Studying at Western University starts with a knife-forging competition

For the next hour or so, Lin Yuan completely stunned the people on the shore.

Ever since that nearly three-foot-long bigmouth bass was put into the fish basket, his fishing spot hadn't been quiet. Every ten minutes or so, the rod tip would suddenly dip, and the screech of the reel would echo repeatedly across the river. At first, Peter would turn his head to look each time, but later he wouldn't even turn his head—he could tell from the sound of the reel that Lin Yuan had caught a fish again.

When the second one was pulled up, Frank even came over to take a look. This one was slightly smaller than the first, but still over two feet long, with a thick body and scales that shimmered with a deep olive-green luster in the sunlight. Lin Yuan removed the hook, put the fish in the fish basket, re-baited, and cast again. Just as Frank was about to say something, Lin Yuan's float sank again.

The third one. This one was shorter, but its back was extremely wide, making it look like a piece of old wood that had been soaking in the water for ten years. When Lin Yuan pulled it out of the water, he encountered almost no decent resistance—not because the fish was weak, but because he had already figured out the rhythm of lifting the rod and reeling in the line. The things that basic fishing had taught him had been quickly internalized in several practical battles. The angle of wrist force, the speed of reeling in the line, when to let go and when to tighten the line, were no longer steps that needed to be thought through, but had become instincts in his hands.

Article 4. Article 5. Article 6.

By around 10 a.m., Lin Yuan's fish basket was already filled with seven largemouth bass. The smallest one was the same medium-sized one he had caught on his first cast of the day—at the time, he thought that one was already quite big, but now, compared to the others he had caught later, it was like the difference between a kindergarten student and a high school student.

Frank finally couldn't hold back any longer. He put down his rod, walked over to Lin Yuan, squatted down, and stared at the water for a long time. "What kind of bait did you use?"

Lin Yuan lifted the lure out of the water to show him. It was the same mid-water hard lure recommended by the fishing tackle shop salesperson, with a spinner tail and light green paint, exactly the same as the ones Frank had in his own box.

"Same bait." Frank shook his head, stood up, and put his hands on his hips. "Same section of river, similar depth, you're getting a continuous catch, while I haven't had a bite in forty minutes. That doesn't make sense."

"It might be a problem with the fishing spot." Lin Yuan pointed to the crooked willow tree overhead. "This tree blocks half of the water surface, so the sun doesn't shine on it, and the water temperature is a bit lower than the surrounding area. Fish might like to stay in this area."

Peter came over too. He stood next to Lin Yuan for a while, observing the angle of his casting and the rhythm of his reeling in, then turned to Frank and said, "He reels in slower than us. Lures swim slowly in the water, and injured fish can't swim fast, so big fish like to target those kinds of fish."

"Then I'll slow down too." Frank went back and reduced his reeling speed, cast twice, but still nothing happened.

Hearing the discussion, the professor quietly moved his fishing chair from under the old hickory tree and set it up in an empty spot next to Lin Yuan. He rebaited the hook, adjusted the brakes, and cast his line. Ripples spread across the surface, and the float bobbed steadily on the line where the current met the shade of the tree.

Lin Yuan caught another fish. This one was a little over two feet long, and when he pulled it up, its tail splashed water everywhere, forcing the professor to dodge to the side. Lin Yuan removed the hook, put the fish in the fish basket, and glanced back at Robert, who was still watching the float.

The professor's float remained completely still.

"You cast your line right next to me, and all the fish are lured away by you." Robert made a half-joking complaint in a statement of fact tone, his expression was flat, but there was a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.

Lin Yuan tossed the fish he had just caught into the fish basket and wiped his hands. "I'll toss it a little to the left, leaving the right side of the water for you."

"No need," the professor waved his hand and leaned back in his fishing chair. "I've been fishing on this river for forty years, one more morning won't make a difference. You can continue fishing."

That being said, in the following half hour, the professor's rod only nibbled twice. Once, he pulled up a small bass less than a foot long, removed the hook, and threw it back into the water; the other time, the rod tip bent and then bounced back, and the fish got away. Frank and Peter next to him were also catching fish, but their frequency was nowhere near Lin Yuan's—Lin Yuan was getting a bite every ten minutes or so, while they were lucky to catch one every half hour.

By eleven o'clock, Lin Yuan's fish basket was filled with twelve largemouth bass. The smallest was the one he caught on his first cast, and the rest were all over two feet long. He squatted down next to the basket and counted them, somewhat surprised himself. The twelve fish swam huddled together in the basket, the largest of which, nearly three feet long, took up almost half the space of the net, and its tail thrashed, making the water in the basket slosh around.

Peter walked over from his fishing spot, glanced down at Lin Yuan's fish basket, paused for a moment, then turned back and called to Frank, "Come and look at this."

Frank put his fishing rod on the chair, walked over, and glanced into the fish basket. "Twelve," he said, straightening up, in a tone that was hard to decipher—a mixture of admiration and envy. "All four of us combined don't have as many as he has."

“It’s not just the quantity.” Peter crouched down and pointed through the mesh of the net to the largest one. “This one is almost three feet long, and the second one is about two and a half feet. The largest one we’ve caught is only a little over two feet. This size distribution—it’s not a coincidence. Every fish he catches in this area is a big one; small fish simply don’t bite his bait.”

At this moment, the professor also put away his fishing rod and walked over to glance into the fish basket. He didn't count the fish, but only looked at the largest largemouth bass—the fish was slowly turning in the net, its broad back cutting a dark green arc across the water's surface, its tail fin wider than his palm when spread out. He straightened up, brushed the bits of grass off his hands, and said in a tone that conveyed a final conclusion: "It's not a matter of technique. It's luck. He stepped on something wrong today."

