I Got Hooked Up!

 Fishing is the great American participation  sport. According to current statistics, over 50 million people in this country fish. Most states are still showing an increase in the number of people who put a line in the water. I found it interesting that Nevada is one of the places where fishing is growing the fastest. I suppose that’s because when you lose every penny you have in the casinos, fishing becomes an important source of food.   

I am not one of those 50 million fisherman. I suppose the reason is: 1) I have ADD and it’s drives me crazy to sit still for any length of time, 2) No patience - closely related to number 1, and, 3) my father didn’t fish. His recreation time was spent on a golf course and I followed in his footsteps. Instead of giving me a bamboo rod with a bobber, I was handed an old 7 iron and some beat up Titleists. 

It doesn’t mean I didn’t try. Years ago, I made a concerted effort to become an angler.  Mike, one of my best high school friends, fished regularly; he even caught a 5 pound bass in his neighborhood lake. Eventually, his stories extolling the wonderful world of angling temporarily brought me to the dark side. I saved my money until I could afford the basics, a cheap rod and reel, a small metal tackle box, hooks, sinkers, some plastic worms, and a couple of lures. It was time for me to show these fish who was boss. 

I  began to fish an 80 acre lake on the golf course we played. It didn’t take long for me to learn that a key element  of fishing is indeed patience. The time you spend hooking and landing a fish is actually a tiny percentage of the time you spend on the water.  For me, a couple of hours each afternoon meant cast and reel, cast and reel, cast and reel - with nary a nibble.  Soon, I became bored of this routine and began entertaining myself by seeing how far I could cast a plastic worm and how fast I could reel it in. That is not fishing. I’m sure that if a fish saw a worm zipping by at a high speed, it wouldn’t be attracted to it; instead, it would scare him to death. As you might expect, I would come in with nothing to show for my efforts but sunburn and poison ivy. 

Mike, having heard about my glorious fishing spot, was eager to go with me to wet a line.  Not only did I agree to bring him along , I also made a major mistake by inviting my new girlfriend Carol. It seemed like a good idea - an hour or two of fishing followed by a burger was a cheap date that a student could appreciate. 

All three of us headed to the lake around dusk, a prime fish feeding time, according to Mike. 

Since we had only been dating a few months, Carol had only seen one Joe -  Funny Joe, Boisterous Joe, Laughing Joe, Thoughtful Joe. I had managed to hide Short-Tempered Joe, Impatient Joe, and Angry Joe from her - until this particular evening. That’s when a lure with barbed hooks met my brand new Ban Lon shirt. For those of you who don’t remember, Ban Lon was a nylon-yarn material, and it was notorious for getting easily snagged.  So wearing this piece of clothing to go fishing was about as stupid as wearing a Biden for President T shirt at a Trump rally.  In both cases, something bad is going to happen. 

It didn’t take long. After a short walk to the lakes edge, we  pulled out lures, attached them to the rods, and began casting them in the water. Well, Mike did. I had trouble getting the lure on my rod, and in the process I somehow hooked my shirt.  Barbed hooks are made to hook and hold, and this one did it’s job. As I gingerly tried to wiggle it out of the shirt, another barb grabbed the Ban Lon. Then another. Within minutes, it became a full blown mess from which there was no escape. 

This is when Carol met Angry Joe. My face reddened, I began yelling words that good Methodists don’t use (unless they hit their thumb with a hammer, or get cut off in traffic). I’m not sure, but I may have turned Hulk green. Later, Carol said she thought she saw steam coming out of my ears. Mike stood by the lake and turned his head to keep from laughing in my face. Finally, I clenched my fists, screamed in total frustration, and kicked the tackle box, scattering its meager contents everywhere. Then I took my pocket knife and angrily cut the lure out. Why not?  The shirt was already ruined.  When I got home, I immediately threw it in the basement box reserved for rags to wash cars. This whole evening put a damper on any future plans I had to become the next Bill Dance. 

I have fished periodically over the years - when I had no choice. On several occasions I took customers deep sea fishing in the Gulf. Thankfully, I learned salt water fishing has deckhands who do everything for you; they bait your lines, take off your catch, even clean the fish. All I had to do was get on the boat, and  bring a cooler full of beer and sandwiches. 

Of course, I always carried a pocket knife and an extra shirt - just in case.