Bass Master Cover Girl

I sometimes think that we tend to overcomplicate our selves by making choices or categorizing who we are. The truth is, I am a lot of opposite things: empathetic and stark with attitude, invisible and feral in the right environment, dependent and stubborn, joyful and depleted on fulfillment, and I am a very strange mix of refined professional and holler homebody. What I am grateful for was the ability to always be each of them when the time, space and people aligned. I say all that to catapult us into my life as a high school girl. We think about "clicks" of people we encounter, in high school you had your jocks, your punks, your aggies, your brainiacs, your band nerds, your drama performers, and then the "other" that no one really likes to talk about just that they were always there. Then you had me. I was the girl that somehow managed to intermingle in each group with ease. I didn't really ever have a since of belonging or a core friend to go through this phase of life with because I never stayed in one group long enough, or cross activities enough to build something that lasted far beyond my years at South Laurel High.

I first got involved with the most influential student organization to my development and passions when I was in the 8th grade. I had begun to shoot competitively on the local archery team as well as with my "coach" Jack in the back yard in a few different classes/divisions. As the state champion for bare recurve and the longbow, we had some titles he needed someone to continue the legacy for. It was through archery that I met and started courting my first boyfriend, Nick. Like all good southern raised teens, our first official date was to the local Ag Fair. This was a 2.5 day event at the Laurel County Fairgrounds and was in no doubt the single most influential 2 days that would impact not only my high school experience, but would also mold me into the person I am today and ground me in some of the same principles I hold dear. That was the day I began my tenure with the Future Farmers of America organization.

Two full years had passed and I had a new boyfriend, Zack, and I continued to excel in archery both in the NASP program and in other completion circuits like USA and ASA Archery. I had moved up offices with the FFA and was now serving as the chapter President and the regional Secretary with training to hold state office after graduation. I competed in ridiculous competitions like placing 1st in the region in an auctioneering competition, went to state on a land judging team, placed second in the state for public speaking on national ag issues, and got back on the farm training steers to be perfect show stock, I even convinced my mom to allow me to purchase goats to keep in a dual dog kennel in the back yard of our home in the subdivision. Man I still can see the neighbors faces of Summer Springs Drive as they came home on a hot summers day to witness a teenage girl walking goats on a leash around the cul-de-sac. That was the part of me thriving in this season.

I was approached by an advisor for our FFA chapter before one of our meetings that they would call on me to speak about a new venture that the school was hoping to take on, but wouldn't move forward without student by-in. They thought that I would be the perfect spokes person to convince their demographic to take the plunge. Knowing my advisor at the time his hesitation to give me any further details, I assumed that was part of a training session for our upcoming speech competition and we all knew no one could wing it like I could. As the meeting started I caught myself standing in front of 200 students who ranged from barely 14 year old freshman to repeat seniors, these were Keavy boys I grew up with, teammates, classmates, neighbors, they were highly intelligent young boys and girls that wore boots and just wanted to enjoy the simple things. There were in-training skills tradesman from HVAC, small engine, diesel mechanic, electric engineers, famers who now operate multi million dollar farming operations, all in training and looking to me to do what?

Bass Fishing. Eastern Kentucky University, my alma mater, was starting to search and push for feeder programs for the elite fishing industry, and high schools were being asked to join their new Bass Master Elite pilot program. If we could begin the program we would be in the top 10 of new partners across the state and be eligible for regional, state, and national recognition as well as in the running for multiple student sponsorships from 3 major universities in KY. The announcement of an official Bass Fishing Club Sport to this group went about as well as you can imagine, we were one more "Yee-Dawg" away from a full school walk-out and meet up on one of the three local lakes we often fished. Here was the kicker-in order to have an official club team, you had to have at least one of both genders represented. And who would you believe they had pegged for such a feat as that; me. For two years, I was the only female on our bass fishing team. Don't get me wrong, the opportunity for my dad to buy a boat was enough for me to participate willingly or by force, but these were my people, my sport, my space where I felt like one of the best versions of myself.

