Fish Tale

To answer everyone's first question, no, you shouldn't eat bass caught in the Potomac. Or any fish caught there, for that matter.

Besides, fishing is about catching, not eating.

"This is a sport, just like golf, and you wouldn't eat a golf ball, would you?" says Potomac bass fishing guide Captain Steve Chaconas.

It's hard to argue with that logic.

A former stand-up comic and radio broadcaster, Captain Steve grew up in the area and has been fishing on the Potomac since the 1960s. Ten years ago, he formed National Bass Guide Service and in 2000, started guiding along a 60-mile stretch of the river through Virginia, Washington and Maryland as a full-time business. And these days, sport fishing is quite the business.

According to a study by the American Sportfishing Association, there are about 44 million fishermen in the United States, and they spend nearly $42 billion a year on the sport. Fishing for bass, in particular, is so popular because the fish are readily available in freshwater across the country, and they take a certain amount of skill and knowledge to catch.

Buoyed by televised tournaments and shows, bass fishing's appeal has been growing steadily. ESPN's coverage of this year's Bassmaster Classic in February was watched by 9.5 million viewers and the number of households tuning in jumped 21 percent from last year. With television, of course, comes bigger prizes. Just a few years ago, the winner of the annual event took home $100,000. This year's winner, 27-year-old Luke Clausen of Washington state, pocketed five times that. Not bad for three days on a boat.

As a guide on the Potomac, Captain Steve says it's his job to know the best spots on the river -- all of which change depending on the time of the year, the time of day, the tides and the weather -- then recommend the right lure for those conditions.

"Fishing is a skill," says Captain Steve. "I always say, the only luck in fishing is not falling out of the boat."

So far today, I've been lucky but not skilled. I haven't been freshwater fishing since I was 4, while staying at my grandparents' house in Ohio. Out with my grandfather, I fell in the creek and was covered in mud from head to toe. We caught hell from Grandma as we rounded the corner and came into view, Grandpa carrying me by my belt, at arm's length, like so much drippy brown roadkill.

Twenty-five years later, things are marginally better. I've been up since 6 a.m., standing on Captain Steve's boat for the past four hours on a cold Monday morning in early June. It's been raining steadily, my hand is a cramping claw, and though we are wearing rain gear, my fingers look like David Blaine's on his last day in that bubble.

I haven't caught anything, but at least I haven't fallen in. Progress.