Swamp Deacon: The One That Got Away

Sometimes the water is chilly, sometimes it hisses and boils. No baptism is the same.

Folks constantly ask me why I do it, but I always take a preacher fishing before I hire him. You can tell a lot about a Southern minister by watching him fish a swamp and listening to the words that pour forth from his sanctified tongue when the swamp branch gets the best of him. If you have ever fished a river swamp, with its twists and tangles, drags and snags, you know what I am talking about.

They call me Swamp Deacon, a name I don’t mind too much, but my official title is President of the Deacon Board. I am also the keeper of the grounds, the filler of the baptism pool, the Church Treasurer and Chairman of the Pastor Search Committee. If I have a fault, it’s that I love to fish. If the Catawampus Church of Christ had a baptism pond instead of that artificial tank in the back, well, I’d probably stock it with bass and bream. Maybe a catfish or two. Some carp to keep the grass down.

The pastor search gig is perhaps the most interesting of my duties. The criteria for the perfect small-town minister are simple: keep at least 75 percent of the congregation awake for 75 percent of the sermon and leave most of them feeling uplifted when they leave and not riddled with guilt. Make them feel just guilty enough to dump a $20 or $50 in the offering plate, or remorseful enough to walk down the aisle for a quick re-dip into the baptism pool every now and then, but not so guilty that they want to fire you before next Sunday. Don’t preach too hard on drinking and adultery. Don’t step on their toes too hard, if you know what I mean. To sweeten the pot, for the first six months I usually offer the new preacher hire a $25 bonus for every sinner that gets dunked in the pool and born again.

But when I take a preacher candidate fishing, I’m searching for signs of weakness in character. Every preacher will curse sooner or later while practicing the bedeviled art of swamp fishing. But if a candidate cusses on our first fishing trip – the job interview – well, he usually don’t make the cut. And even if he doesn’t swear, I can tell a lot about a fellow’s general character and personality just by fishing with him, like I said.

*********

Reverend Trant came to us by way of the U.S. Navy. After 24 hard years as a chaplain aboard aircraft carriers and destroyers, he was looking for a place to call home that didn’t roll with the waves or shift with the tides. Making an old sailor cuss is going to be a piece of cake, I thought.

“So, how do you plan on winning over the menfolk in the congregation?” I asked, as we drove to that special fishing hole that I considered the Holy Land.

“I’ll try to work in a fishing story or metaphor every chance I get,” the prospect said. “Jesus on the fishing boat, Jesus and the loaves and fishes. You know, fishing for lost souls. That’ll keep most of the boys awake.”

“So, how do you plan to keep the women folk happy?” I pressed.

“Well, I’m still a fairly good-looking man,” Trant said with a straight face. “They won’t mind gandering at me for sixty minutes on a Sunday.”

“Isn’t pride one of the cardinal sins?” I said, trying to read the guy.

“I said I was good looking. I never said I was proud of it.”

This fellow just might make the cut, I thought. Now let’s see how he handles the swamp.

*********

Please forgive us and don’t judge too harshly, for we have skipped services this fine Wednesday evening to commune with God’s wonders: the redbreast, the shell cracker and the war-mouth molly, maybe even a river bass or swamp cat, and this is holy ground. The ladies of the church refer to this place at The Picnic Grounds, and it has hosted many a Sunday dinner. But I call it The Proving Grounds, and here I have tested the mettle of many an ordained minister.

It’s part of the humble Coosawhatchie River, born from ditch drippings in the backyards of rural Allendale County, before she finds herself teaming with saltwater treasures 40 miles down the coast. Here there is a bend in the river, a natural oxbow lake of sorts, and long ago someone had cleared the run and one entire side of this river bend completely of the cypress trees and other bottomland hardwoods to create, on the surface, what appears to a sweet fishing spot. There are deep ebony waters here, ripe with fish beds, with no overhead or peripheral limbs to snag your line or lure - a seemingly perfect fishing hole.

On the surface, that is. For just beneath the surface lie cypress stumps and cypress knees and entire trees blown over by hurricanes past. One year, until I brought it up at a Deacons’ meeting and put a stop to it, the Choir Ladies were even dumping old Christmas trees in here to recycle and “give the fish a habitat.” Habitat, my Granny’s fanny!

Needless to say, I have caught many a stringer-full here, but I have lost many more lures, hooks, lines, bobbers, sinkers and preacher-candidates. Yet, I love it.

I always try to fish it shallow and close, with a thin hook that will bend before it breaks, and as I was sliding out my expandable, fiberglass Bream Buster, Old Rev pulled out a lightweight Abu Garcia rod/reel combo with a feathered jig with spinner.

This was going to get really interesting really quick, I thought.

Sure enough, on the first cast, Rev. Trant jigged right into what was probably a Christmas tree and snagged. Damned choir ladies.

“Well, blessed be the Lord for giving us such a beautiful day!” the preacher exclaimed, as he snatched it, broke off, and lost his lure. His face became a little red around the jowls, but perhaps that was just the afternoon heat.

I hadn’t had so much as a nibble yet, but my worm was floating safely just beneath the surface.

The former chaplain then discarded the Abu and pulled out a brand new Zebco 33 with a classic red-and-white Beetle Spin tied on. I just couldn’t bear to watch. This was going to get ugly.

Sure enough, second cast of the day and the pastor snagged that submerged gum tree that Hurricane Hugo had dropped across the run. Next dry spell, remind me to cut that thing out of there.

“I swear, Deacon, this sure is a beautiful section of river here!” Trant exclaimed, even louder, his face growing a little redder.

By then I had safely landed two or three decent ones, nothing to write home about, but enough to add to Trant’s frustration. I re-baited with a cricket and settled back with a smile. I knew I had him. Any minute now, we were going to find out what type of vocabulary a Navy man could muster.