We fished a multitude of tournaments that fall and well into the winter months. This tournament date is one of the few I remember vividly due in large part because of the chaotic events and budding joke that has remained long after these days. This tournament was one of the few official Bass Master Elite tournaments to be held that season, teams from across the region were meeting at Ceder Creek Lake (one of the best fishing hot spots in Kentucky) for a chance to make it onto official promotions leading up to the Bass Master Classic. Nerves were high, but the payout was going to be so worth it! While prepping for the brutally cold Saturday, my Dad was notified that he would no longer be on call, and instead would have to clock into his factory job about the same time I was scheduled for launch. Now the world doesn't stop there, because fortunately for me, I had a secondary boat captain in my Uncle Ray. Kicker was, when Ray was my boat captain I was in charge of protecting my dad's greatest possession at all costs; the boat. I was the load/unload/launch, and make sure no scratches landed on his white Chevy Silverado. As any teenage girl would do when faced with this news, I called my teammate who just happened to be my boyfriend at the time. Oh Zach. What a gem. While on the phone I reminded him that after he got off his shift at the local Steak and Shake I would have the boat ready if he would just meet me at my house at 4a.m. At the end of the call he made a comment that he may or may not sleep over at his friend Tommy's house, because it was only about 5 minutes from driveway to driveway and at that hour, would have a better chance of surviving the day with a particularly better mood.

Now there is something to be said about gut feelings here. I knew the second Zach mentioned staying at Tommy's that the evening would not end well. Tommy was a great guy, but had a knack for staying up all night and sleeping all day on the weekends. Him and his younger brother shared a room in their single wide trailer at the end of a gravel holler down the road from my house. I had been to Tommy's on multiple occasions, and it felt a lot like you would expect; the door was always open, and the living room TV was on no matter if people were there or not. There were swings next to a burn barrel in the side yard and stray cats with a few friendly older mutts wondering the property. The best part of Tommy's were the people and the solitude you could get at the end of the gravel road where no one could get in or out with out being noticed. Or at least they thought.

Zach and I ended up texting until well into the morning. Him and Tommy were on the verge of breaking a new videogame record, Tommy's brother had a girlfriend over so they were all planning on pulling an all-nighter and Zach would catch a cat-nap on the road and during the tournament. It's not like there was ever a weigh-in that he contributed to any of our successes, but as the supportive girlfriend I was, I was trapped on a team with him solely because we were courting. I woke up a little after 3:30 a.m., sent over a good morning text and reminded him to shower, and then started my lucky morning routine. First a shower, because you can't fish in 25* weather without wet hair, then dressed in layers so thick you can't move, including cute ankle socks, wool high tops, and covered by muck boots that would only last as far as the boat, because the secret to catching trophy fish is always throwing barefoot, and off to the boat I went. Uncle Ray had the battery loaded, boat hooked, and snacks packed by the time I got outside. The only thing missing was Zach. Called, straight to Voicemail. I checked the last message I sent over; it was delivered but not read. My gut starts knotting up. Called again, and again, and again. Nothing. Time was up, we had to go. Leaving without him wasn't an option though, I had to go get him.

It was about 20 yards down the gravel lane to Tommy's that I realized Ray may or may not be able to get us back to the main road in reverse if we actually made it to the house in the truck, and who else was responsible for getting all of Dad's equipment back home but me. I convinced Ray that I would be okay walking the rest of the way and that I would bring Zach back. Also a great time to mention, Zach was no one's favorite but mine. Here I go, a teenage girl, terrified of all things that go bump in the night, walking half a mile at 4 in the morning down a holler to a friend's house, calling furiously in hopes of waking up the dead so I could abort the mission. I reach the front door and as I expected, it's standing wide open with the TV in the main room on. I quietly enter the house and scan the room for a dog or cat that may or may not blow my cover and warrant a pistol appearance for a stranger's invasion. I start at the end of the house through the kitchen, looking for the boy's room, and somehow, I end up in the master bedroom on a creeky plank with two adult figures' heads turned my way. I start panicking. How have I ended up here?! I eventually found the courage to make steps and hustled as fast as I could through the remaining rooms in the house. The last room I peeped into contained a set of bunks and two full-grown teenage boys with video game remotes in hand; only one of those, though, was redheaded.

