The smallmouth bass on the business end of my friend’s line had no idea of the caper that had just played out Tuesday morning on Lake Milton.

Fishing friend Ted Suffolk and I visited Milton a few days ago with hopes that we would catch the tail end of the shallow-water smallmouth bite that had been happening over the past couple of weeks. The morning chill that greeted us early was enough to numb our fingers, but the forecast of a slight wind shift and a few holes in the gray clouds promised to push the thermometer up to where we could shed a layer or two.

By 10:30 that morning, we had boated several bass, largemouths and smallies, and the morning was taking shape pretty much the way we had expected. But, as often happens during fishing trips, a curveball spun in on us.

Ted and I talk up a storm while out on the water together, but I have to tell you he clams up when he hooks up. We can be talking for a solid half hour about past fishing experiences, our golf woes, last night’s Guardians game and any of the myriad of topics retired men bounce around in their heads.

But when a fish bites and Ted sets the hook, the voice from the back deck goes silent. I tell the truth when I say that often the only clue I have that Ted is fighting a fish is when I hear the splash.

And so it was Tuesday morning. I heard a splash, glanced back and saw a big, bucking arc in Ted’s fishing rod.

“You have one?” I asked.

“Yup. Feels like a good one,” Ted responded.

As always, he played the fish expertly and brought it to the side of the boat. Then he made a fateful decision. Instead of slinging the 14-inch smallmouth across the gunwale, Ted knelt to grab the fish by its lower jaw.

As is typical of smallmouth bass, the fish made a final dive under the boat, and Ted responded by extending his arms so the rod could keep his line from touching the fiberglass. That action shifted his center of gravity out over the starboard side of the Bass Cat, which then rocked just enough for Ted to lean too far.

The next few seconds played out in slow motion. Ted was too far gone to recover his balance and, with nothing but lake water to brace his lean, he went overboard and disappeared in a cloud of bubbles. The water was only four feet deep, so he stood and sputtered, “What the heck just happened?”

Seeing that he was OK, I responded, “How does the water feel and where is your rod?”

At 66 degrees, Lake Milton was actually warmer than the air. Ted had dropped his rod during his accidental but graceful dive and it sank out of sight. He shuffled around the sandy bottom and soon felt the pole and reel with his foot. He scooped it up and realized the smallmouth bass was still hooked to his jig.

We freed the fish, got Ted back in the boat and thanked our lucky stars that he suffered nothing more than soaked clothes and a drowned phone.

All’s well that ends well, and we laughed about Tuesday’s experience. But we also understood that our lakes and rivers can reach out and punch us in the gut without warning. It can happen to any of us. I speak from experience, having fallen overboard twice myself.

Be safe out there, friends.

Jack Wollitz has experienced his fair share of good fortune mixed in with a few mishaps out on the water. Contact him at jackbbaass@gmail.com