My story is off the track a bit from fishing, it happened in the truck moving from one fishing spot to another. I stuck my hand under the truck seat to feel for a lure I dropped, and there was a small drier fan underneath the seat my friend put there for cooling purposes. Lucky me, I stuck my hand in it and nearly cut half the flesh off my pinky. Took a good week to heal.

I allowed an Ivy League student on the back of my boat to fish again after taking it away he was so dangerous! he started his second round pretty well, but the second I stopped thinking about him, I felt it go in on the top of my head. After it passed through the hat there was nothing stopping it (hair) from going all the way.
I clinch my eyes, grasp the pain, try to believe it has happened only fraction of a second before. Before I looked around the next feeling was pressure on the fly and a jerking motion ripping the barbed Fat Albert taking not only abit of skin, but my hat too!
Things are a bit hazey after that, but the rod was thrown out of the boat and no fishing was done by the student or dad. This was day one of three.

Last summer a buddy and I were wet wading, chucking conehead wooly buggers with San Juan worm droppers during hi flow times. He hooked a pig brown in a hole but it got into the shallower water and the dropper snagged on weeds. I figured "Hey, I'm a nice guy who rarely (translated: usually) makes stupid decisions, I can help him out. So, I get about waist deep and try to corral the fish into the net using my knee and my left arm...well, Mr. Fish didn't like that, so he shook his head, and the next thing I know I hear a swish followed by a thwack, and feel a definite impact in an area that's only meant for nice impacts. Figuring that I've just added a little unwanted decoration to my boys but afraid to look at the damage, I calmly (translated: like a third grade girl) scream to my buddy to not reel, and emerge from the river. About an inch to the left of the inseam of my shorts clings a brown conehead bugger, and just below my kneecap (on the other leg, of course) dangles a red San Juan worm )no doubt significantly loosened by my calculated thrashing and cursing. Fortunately the San Juan worm came out easy, but the conehead remained firmly attached until later that night at camp, when, clouded by a distinct lack of intelligence and a few shots of good whiskey, my buddy selflessly volunteered his services as surgeon extroadiniare. Funny thing is, between holding the ice pack on my leg the next day, I used the formerly ornamental fly to take a 24" brown from a cutbank. And who says fishing ain't a contact sport?

HAHAHA joey its funner every time you say that same crap!!!!

Yea he's from Texas.

While on a canoe trip along the Delaware last summer I hooked a nice smallmouth on a Rapala, who proceeded to return the favor and hook me back. He inhaled the rear treble, and sunk the front (very, very barbed) treble into my right forearm.

My multitool was in the left breast pocket of my vest, safely out of reach since by now both hands were quite occupied keeping the bass from thrashing around and making things worse for the both of us. I tried getting the attention of my (alleged) friends in the other canoe, but all I got in return was a round of thumbs up and "nice fish!"

The standoff was finally brought to closure by three bloody yanks, followed by ten seconds of multitool surgery for Mr. smallmouth. There MIGHT have been tears in my eyes, but I'm sure it was because of the sun...or wind...or something...

This happened on blue water, but here goes. I was sight-fishing off of Oregon Inlet for cobia, we spotted a nice cobia and I shot my clouser minnow right across it's maw, and it was completely ignored. My brother's was pounced on the moment it splashed down though. After a fifteen minute or so fight, we brought the fish alongside, and I got set to gaff it. I even opened the cooler, and told Ed to get ready to jump on the lid. I gaffed the fish and had it over the gunwale, when it flopped, and through the clouser right into my face. I instinctively ducked my face, and all hell broke loose. The cobia, which probably weighed 60 or so pounds through the gaff, and proceeded to flop around the bottom of the boat. The fish's thrashing knocked the gaff into my left calf. I yelled for my brother to get the club and to "kill that **********ing fish right the hell now." Normally I would never talk about one of my favorite fishes like that, but I was hurting a little bit. My brother dived onto the fish, and proceeded to kill it. It still banged him up pretty good. Afterward, the boat looked like it had been the scene of a multiple homicide, blood everywhere, the gaff's broken handle was stuck into the fiberglass, the cooler was in pieces, the cobia was still twitching, and the console had several big holes in it. In the commotion, for some reason, I felt possessed to pull the gaff out, by far the dumbest move of my life. I was loosing a lot of blood, and we were a good twenty minutes from the inlet. My brother grabbed the first-aid kit out from under the console, actually one of the things that stand out most about that day was he reached through a hole to get it and started cleaning my leg. I told him, "just stitch it up best you can then let's go." He did so, we contacted the coast guard, but my brother did a pretty durn good job of fixing me up, enough so that it stopped the bleeding. I still went to the hospital, and one of the nurses told my brother that it was one of the best stitch jobs she had ever seen. All done with fishing line. That's not the best part though, after we left the hospital, I climbed into the truck, reached up, and tried to pull my hat off, and felt a sharp pain on top of my head. The clouser was still stuck through my hat, into my scalp. Something had cut the line and we had just left it there. I hadn't even taken my hat off at the hospital we were there for such a short time. Again, it didn't happen on the stream, but it is my best story of "hooking myself."