Looking back now, I should have taken a moment to regroup before I reacted, but my actions were honest and real. At the site of this boy passed out, dead phone and gaming controller in hand, I unleashed. I started hitting and harshly whispering his name as I continued to hit him to rouse him from sleep. By the time he was startled awake I had 20 good licks in from the top of his boots he still had on his feet to the side of his red head above his right ear. It took him another solid 15 seconds to curl into a defensive armadillo pose, before figuring out what was actually happening to him resulting in him launching out of bed, grabbing both of my wrists that were still in the process of beating the tar out of him, and calm me enough to tell him he was awake now and coming. In all my anger, I was speechless. He began to do what he always did and apologized profusely for being late, sleeping in, not heeding my warnings of his behavior, and attempted to give me a half-ass hug to reconcile the situation all in a whisper because somehow in all the chaos we had still managed not to wake the entire house. I didn't care. I didn't care about anything other than getting out of that house and onto the water that morning. Then... then the boy had the audacity to ask me to wait 10 minutes for him to take a shower.

In that moment I blacked out and was halfway back to the truck before I heard Zach running after me, begging me to wait and telling me to stop so he could catch up. Then it came. My complete dissatisfaction about the entire relationship like word vomit that I could not control. I will spare you the details, just know it was not pretty and ended with, "I will absolutely NOT waste anymore of my time, my mornings, or my patience on you. I will not wait for you to shower, so you either get in the truck or I leave without you." And off I went, back to the truck, pissed and alone.

It was about an hour later that Uncle Ray and I spoke for the first time that trip. We agreed that we needed a coffee and potty break and were making good enough time to stop before the sun rose and other boaters caught up. We were a mile from the next gas station/bait shop and we found ourselves at an intersection, stopped with the light on red. The clock had 4:57a.m. The road was quiet and no headlights were in view from any direction from our left turn lane. A few minutes passed and still not a single car in site, but no change in light. As the seconds turned into minutes, which felt like millenniums, it didn't take long for the tempers to rise so high in my dad's truck that it felt like, at any second, we would both spontaneously combust. And then it happened. Ray, I think largely due to the sudden lifestyle change and lack of cigarettes, floored the truck into drive and made a left hand turn on red. To this day, that moment still haunts me. How can the girl responsible for this entire operation explain not only was I a solo fisher that day but that in 2 weeks, a mystery ticket would appear in the mailbox for my dad's tags, all for me to explain myself again?! How on earth could this day get any worse.

Well, let me tell you. Once we finally arrived at the lake we parked, hiked down to check-in, and pulled what I'm pretty sure was the very last launch number for the whole tournament. After we had the boat docked at the marina, I started fumbling around the boat pretending to prep for the morning to avoid any conversation with my teammates on why I was in the boat alone. What I didn't pay attention to in the heat of my fury was that one of my pairs of socks inside the hard shell of my boots had slid off, and I was wearing the worst blisters of my life on both of my heels. It was the coldest morning of the year, and I bled through both pairs of socks. So, like any other successful tournament, barefoot I go.

It was about 11 in the morning and I had been all over that lake. In every honey hole I knew of and had fished. I watched two boats load in a catch and was down right furious with myself for the events of the day. How could this day have made me so off? I can't be this far in without a single bite, and have nothing to weigh in on the day I fish solo! This absolutely cannot be happening to me. Even Uncle Ray, who is honestly the most patient and kindhearted man, was obviously aggravated at my choice of a partner and my lack of success for the day. He knew I was better than that. The first time we spoke on the water was around lunch. We had to try something else. We talked about trying a new part of the lake neither of us had fished before, just to give it a shot.

