Chapter 15 - Day One: The Lake Fights Back
Blackwater Lake looked peaceful beneath the television helicopters.
It was not.
One hundred professional anglers idled behind the start line before dawn, boats glittering with sponsor logos and navigation lights. Thousands of spectators crowded the marina. Cameras tracked every movement. A giant screen showed live standings before anyone had caught a fish.
Eli stood on Ryan’s front deck wearing a plain gray shirt with one small patch over his heart.
CARTER’S DOCK FUND.
There was no Carter’s Dock yet.
The fund had been Ryan’s idea: prize money and donations would eventually build a free fishing program for children who could not afford equipment.
Victor hated the patch.
That alone made Eli like it.
At takeoff, Ryan served as Eli’s allowed boat official and camera liaison, not a fishing partner.
“You nervous?” Ryan asked.
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Yes.”
Their number was called.
Eli pushed the throttle.
The boat leaped onto plane.
For the first two hours, everything went wrong.
His first spot held no fish.
His second held fish that would not bite.
At the third, another competitor arrived seconds before him and occupied the key stretch.
Eli backed off without argument.
Online comments immediately turned vicious.
STICK GUY EXPOSED.
INTERNET FISHERMAN CAN’T HANDLE PRO WATER.
HE NEEDS A POND AND A WORM.
Ryan did not show him.
At 9:15, Eli had one small keeper.
The leader already had nearly sixteen pounds.
“You need five,” Ryan said.
“I’m aware.”
“Just confirming.”
“Confirm silently.”
Because day one allowed full electronics, many competitors chased suspended bass with forward-facing sonar. Ryan expected Eli to resist.
Instead the old man turned on the screen.
“Find me bait.”
Ryan smiled. “Yes, sir.”
They located a loose ball of shad over thirty-eight feet with scattered bass beneath and beside it.
Eli picked up a spinning rod rigged with a three-inch jighead minnow.
He cast beyond a marked fish, counted the bait down, then began a subtle mid-strolling retrieve, gently shaking the rod while maintaining horizontal progress.
The bass followed.
Eli watched the screen.
“Too high.”
He slowed.
The bait dropped six inches.
The fish accelerated.
Eli stopped shaking and simply reeled.
The rod loaded.
“Got him.”
Three pounds.
Next fish, he used a hover rig and held the lure nearly motionless above the target.
Another keeper.
Then the school scattered.
Ryan expected Eli to chase them.
Instead he shut the sonar off.
“What are you doing?”
“They told us enough.”
“What?”
“Bass are eating small shad at twelve to fourteen feet. Wind’s increasing. Where does that food go next?”
Ryan looked west.
A long point intercepted the breeze.
“Windblown point.”
“Now you’re earning your free boat wash.”
They ran there.
Eli tied on a suspending jerkbait matching the shad size. Rather than targeting individual fish, he covered the zone where wind concentrated bait.
Cast.
Two sharp snaps.
Pause.
Five seconds.
One twitch.
The strike came like a hammer.
Four pounds, one ounce.
Then another.
By noon, Eli had a limit.
By one, he had climbed from ninety-second to twenty-seventh.
Victor watched from the broadcast booth.
“Good television,” an announcer said.
Victor smiled tightly. “Very.”
At 2:20, a thunderstorm cell appeared west of the lake.
Wind increased dramatically.
Some anglers ran for protected water.
Eli ran into the wind.
Ryan held the console rail. “You enjoy hurting me?”
“Only educationally.”
They stopped on a grass flat where waves rolled over submerged vegetation.
Eli picked up a bladed jig.
“Bell-Ring?” Ryan asked.
“Bell-Ring.”
He cast across the grass, reeled until the blade vibrated, then killed the lure beside each clump. On the fall, the blade stopped and the bait fluttered unpredictably.
A bass slammed it.
Five pounds, two ounces.
Upgrade.
Next cast produced another.
The livestream exploded.
By check-in, Eli had nineteen pounds, nine ounces.
Sixth place.
At the weigh-in stage, the crowd roared as he carried his bag forward.
Victor stood beside the scale.
“Welcome back, Elias,” he said into the microphone.
Eli handed the fish to officials.
“Nice place. Little loud.”
The crowd laughed.
The scale locked.
19-9.
Victor clapped.
Then leaned close while microphones were briefly turned away.
“You had a good day.”
“So did you. Nobody arrested you.”
Victor’s smile vanished.
Eli walked offstage.
Ryan met him behind the curtain.
“You’re sixth.”
“Today.”
“Tomorrow FFS is limited to three hours.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
Eli looked toward the lake where wind still pushed hard against the docks.
“Because tomorrow Blackwater stops being a video game.”
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
Frank Delaney, the retired gaming investigator, sat tied to a chair in a dark room.
Underneath were six words.
WIN TOMORROW AND HE LOSES.
During the midday lull, Eli also changed leaders twice as water clarity improved. He moved from twelve-pound fluorocarbon to ten on the jerkbait, gaining a slightly freer action and a little more depth. On the finesse rig, he dropped to eight-pound leader but checked it after every fish and every brush against timber.
Ryan watched him run the line between thumb and forefinger.
“Nick?”
“Tiny one.”
“Probably fine.”
Eli cut three feet off and retied.
“Probably is what fishermen say immediately before telling stories about the one that broke off.”
Later, he picked apart a brush pile with three different presentations before leaving it. First a jig for an aggressive bottom fish. Then a drop shot for anything hovering above the branches. Finally a small swimbait passed along the outside edge for a suspended cruiser.
“No bites,” Ryan said.
“Then leaving is a decision, not impatience.”
That distinction mattered. Eli was not slow because he was stubborn; he was methodical until evidence told him to move.
Near check-in, he saw another competitor catching fish from a schooling group and deliberately gave the boat a wide berth.
“You could fit in there,” Ryan said.
“I could also become the man I hate.”
Tournament etiquette, Eli believed, was part of skill. Water belonged to everyone, but respect still mattered. A victory earned by crowding another angler off productive fish was not the kind he wanted.
Ryan smiled. “That line won’t go viral.”
May you like
“Good.”
Then the threatening photograph arrived and proved, once again, that the parts of life least suited for entertainment were usually the ones cameras loved most.
