fishin' for cats
Fishin‘ For Cats###
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Everyone who likes fishing and drinking has had that
one experience. I don’t think much further explanation is
necessary because, if a smile doesn’t creep over your face as
you drift back to your own experience, you just wouldn’t understand.
Every once in a while I will still get an out-loud chuckle when I
remember a trip fishing the St. Joseph river via Margaritaville.
It started off being a morning fishing trip for bass but once
Dave came strolling in at noon, all hopes of dawn patrol were
dashed and we settled for an evening catfishing trip. While
I was ever so impatiently waiting for Dave I had a chance to
put everything in order. The batteries were charged. The
motor was gassed. The cooler was full. MMMM, beer. Once
Dave arrived we went over the equipment and had a beer. We
confirmed that everything was A-OK so we had a beer. We
successfully navigated ourselves into the truck so we had a beer.
There’s a pattern developing here. I cooled the consumption
because of the driving chores but Dave continued to celebrate
reaching all of his short term goals with beers. Goals like
getting into and out of the quick mart without slurring his
words beyond comprehension. Another goal we both shared was
to find a juicy piece of road-kill to use as chum. In his
present condition, Dave was having a particularly hard time
keeping his composure and his lunch trying to fill that request.
When we finally managed to wind down enough back roads to
discover a nice greasy raccoon and safely stow it away on the
top of the truck, Dave decided the task was worth two beers.
One for his treasured find and one replacement for the one lost
during recovery. Needless to say, by the time we reached the
river Dave had a staggering head start on me. It wasn’t long
until he received park your ass status in the boat . It seemed
that Dave’s sea legs made a hasty exit when mixed with alcohol.
A quite graceful leap from the dock and a very ugly landing
on the boat sent Dave’s squirrelly little body rocketing Nestea
plunge style onto my tackle box. Quite a horrendous crash. No
casualties, unless you count one slightly battered Plano. I
fired up the big motor and departed on an uneventful trip up river.
The stretch of the river we were fishing was a very secluded
run between two country roads in the middle of nowhere so we
settled down for a nice peaceful night of fishing. I should
have known. The very first thing Dave did was grab the tackle
that we got at Meijers earlier and started fishing around for
a hook. Instead of the sharp edges of fishing hooks, Dave grabbed
a nice handful of very ripe raccoon parts. He calmly looked at
me and said “wrong bag” without changing his facial expression
at all. Ten minutes later the beer started to work on Dave’s
bladder as well as his mind. He hopped to his feet like a
career navy man, took one step to the side, unzipped his pants,
and his legs buckled. Instead of clumsily falling backwards
onto his ass like a wet bag of shit, he tried to be smooth and
grab the small side rail protruding from the deck. As his
hands made contact with the rail his legs involuntarily
straightened like a rocket sending him ass over applecart into
the river. On the way over a muffled cry of “Oh Jesus” turned
to gurgled cries for help as Dave tried in vain to keep his
head above water In his panic, Dave had forgotten to let
go of the side of the boat. Franticly he kicked at the water
trying to gain a footing. He was so engrossed in trying to
save his life that he didn‘t here me telling him that it
was only 1 foot deep and all he had to was stand up. I‘m
not sure what pissed him off more, that he fell in the water
and didn‘t have the sense to stand up, or the fact that I
was laughing so hard it hurt and that everyone would know
within 24 hours. My thundering laughter brought on nightfall.
Nightfall brought on the heavy drinking. When your out on
a body of water at night , there is a strange sense of
isolation. The shore is a dark mystery world only occasionally
invaded by the search light when a sound on shore gets the
best of your curiosity. The soft glow of the lantern only
aluminates your surroundings enough to see the endless
flow of the river as it drags a parade of leaves and insects
by the boat. One truly feels alone in the world. We were
no exception. Our false sense of security were dashed by a
small red light and soft purr of an outboard motor coming
from up river. It seemed to be a good distance off so we
took the opportunity to collect and stash beer cans and get
our stories straight just in case it was Johnny Law come to
call .Our muffled whispers were met by a booming voice as
big as Texas; ”Fishin’ for cats?” The slow creaking voice
made the hair on our backs stand straight on end. It turned
out that the red light we saw wasn’t the boats running lights,
but a small Christmas tree light. He was only probably 30
or 40 feet from us when we first saw him and only looked
like it was a mile up river. He must have had quite a chuckle
listening to these two drunk hillbillies trying to get their
storie straight. He really gave a snort when he said ”follow
me, I know where to get’em” and Dave’s emotions got the best
of him as he cried out ”Oh God no ,Rob”. I guess I shouldn’t
have been reaching for the motor. We passed on the invite and
decided that we were sufficiently plowed to call it an evening