"Luck is a newbie's strength," Lin Yuan said.

"No beginner ever catches twelve big fish in a row," Peter shook his head, but didn't press the matter. Fishing is inherently unpredictable—the same body of water, the same time of day, the same equipment and bait, one person catching fish one after another while the other goes home empty-handed—this is something every veteran angler has experienced in their career. It can't be explained; it can only be attributed to luck.

The sun was directly overhead, and the mist on the river had long since dissipated. The South Carolina sun in March was already a little scorching by midday, but sitting in the shade was still quite comfortable. Lin Yuan cast a few more times, and the thirteenth and fourteenth fish took the bait in quick succession, both standard sizes of just over two feet. They struggled fiercely when pulled up, but no longer caused him the same frantic effort as the first one. His feel for the line had been honed by those dozen or so large fish all morning; now, his reeling in and setting the line was as smooth as that of a seasoned veteran.

Peter took the barbecue grill out of the insulated box and set it up on a flat, gravelly patch of ground on the riverbank. The charcoal, which he had brought from home beforehand, was packed in an aluminum foil bag and poured onto the grill tray, spreading it evenly. The grayish-white charcoal pieces gleamed a uniform orange-red in the midday sun. He dragged two insulated boxes next to the grill; one contained pre-marinated beef and chicken legs, and the other was stuffed full of ice-cold beer. The moment he opened the box, a rush of cold air poured out. He pulled out a few cans and tossed them to the person next to him; a thin layer of condensation clung to the cans.

Lin Yuan packed up the pole and placed it beside the willow tree root, then went to help at the grill. Peter was stacking beef ribs one by one onto the grill. The meat sizzled as it touched the scorching iron grill, the first drops of juice dripping down, and a thin layer of pale blue smoke rose from the charcoal. Lin Yuan watched his method of sprinkling the seasoning—not like he had pinched the salt between his fingers and rubbed it evenly at the last gathering, but rather scooping it directly from the seasoning bowl with his palm and patting it onto the meat. The movements were rough, but the patting was very even.

"You told me last time that the timing of flipping is more important than the heat," Peter said as he flipped the meat. "I tried it several times when I got back. I used to wait until one side was completely cooked before flipping, but then I did what you said—flipping it as soon as a caramelized crust forms makes it more tender."

"The crispy crust locks in the juices; if you flip it too late, the inside will dry out." Lin Yuan picked up a skewer of freshly grilled beef from the grill, blew on it, and took a bite. The meat was indeed tender, and the marinade was a significant improvement over Peter's at the last gathering—the ratio of garlic and black pepper was just right, not too salty, with a hint of brown sugar sweetness in the aftertaste, but not cloyingly sweet like the barbecue sauces you buy in supermarkets. Although it wasn't the same flavor he made himself, it would be presentable at any backyard barbecue in America.

"Your marinade ratio is even better than last time."

"Last time you said to use apple cider vinegar instead of white vinegar and marinate for a full twelve hours." Peter flipped the chicken leg over and poked a few holes in the skin with a roasting fork. "But to be honest, no matter how hard I try, I can't replicate the taste of yours last time. Did your marinade contain Sichuan peppercorns? I can't find that in the supermarkets here."

"The Sichuan peppercorns were sent from home. I'll bring you a bag later."

Several people had already gathered around, each retrieving a beer from the cooler and pulling the tab. Frank, holding a can of beer, leaned against the picnic table next to the grill, watching Lin Yuan eat, and suddenly laughed, saying, "Lin Yuan, if word got out about your fishing haul today, someone would be asking you to teach a class tomorrow. On your first day as a beginner, twelve bigmouth bass, the largest almost three feet, the smallest over two feet. Do you know where you'd rank in a proper competition?"

"I don't really know anything about the competition." Lin Yuan put the finished skewer on the table and picked up another one.

"The Bassmaster Bass Fishing Championship." Peter flipped the last piece of beef rib on the grill, turned to Lin Yuan, and said, "FLW or Bassmaster, the two largest professional bass fishing leagues in the United States. The prize money for the regional champion starts at $100,000, and it's even higher in the finals. The participants are all professional anglers, driving lure boats, carrying tens of thousands of dollars worth of equipment, spending a whole day on the lake just to find the five biggest bass. With your condition today—although it's not a formal competition, bass of this size are hard currency in any body of water."

"One hundred thousand US dollars? The prize money for fishing is that high?" Lin Yuan was indeed a little surprised. His previous impression of competitive fishing was still that of recreational activities that were charged by the hour at fishing ponds in China.

"It's the sponsors' money," Frank continued. "FLW's title sponsor is Walmart, and Bassmaster is backed by ESPN. The finals are held live in the stadium on weekends, tens of thousands of people buy tickets to watch, and it's broadcast on TV. There are quite a few professional anglers who earn millions of dollars a year."

"And its prestige is no less than your knife-forging competition." Peter tapped the edge of the grill with his fork, his tone shifting from casual to serious, almost encouraging. "The knife-forging competition is indeed a top-tier event in the industry, but the bass fishing competition is a truly mass-participation event. The status of the FLW regional champion and the grand final champion in the outdoor sports world—well, let's put it this way—if you win the knife-forging competition, people in the industry know who you are. If you win the bass fishing grand final, you might get recognized even if you're just buying a bottle of water at any gas station in America."