I like pitchin’ a plastic worm–weedless, weightless, and carefree. Weedless: because I can put it anywhere I want and it won’t get snagged on something. Weightless: because it moves and falls more naturally when it sinks. Carefree: just like me.

I’ve had fantastic luck with plastic “bait” (for lack of a better word) these last few weeks out on the Delta with Dave. The size and quality and quantity of fish that I catch get better every trip. Each time I’m out there I learn something different. My casting gets better, my placement gets better. I try different things until I find what the fish want, then I do that thing for the rest of the day, rather than keep fishing with stuff that has worked before, but not necessarily today.

Today we’re out fishing and Dave decides to try a new spot. We drop anchor in a little covelet in a bend in the river. There’s junk all in the water between us and the shoreline and the wind is whippin’. But the water is pretty clear and calm, and I like that. Fish are jumping all around us. I remember reading somewhere that these jumping fish are most likely crappie and not bass, so I try not to get too excited. Instead of using a top water lure I go with the green sinking minnow plastic bait that has worked for me all day. I make a few casts, I catch a dink. And then it happens.

I make a cast near the weedline and let the bait fall. I count to three and twitch the bait, reel in the slack in the line, and continue to let the bait fall, waiting for that characteristic tugging.

I wait patiently, twitching the bait every so often.

Tink. Tink tink! There it is, a bite! I know what’s coming next. I lower my rod tip, reel in the slack in the line, then jerk the rod tip upwards suddenly and quickly.

WHAM! Fish on!

Holy crap, this is a pretty big wham! This sucker has got to be big! At this point all I say to Dave is, “fish on!” and start reeling in. Jeebus, this guy is really fighting hard. In my gut I know that this is a really, really big fish but I don’t say anything. My adrenaline is pumping hard and my heart is in my throat. I always feel this way when I catch a fish, and every one of them is huge in my mind until I get him in the boat, so I say nothing else to Dave.

I lower my rod tip and reel in the slack, and raise the rod again rhythmically. On the upswings the monster bass fights harder and is stripping line off my reel. I tighten the drag as it gets close to the boat, and he makes a dive under it and towards the weeds. Oh shit, I might lose him! He gets close to the surface and I see it for the first time. OH MY GOD! He jumps out of the water and starts under the boat again.

“OH MY GOD HE’S HUGE! DUDE, GET THE NET! DAVE, GET THE NET!” I scream at Dave.

“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! wHERE IS IT? wHERE IS THE FUCKING NET? HOLY SHIT HE’S HUGE!” Dave screams back.

This goes on for what seems like an eternity to me. I’ve got a fat hog on the line and I’m terrified I might lose him. Dave is frantically trying to find the net, and I’m fighting this bass, trying to keep him from shaking off or getting tangled up in the weeds.

The fish finally gets tired and I drag him up to the surface alongside the boat. Dave finds the net and scoops up my new trophy bass. And we just stand there, staring at this fish, not saying a word. Normally I’d scream, “Look at that bass, dude! Look at that fucking bass!” But this time we’re speechless. We stare at for a good, long time.

I look down at my hands and notice that I’m trembling. My thumb is bleeding (I have no idea how this happened) and my knuckles are white as a bone. Dave reaches into the net and grabs the bass, hands it to me, and says, “Nice bass, dude. Nice fucking bass.” And I still can’t speak.

Here he is, my new personal best, record California Delta largemouth bass!