We take off and round a new bend and head for the most beautiful cedar grove I've ever fished. The grove was old and so full of potential. Even if I caught nothing, just looking at this spot made my inner core feel more at peace. Still to this day, if I'm on the water, especially in a kayak, you will most likely find me "lost in the trees" at least once. It's just never an accident. As I prepped a new crank bait on my line I heard a boat ride past, idle, and stop. I was so focused and desperate to catch something I paid no mind to whoever decided they couldn't go anywhere else on that lake but beside me. My first cast into the grove and I caught one of the largest fish I had ever landed in my career. Now I know what you are thinking, "that's what they all say", but this one was real. I had an absolute monster on my hands, and he was seriously everything I was going to need to place that day. I was ecstatic! Then I panicked. I had no partner. I had to net this thing by myself and I couldn't lose him.

I reeled for what felt like 4 whole minutes while he weaved through cedar stumps, and I wrestled with getting prepped to board him. Then I saw him. He was at least 28 inches and weighed no less than 14 pounds. He topped the water with a vengeance and never stopped wrestling. Water thrashed, and at this point, I was so excited and close to the edge of the boat that my poor purple, almost frostbit toes were curled over the side of that red Skeeter. I pulled him up out of the water less than 2 feet from the boat and I hear the gentlemen in the mystery boat that had pulled up earlier cheering for me. Then it happened. The line snapped. The rod went still. The fish swam away. I flopped on the gray carpet, looked straight at the man in the boat and said, "Did you see that?!" Questioning as if I had somehow dreamed the entire experience out of body. The man at the trolling motor at the front also held a camera in his hand, he saw it. He caught it, if nothing else. I had never felt defeat quite like that until that day.

I think it goes without saying that I never recovered from that moment before weigh-ins. I wasn't the only boat with an empty live well, but I was the only single girl to stand on the podium and report I had nothing to weigh in. As I stood behind the scales, in front of the camera's, and under the Bass Elite tent the Master who was announcing, asked, "Now I've heard that you made quite the splash earlier with one you had on your line! You almost took out all the other competitors solo, little lady. What do you think of that?" Without hesitation, humiliated by the comment, I responded, "I think that fish is luckier to escape me than my now former fishing partner I left back home. I'll be back up here with you again, but next time, I will have something new to take home." The entire place was shook. My teammates were speechless. The commentators laughed and congratulated me and told the competition to look out because they could vouch for the catch of the day by a little lady with spunk.

It was a long ride home, and like everything in a few weeks, the dust and my temper had settled enough that I had moved on. I had successful days on the water after that one, so my pride and reputation as a teammate and boat on the water had been restored. What hadn't been mended was my relationship with Zack. Honestly, I didn't care. But just when I thought it was all over and our relationship was on the mend, the next month's issue of the Bass Master Elite series hit the stands. Now, because we were in the program as one of the top school partners for the state all of our team members, coaches, captains, and school personnel received copies of the magazine that came out monthly. This edition was a special edition highlighting the "Future of Fishing" and this new initiative as they promoted the upcoming state championship.

Remember what I said earlier about my high school self? I never really fit into any one category. It wasn't anything for me to talk to 200 people in a day, all of which were from different clicks, backgrounds, and personalities. I walked into the main building on this particular day and things just felt different. People were looking at me differently. All the insecurities of life were floating around in my head until I heard my friend Wade yell all the way down the hall to me. "Whitney! You weren't kidding about that catch! Girl, you made it!" What on earth? What was he talking about?! Then I saw him. He was with a full gaggle of guys heading into the Ag room waving the latest edition of the Bass Elite magazine. He had it open to the inside cover and there I was, on the edge of the boat, in the cedar grove, with my catch still on the line and out of the water, barefoot, smiling.

That mystery boat had caught it. They had actually caught my catch and they used it! They used my picture! I became known as the Bass Master Cover Girl. Nothing about that was simple, but it is incredible. It is mine to have and hold and remember. That I don't ever want to miss.