Fish Revenge

“How would you like it if you had a big hook stuck in your mouth?” is one question a fisherman often hears from those who don’t necessarily agree with fishing.  Well to answer the question, I didn’t like it at all!

Yes, in the summer of 1992 I found myself at the business end of a rod and reel.  It was one of those God-awful hot Texas summer days.  Cindy and I had been at a wedding near the southeast Texas town of Edna.  The air that day was so thick with humidity that you had to nearly wade through it.  The wedding was for one of my college roommates, Mark.  There were several of us there who had also been roommates at the university formally known as SWTSU.   One of the guys, JB, lived near Smithville and he and his wife Kara invited us all over to visit after the wedding.  So myself, Cindy, JB and his wife Kara,  and Trey and his wife Fiona all got together for an after-wedding reunion.

Girls being girls, their idea of a reunion was to sit and visit about things that, well, we men could actually care less about.  In fact, we would just as soon have an anvil dropped on our toe than have to sit and suffer through discussions about pregnancy and morning sickness.

Turns out we were in luck.  JB had a pond nearby that just happened to be loaded with catfish.  Trey always has a rod and reel stashed behind the seat of his truck, and JB had an extra that I could borrow.  (And that, ladies, is why we men require having more than one rod and reel.   One might never know when a buddy is going to drop by and failed to have brought his own gear.)  So we loaded into the back of JB’s truck and headed to the pond that was on the ranch where he worked.  This pond was more like a lake in miniature, with both a boat dock and pier.

The day was already getting late by the time we arrived, so we wasted no time and just tied on what ever hook we had available, which in Trey’s case didn’t include hooks specifically used for catfish.  But he did have some old 3/0 plastic worm hooks laying in the bottom of his box.   For bait we used what we had available, which happened to be puppy chow dog food.   The dog food was shaped like a donut, with the hole in the middle, and worked perfectly when you just slipped it over the hook and let it hang.  And the fish loved it!

The fish were biting fast and furious and darkness was arriving quickly.  I had just brought a fish onto the pier when Trey hooked up with a really nice one.  It would probably have gone 10 pounds and he was going to need some help.  It was nearly dark now and it was difficult to see the fish.  I quickly lay down on the pier so as to get my arm closer to the water for that long reach to the fish.  I wrapped my hand around Trey’s fishing line and followed it to the water. As the fish surfaced I leaned over as far as I could and tried to get my hands around it.  As soon as I touched him he shook violently and something slammed me in the mouth on the left side.  And then I felt a continued and painful tug on my mouth that had me scrambling to my feet in vain attempt to relieve the pressure, all the way to my tippy toes.  As I was coming to my feet I reached up and felt fishing line coming out of my mouth and I grabbed hold to pull back on it.  By that time Trey was trying to swing his fish over away from the water and I was yelling something unintelligible like “aahahahahwhwhwhwhwhahahahah-staaaawwwwwwwwwppp”.    It took Trey a good 5 seconds of pulling to figure out that the fish was gone and he was about to put me on the stringer instead.

Once he realized that he had me hooked up he relieved the pressure on my face.  One of my merciful friends reached over with his pocketknife and cut the line.  We bumbled around on the pier for a couple of minutes as I tried to figure out what to do.  Trey grabbed his flashlight and shined it on my lip.  JB said, “ooh that doesn’t look good”.  “Do you think you can pull it out?” I asked.   He replied “Wow, I don’t know, it’s in there pretty good Kendall.”   I asked, “Can you just push it through?”  The grey look on their faces and the accompanying hiss from air being sucked through pursed lips and across clenched teeth told me the answer.

Taking Trey’s flashlight I went to the truck side mirror.  “Oh crap”.  This hook was completely buried in my lip.  Of this 3/0 worm hook, all I could see was about a half inch of shank, the eye, and a 6” tail made of 20lb test monofilament.  And the hook wasn’t poking through to the inside.  The point had entered the left side of my upper lip and imbedded itself perfectly so that the point, barb, and curve of the hook were buried in the flesh rather than mercifully passing through.  There wasn’t going to be an easy way out of this. 

