My nephew, Calahan, is 12 years old and addicted to fishing.  He gets ready for school extra fast so he can run to the lake and fish before the school bus arrives.

Last summer, there was a fishing tournament on the lake we live on in northern Wisconsin.  Cal and my niece Brenna, 10, were allowed to enter the competition.  The adult supervision wasn’t too swift as we did not really understand the rules of this tournament and so when all the other competitors started at 8 am, we were still in bed.  We thought Cal and Brenna didn’t start until 10 am.  Unfortunately, 10 am was when they were supposed to come in and weigh their catch at the half way mark.

So, these two kids were on the short end of the stick without a boat or bait when we realized the deal.  Instead of crying or pouting, they did what most kids from dysfunctional families do—they adapted.  As the fishermen came in to have their morning catch weighed and counted, Cal and Brenna stood in the water waiting.  When the fish were released back into the water, stunned, but alive, Cal and Brenna would catch them with their hands and put them in their bucket.  It was amazing how many fish they caught; they were like little bear cubs at the running of the salmon.

The next most amazing thing I witnessed was what Cal would do to revive fish that were floating on their sides.  He would hold their mouths open and move them around in the water, forcing water into their lungs (or whatever that’s called in fish).  Then he would let them go and they would swim off.

The “Fish Whisperer” and his partner ended up coming in fifth place in the competition.  They won a beer koozie.  After that final weigh-in, I noticed a fish floating on its side.  I watched Cal pick it up and work his magic.  The fish slowly swam off, saved.  As we cheered its survival, a seagull swooped down into the water and snatched that fish.