Bass have no eyelids. That's why Joe Foley is easing his bass boat closer to a tree limb hanging over a bank at Lake Waynoka, and I am shrinking into my forlorn, landlubbing self like a scared turtle. Joe told me to cast toward the shallows, beneath the trees, because bass like shade. You'd like shade, too, if you had no eyelids.

I did as I was told, only the pitch got away from me. My high fastball sailed over the shallows and into a tree. "I'm hunting for flying fish," I say to Joe.

"You don't hunt for fish," Joe says.

This was my fault. Last winter, I went to a boat show. I sat and listened to a bass-fishing expert. I might have poked some good-natured fun at the man. OK, I basically keeled over from laughter at the technical aspects of dropping a line into some water for hours on end.

This is what we sports writers do, occasionally: Make cynical fun of something we know absolutely nothing about. It's a reason we're so popular.

Anyway, Joe Foley, Moeller Class of '83, four-year college starter on the offensive line - a very big man - could have used the occasion to rip my head from its moorings and smash it for chum. Instead, he did something worse:

He invited me to go fishing.

The concept being, if you try it, you'll appreciate it. You might even like it.

Between April and October, Lake Waynoka hosts a bass tournament one Wednesday a month. It attracts 20-40 boats. Joe says they do this all over. Not just at Caesar Creek Lake or Kentucky Lake, but all over America. It's amazing what you learn when you pry open your mind.

Joe's a fishing nut. He's on the water every week. He tapes all the bass-fishing shows on the all-sports networks. "I've probably got 100 tournaments on tape," he says. Joe hosts a Saturday morning fishing show broadcast locally on seven radio stations. Other than hanging with his family, there is nothing he'd rather do than fish.

The tournament Wednesday runs from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. Bass only, none smaller than 12 inches, most weight wins. Gentlemen, start your rods.

Joe takes me out early for a pre-tournament warmup. I cast into the tree. I also catch a bass, a 14-inch, two-pound whale. I fight him like Jonah, until he relents to my surpassing skill and superhuman strength. Then I have Joe remove the hook. Ain't no way I'm touching a fish, unless it's skinned, boned, beheaded and dead on a plate.

Joe catches nothing in our practice session. I'm feeling pretty good about myself. "Hand me that Loomis rod with that Shimano reel and that Trilene 12-pound green line, big boy," I say to Joe. "Let me show you a few things."

We spent three hours casting into the shallows of Lake Waynoka. Joe caught six fish; four were too small. I caught no fish. "Time to bring your 'A' game now, Doc," Joe says, two hours into it. "This is my A game, Joe," I say.

I suggest we change bait. I'm using a rubber minnow: A Zoom Super Fluke. The only fluke would be if I caught a fish with it. Joe nixes my suggestion. "Bass eat anything that swims or moves," he says.

So what was Wednesday, bass Lent?

Joe says a great thing about fishing is, even when the fish aren't craving fake minnows, it's relaxing. A man can think while he's fishing. "Yeah," I say. "I'm thinking about why I'm not catching any fish."

"Time flies when you're getting your butt kicked," Joe observes.

It's a beautiful night. Storms nag the periphery of the lake. Clouds roll by like mobile bruises, purple and fat with rain. Thunder sounds like a far-off war. Occasionally, the sun sneaks through, a quick smile from heaven. Lake Waynoka is quiet as a dream.

The fishing, though, is like sushi. An acquired taste.

"What did you think?" Joe asks.

I think my fishing smarts begin with Mrs. and end with Paul's. As we fishermen always say: If you can't beat 'em, eat 'em.

E-mail pdaugherty@enquirer.com