After a quick discussion JB offered to drive me to the Smithville Hospital ER to get it removed.   But first we had to tell my wife.  I wasn’t feeling very motivated to talk so when we arrived back at JB’s house so he went inside to let them know.  I said, “JB don’t freak her out or anything.”  So he walks into his house alone, a grey look on his face, “Um Cindy, can I talk to you in the other room?”  Naturally all three women look at each other, with Fiona wondering what has happened to Trey, and Cindy knowing it was something that has happened to me.  Because of course, she knows me.  “Kendall has had an accident, I mean, he is okay, but we’re going to take him to the ER”.  (Way to be subtle JB).  “He caught a big hook to his lip and we can’t get it out.”  I’m waiting inside the dark truck, and see her come dashing out of the house to check on me.  “Nice one” she says.  “Does it hurt?”  I mumbled, “Just a little, only it I talk or nude ny lits.”  With a pat on the arm suggesting no big surprise, she sends us away to the ER.

Upon arriving at the small town hospital ER I see that most of the seats are taken as I walk past hastily bandaged children, a broken arm, a guy with a migraine on overtime, and other assorted people waiting.  Moving towards the check-in window, my mouth covered by my hand, “Can I help you sir?” asks the plump lady sitting in her chair behind the desk wearing the traditional nurses cap as she reaches up to slide open the window.  “I haa a hook ing ny nouth” I replied.

“Excuse me” 

“I haa a hook ing ny nouth” I say again.

“I’m sorry sir I can’t understand you”

I look at her and pull my hand down exposing what is soon to be a popular facial piercing.  In revolt she gasps as her chair rolls back “Oh my God! Grace get over here!”  Past the initial horror the women pass paperwork to me, get my insurance card and set me in the chair next to the desk to fill out my paperwork.  So here I am dutifully filling out my paperwork with the clipboard on my knees.  In the space for “injury type:” I write ‘Hook in mouth’.  As I write, my chair facing towards the waiting room, the normally quiet waiting room spawns a growing murmur.  “Whadawhadayadahooktyamyamamouthwhamawhamahurtyadawhama shhh don’t stare Michael whamayama I wonder how that happened yadayada.”   Working my way through the pages a steady stream of curious kids and one homeless looking person somehow find themselves trolling past me, my clipboard, and my 3/0 mouth hardware, while trying not to stare.  I do my best to ignore them but at least I am able to find the humor in their innocent curiosity.  Paperwork complete I turn to the desk, and the nurse, never taking her eyes off my mouth, takes the clipboard from me like I have leprosy.  “Have a seat I’m sure the doctor will be right out to see you.”

Feeling like an ugly model, about to walk down a fashion show runway dressed in burlap, I hold my head high and ease down the middle of the small ER waiting room.  All eyes were upon me.  I didn’t look at any of them, but their faces were square with mine as the whispers and murmurs grew.  Words like “oh”, “wow”, “that looks like it hurts”, “ewwww”, “guess the fish got revenge” came from the murmurs and mumbles.

Sitting down in an empty chair, I find it ironic that the magazine choice is “Field & Stream” or “Outdoor life”.  I choose the prior.  It wasn’t a long wait until the doctor came through the door like Kramer from an episode of Seinfeld.  With his stethoscope hanging from his neck, the white coat flaring from his quick walk he stops right before me with his clipboard in his face as he starts his triage:  “Rachael with the broken arm where are you?”  With tears in her eyes she looks up, and he does a quick exam and determines her okay for the moment.  “Migraine.  Bob?”  He looks up, “Man I just can’t shake it, its been going for two days and I need some meds”.  The doctor knowingly looked at him.  Turning, he was standing directly in front of me.  “Where’s the guy with the fish hook in his mouth?”  He says, yelling loud enough for all of Smithville to hear.    The room is painfully quiet.  “Here” I mumble, looking straight up, pulling the June copy of Field & Stream down away from my face.

