Bosco, if it was Bosco, would not let me take it easy. It was 20 minutes before I had him coming toward the boat. "Bosco meets Nemesis," Brennan said, predictably I thought.
It was not to be. "Not Bosco," yelled Francis, peering into the water from the bow. " 'Bout a 30-pounder, foul-hooked in the shoulder...." No wonder it had been able to take command. Every time I had tried to shift him he was broadside to me.
But Bosco made our trip. Brennan and I fished two more days. We caught three-quarters of a ton of bass, a total somewhat shameful to our essentially puritanical natures. But the fishing was no longer mechanical. Every cast was aimed at Bosco.
We failed to catch him. No harm in that. Bosco lives! Nemesis Brennan and I will continue, God willing, to search him out in future years: sometimes he will be a striper, sometimes, maybe, a channel bass, sometimes a silver bass from an Irish beach. On the whole, I hope we never catch him.