The minister practically threw that new Zebco into the bed of the truck and then pulled out a long, mysterious box that also looked fairly new. Now, what could we have here? A new bait casting reel? Maybe a diving plug or broke-back Rebel with double treble hooks that could get snagged on everything from the Easter Cross to Christmas Past?

Trant assembled a fly rod, then deftly tied on a feathered, floating popper. A few artistic, whip-like motions, and what could only be described as the strangest yet most beautiful cast I had ever seen, and the plug was popping and hopping atop the dark surface of the swamp waters. Pop. Pop. Pop. Splash! Then a flash of red, and moments later the granddaddy of Rooster Redbreasts hung over both sides of the preacher’s hands, dripping in freshwater glory, its red belly reflecting the afternoon sun.

“Would you look at this blessing, my child?” said the preacher with a boastful grin.

It looks like I’ll be hiring a new preacher this week, I thought. And going out and buying me one of those fancy fly rods while I’m at it.

*********

Trant proved to be the best preacher we ever had – or a troublemaking bum – depending on which member of the congregation you asked. He and I became thick as thieves, as the saying goes, or even worse: fishing buddies. All around the countryside, from saltwater tides to farm ponds, he became known as The Fly Fishing Preacher and I, of course, The Swamp Deacon. There are worse flaws in the human character, I suppose, than fishing religiously.

Just as He rested on the Sabbath, we fished six days a week and took our church duties seriously on Sunday. But we soon realized that, in His infinite wisdom, The Master had not created enough days of the week for both fishing and work. Soon, we found ourselves sneaking in a little angling action on The Lord’s Day – both before and after noon services.

“I got to do one thing down at the church before we go, son,” Trant told me one fateful Sunday morning. “It won’t take a minute. Your Aunt Bitsy is getting baptized today and renewing her commitment. I figure we can let the pool fill on low while we hit the Picnic Grounds, and it will be just right in time for the service.

“Won’t the water be cold?” I asked.

“I’ll crank up the heater,” he said with a wink.

By then I had become fairly adept with my new fly rod. Redbreast would rise for me and, every now and then, like a blessing from the heavens, a river bass would hit top water and almost make me swear myself in front of the preacher. We had ourselves a fine morning, but we almost let the time slip up on us.

The church parking lot was full when we came skidding in on two wheels. Still smelling like fish, I slipped around front to sit in my usual spot, the Amen Corner, while our pastor ran in through the back with just minutes to spare. He didn’t even have time to pull off his waders, just pulled his pants, suit and tie right over them.

I always sat with Aunt Itsy and Aunt Titsy. Yeah, I know, Itsy, Bitsy and Titsy, but that’s what everyone called them. Aunt Itsy and Aunt Bitsy were tiny old ladies, bony yet strong and mean, but Aunt Titsy, well, she was heftier and more well endowed in some areas, if you know what I mean. Anyway, Aunt Bitsy was in the back, getting robed up and ready for redemption.

“They better dip her twice to get all that sin off, if they know what we know,” said Aunt Itsy.

“She ain’t doing nothing but showing off for her new man-friend, Fred,” said Aunt Titsy.

“You two hush up before I have to take you outside,” I hissed, although both of these elderly ladies had changed my diapers and spanked me more than once coming up.

I thought I could see a little steam coming off the sacred pool behind Trant, but I didn’t think much of it. Aunt Bitsy was the first in line to take the holy plunge that day. I wasn’t paying much attention at first – daydreaming about those big, fat rooster reds hitting top water – but when she got about knee deep, she cut loose a shout.

“Oh, my God!”

The pastor, nice and comfortable in his waders, thought that Sister Bitsy was overcome with the Holy Spirit and passionately echoed her sentiment.

“Yes, Lord, you are our God!” he exclaimed with fervor.

Then he grabbed Aunt Bitsy and pulled her deeper into the pool with zealous haste. She hit the hot water a little more and promptly squalled out, “Oh, God, it’s blistering me!”

“Hmm, hmm, I told you so,” said Aunt Itsy.

“I bet those church rafters are going to cave in any minute now,” echoed Aunt Titsy, looking toward the heavens with concern. “You remember when she dated the entire Home Guard battalion during The War?”

“It wasn’t a battalion, it was a company,” corrected Aunt Itsy.

“Will you two stop?” I hissed.

The pastor, and many in the congregation, quickly began to feel that they had a live one on their hands, a real sinner, and the holy water was blistering the demon spirits out of poor Sister Bitsy. So, they began raising their hands in the air and praying in support of this apparent exorcism by water.

“Lord, bless this child and wash away her sins in the name of your son, Jesus!” shouted the preacher.

“Oh, God, it’s blistering me!” yelped Aunt Bitsy.

“Our Father, which art in Heaven,” prayed the congregation in unison.

“Oh, Lawd, it’s hot! It’s burning me alive!” screamed Aunt Bitsy, clawing to escape the Reverend’s reach.

Aunt Bitsy was never fully submerged that day, so it doesn’t count as a true baptism, and I didn’t record it our church ledger. But it wasn’t because Trant didn’t try in earnest. He wrestled with her violently and tried his best to hold her under the entire time he recited the Lord’s Prayer. To his credit, he didn’t give up when she kicked him, and he didn’t give up when she bit him, he only let go at the end there when she drug him down the aisle, over the brick front steps, and into the church parking lot. She squalled all the way across the street and slap dab through the middle of Cattywampus Cemetery.

“Well, damn!” swore Rev. Dr. Trant, as he stood there dripping wet on the church steps. It turned out to be the only time I ever heard the man cuss, and he stayed with us another 20 years after that.

To this day, the Fly Fishing Preacher still talks about the one that got away.