, the same beer cans still shining on the grass. It struck me that for all the changes in the world, this pond hadn’t budged an inch.
Maybe that’s why we keep coming back—not for the fish, not for the follows, but for a place that refuses to move at the same breakneck speed as life does.
And if you time it right, you might even catch a fish or two.