All of the doctors Hippocratic Oath and professionalism in check, he laughed, “Bhaaaahaaaahaaaaaaahhaaaaaa Oh my God can I take a picture?!”  I could understand the humor in it, in fact I smiled at his jovial response which in turn hurt like hell.  “Can ee just get da dan thing out uv ny nouth?”  I said wincing.  Remembering his oath, he professionally turned and had me follow him through the swinging doors.  Once inside the secluded exam room he once again was laughing and requesting a photo. He couldn’t wait to tell his doctor friends.  He wanted the story.  “How did this happen?”  I just wanted the stupid hook removed from my face.  While the doc worked, JB told the story.  After a couple of shots to deaden my lips, making them feel bulky and numb, he expertly pushed the hook through until it came out on the inside right at the corner of my mouth.  He then clipped off the eye, and pulled it on through. 

No stitching required, he gave me the obligatory tetanus shot and an antibiotic booster and sent me on my way.  We both parted with a smile on our faces, he having his day made and getting great material for the morning coffee and I for having survived another episode in my life.

Boat Ramp Fails

What is it about owning a boat that brings out the ‘stupid’ in people?  I firmly believe that when a first time boat owner walks into his first boat store, the salesman should ask:  “May I see your stupid-card please?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your stupid-card”

“Why do I need a stupid-card?”

“Well the first reason is you’re buying a boat.  The second reason is because you are about to do a lot of really stupid things that are going to totally embarrass yourself and especially your kids, cost you a butt-load of money in repairs.  And you will manage to piss-off a game warden at least once.

*****

Yes, admittedly, I am a proud owner of the stupid-card.  I’ve been carrying it a very long time however, and rarely have to show it anymore – but I still keep it handy because you just never know.  Most of the mistakes, but not all, described below I have made in the past.  Some mistakes I’ll never admit to anyway.  My Dad had a boat as far back as I can remember.  Our first boat was an “Arkansas Traveler”.  It was 16 foot all aluminum with a 25 horsepower, really large, really green, Johnson engine.  By today’s standards, an engine with equal dimensions would be a 300HP rocket capable of propelling a bass fisherman down the lake at 80 MPH with his hair on fire.  But my brother and I learned to ski behind that old boat, on Lake Austin, in that cold water that I could just never get used to.

The ‘fails’ I bring up here are typical of that you see on any given summer day, on any given public boat ramp.  If you want to get some great video, take a lawn chair and head to the boat ramp at Mansfield Dam.  Boat ramps are great places to see people make some really bone-headed moves.  “Excuse me – but a fail like that one requires that I see your stupid-card please.”  Below I recall some good ‘fails’ and a couple of “epic fails’. 

Epic Fail #1

Sorry Dad, this story has to be retold via blog.  This event has been verbally handed down among friends and neighbors since 1974.  What is funny about this story is that my Dad was a veteran boat owner by this time.  He didn’t even carry his stupid-card anymore.  However this day, bless his heart, he needed it.

It was a busy Saturday at the boat ramps by the dam on Lake Austin.  People were everywhere.  We, (Mom, Dad, my sister Julie, and I), had been out enjoying ourselves doing some fishing and cruising.  As we arrived back at the boat ramp, everybody hopped out except me.  At 12 I was proud to able to drive the boat onto the trailer.  Dad went up the hill to get the car – a 1972 Mercury, in pale green.  I waited while he backed the car down the ramp, positioning the trailer at just the right spot.  He placed the car in park and turned it off.  He then got out and came around to the pier, which put him on the passenger side of the car.  Suddenly Murphy reared his ugly head and the car slipped out of park.  It’s shocking how quickly the family car can roll down the boat ramp right before your eyes.

