We met the leader of the local band of grabblers, Bob Henderson, in a searing parking lot on the edge of town. Bob looked as tough as he had sounded on the phone a few weeks earlier when I called to see if we could tag along. "I don't give a damn who goes with us," he'd said. "Lots of people think they want to try it, 'til it's time to get in the river." Bob's shirt was torn in several places and splotched with dirt. His arms were dark from the sun, and his hands were covered in scars from both farmwork and catfish.

That evening after dinner, Bob's buddy, Rick Parsons, unabashedly bragged about Bob's grabblin' exploits.

"What makes him so good is that he can hold his breath for so long. I've seen him stay down for two minutes at a time, and then come up with a huge fish. Shoot, I've even seen him come up with two huge fish--80 pounds of catfish on one arm--his hand threaded through one's gills and into the mouth of the other."

"I can't hold my breath for two minutes," I said.

"You won't hold it for two seconds if you're scared."