Gone Fishin’
As I continue my journey down the lane of early memories this summer, one recollection always sticks out for me: going fishing with my dad. My Dad and I have never had the best relationship. He was a truck driver who, until I was 9 or 10, was an overthe- road truck driver, which means he was driving for days at a time. That, coupled with lack of affection and abusive personality - it just didn’t make for the greatest of times. He had his moments though.
One such moment or memory was fishing trips. Each month my dad would choose through rotation either my older brother, younger brother or myself to tag along for the monthly Bass Clubs fishing tournament. There were other times throughout the month we fished or camped besides the once-monthly tournaments, and these moments of fishing and camping were pretty much the only good memories I cherish with my dad. But they are powerful memories that I love so much, maybe because there are so few?
It’s a Friday and it’s my turn to go on the fishing trip. I wake up very early with excitement already making a mental checklist of what to bring before getting ready and heading off to school. The teachers had no hope of filling my head with such nonsense as arithmetic or sentence structure; my day of school was filled with daydreams of landing the big bass that would win the tourney, of late nights around the campfire with other father-son teams telling stories and watching are dads get tipsy as us kids stuffed our faces with gooey marshmallows and melted chocolate stuffed between two graham crackers!! Heaven!
Finally, school is out and I race home at breakneck speed to begin amassing my fishing arsenal of a few lures, a pair of pliers and an old rusty filet knife crammed into a tackle box. I dreamed of one day having the massive fishing gear collection my dad once had. I finish preparation by stuffing a few shorts, under britches, tank tops and flip flops into my knapsack and just have room to squeeze in my musty old sleeping bag.
After a long boring ride of listening to grown folks’ music we finally arrive at a little slice of heaven that the fishing tourney will be held on; my favorite was Lake Texoma. After a late night of hotdogs, ‘smores and listening to some of the biggest fishing story whoppers I’ve ever heard, it was off to a fitful sleep. I mean who could sleep knowing in a few short hours we would be flying across the lake in my dad’s souped-up bass boat? I lost many a hat skipping across the lake in that supercharged fishing rocket.
My eyes crack open as my dad gives me a shake to let me know we need to sneak off before the sun comes up if we are to stake a claim on the best fishing spot. One of the best parts was getting to drink coffee out of my dad’s work thermos. I was a big boy on those trips and was allowed to partake in the black sludge that my dad called coffee. The rest of the weekend was pure bliss of skipping over the waves to different spots and catching bass that culminated at a Sunday weigh-in and fish fry, the highlight of any proper southern boy’s dreams.
This is Will B saying, was that bass a 20-pounder or a 30-pounder? Hmm definitely a 40-pounder, as I recollect.