Just FYI, unlike a 1972 VW Beetle, a 1972 Mercury will not float.

So here we are, Dad scrambling across the roof of the car trying to get into it to apply the brakes but the driver’s door was jammed shut by the water pressure.  Mom is yelling something incoherent about the situation, my sister is crying, and I’m trying to figure out how my Dad, company executive and boat owner extraordinaire, just managed an epic fail at the boat ramp.  By the time the tow truck hooked onto it, the entire car was underwater.  Park police:  “Excuse me sir, I’ll be needing to see your stupid-card”.   Dad replies, “I don’t have it with me.  Its at home.” … Silence and a blank stare follow… “l’ll wait.”

Moral of the story:  Use your parking brake.

Epic Fail #2

This fail took place at the uppermost boat ramp on the Pedernales River on Lake Travis:  Camp Pedernales.  I’m pleased to say I was simply a witness to this tragedy. 

Pulling up to the boat ramp, I put my five bucks into the envelope and dropped it into the honesty box.  Oh good, only one guy on the ramp.  No line.  I’ll be on the water in five minutes.  I whipped the truck around and backed into the “on-deck” position for the ramp.  And waited.  Chatting it up with my wife I looked down and could see the man standing at the back of his truck looking very busy near the hitch area.  He was keeping his wife very busy behind the wheel, waving his arms, “come back, back,  BACK, STOP, TOO FAR, FORWARD!  DAMMIT WHY AREN’T YOU LISTENING?!”. 

At this point I assumed there was an issue.  I pulled the man-card out of my wallet and sauntered down to see if I could offer some of my expert assistance.  This poor guy was beyond frustrated.  He was unable to get the bow of the boat to slide up to the bumper at the front of the trailer to get the cable attached.  In an effort to get the trailer at the correct height, he had lifted the trailer off the ball so that the trailer was hanging from the truck by the safety chains.  “COME BACK, BACK! BACK!  STOP!!!”  Since the trailer was not directly attached to the truck, the top of the trailer and bow of the boat painfully slammed into the truck, adding a nice feature to the formerly perfect tailgate.  At this point I could hear a harsh sound coming from under the boat.  Taking a closer look I see that  one of the carpeted runners, that support the boat on the trailer, was in pieces and just floating up from under the boat.  Then I see the other.  Both were completely rotted out. Some large waves came in and as the boat bounced on the trailer I could here the echo of the hull bouncing directly on the steel brackets meant to support the carpeted runners. I pointed it out to him and he turned a different shade of grey.  He climbed in and I helped push the boat off.  He told his wife to go on back.    I didn’t have the heart to ask for his stupid-card.

Moral of the story:  it might be a good idea to inspect your trailer every now and then.

Fail #3

This fail I can personally claim from about 1990.  This also took place at Camp Pedernales, site of Epic Fail #2.   Fortunately it happened during the week and there were no witnesses.  After dropping my cash in the honesty box I turned the truck around and start backing.  But something was wrong as the trailer was struggling to go in a straight line.  As I get out of the truck I see the wheel on the left side of the trailer is nearly laying on its side.  There really wasn’t anything holding it in place.  The bearings in the wheel had  “smoked” while on the road, the lug bolts broken, and only pure luck had gotten me as far as the boat ramp.  What was left of the hub was sizzling hot.

I managed to back the boat and trailer into a parking place. I then found the owner and was assured he wouldn’t mind me leaving it there for a day – but he asked to see my stupid-card just in case.  I had it handy for him.  Using the jack from my truck, and a pair of slip-joint pliers, I managed to get the axle off the trailer and into the back of the truck.  Rods and reels stowed, I sadly left my boat alone under the trees and headed to the house to search the yellow pages for a replacement axle.  Oh the joys of boat ownership.

Moral of the story:  Grease your wheel-bearings.

Fail #4

This rather humorous one took place at the Loop 360 Ramp on Lake Austin some number of years ago.  It was only so funny because the new boat owner was just…stupid.

