"No." I spit mud into the current. "He bit me, I just didn't grab him."

I took another breath and went under. The catfish had moved to the back of the box, but it didn't take long for my hand to end up in his mouth again. This time, I clamped down on his bottom jaw. The catfish shook its head back and forth, shredding the skin on my knuckles with its upper teeth. Above the surface, the guys in the boats a few feet away could hear the fish's head hammering against the walls of the box. Then the cat tore loose, and I needed to surface for more air. The back of my hand was a shiny red where a strip of skin was missing.

As I stood panting midriver, I sensed the crew was rapidly losing faith in me. I went back under a third time and again found the critter's mouth. But instead of grabbing his jaw, I pushed my hand through its gill plate. The bones in the gills were worse than the teeth. They felt like razors slicing across my arm as the fish thrashed. I moved my right hand into the box and clasped the fingers on my left hand. Now something would have to tear--me or the fish--before we were separated again.