After waiting in line for a few long minutes and watching several entertaining attempts to launch, here comes Mr. Confident pulling his boat out of the water.  But rather than raise the lower unit on his inboard/outboard, he had left the lower unit all the way down.  As he drove the truck forward and up the ramp, the boat settled onto the trailer and the skeg, previously safely above the pavement, was now digging a trench and simultaneously grinding away, leaving a trail of aluminum shards.  People were yelling and waving their arms.  Once he finally figured out the crowd was trying to tell him something he stopped and put the truck in park and it rolled back a foot or so firmly locking the lower unit into a wedge between the truck and pavement.  He tried to use the hydraulics to raise the prop, but the lower unit was so wedged into place that he couldn’t raise it. 

Moral of the story:  Make a checklist of things that MUST be done prior to putting the boat in the water, e.g. Remove straps, insert plugs.  Also requires checklist for coming out of water, e.g. Raise big motor, turn off electronics.

Fail #5

Two years ago when the Mansfield Dam ramps were down to one, I was waiting patiently to pull my boat out as a guy was struggling with his two jet skis on the trailer parked on the ramp, just out of the water.  There were several vehicles queued up to use the ramp.   I was trying my best not to go ask for his stupid-card.  As it turns out the game wardens were at the ramp and one saw what was happening.  He walked over and said something very harsh like, “GET THIS TRAIN WRECK OFF THE BOAT RAMP!”, and pointed very animatedly.  It’s amazing how fast you can get things moving when a game warden gets in your face. 

Fail #6

This relates to many instances of boat owner stupidity that occurs at every boat ramp.  Rather than take advantage of time while waiting on the ramp to free up, some newer owners will wait until they are on the ramp before they start gearing up.  With the boat ramp now blocked by him, he’ll have the four kids out of the truck, into life jackets, apply sunscreen, and ice down the drinks.

“Excuse me, shall I just put some charcoal on and grill our chicken while we wait for you to figure out which side of the life jacket is the front?

Fail #7

You can always tell the new boat owner at the ramp.  He’s the one who has never backed a trailer before and chooses to attempt it with an eight feet wide boat on a ramp that is ten feet wide.  His wife is usually standing near the boat ramp and not meeting any ones eyes.   “Please proceed to the high school parking lot for trailer-backing practice.  But first, I’ll be needing to see your stupid-card.   By the time he has made it to the water a crowd has gathered to watch the festivities and some enterprising person has started selling souvenir T-shirts.

Here is a short list of my own boat ramp fails:

1)   Forgot to insert plugs.  Flooded boat.

2)   Dragged the lower unit of the outboard motor up the ramp.

3)   Stepped up on the trailer tongue to tie boat on and slipped and busted my shin.  Almost required stitches.

4)   Forgot to remove straps that tie the back of the boat down to the trailer.  The boat is just not big enough to float the trailer and itself.

5)   Forgot to unclip the front of the boat from the trailer.  It will not come off very well when you do that.

6)   Failed to turn off the GPS and Satellite receiver.  This caused the battery to go dead.  After a 4 day hard freeze this winter the battery was rendered useless.

 

Like they say, owning a boat is like pouring your money into a hole in the water and the two best days of boat ownership are the day you bought it and the day you sold it!

SAILFISH - Port Aransas

The two thirty-pound lines had been in the water for thirty minutes, but as of yet we had had no strikes on our fresh dead ribbonfish.  We were trolling the standpipes a few miles offshore just outside Port Aransas, TX.  One of the baits was on the downrigger at eighteen feet.  The other was skipping along the surface about 75 yards behind the boat, just out of the reach of the aqua-blue prop wash.  The water offshore had turned from off-color to slightly green at five miles out.  By six miles out the water was blue and clear.

Summer 2006

Our vacation to Port Aransas had been wonderful that year, as usual; save for the rough seas and murky water that had kept us bay fishing and shopping at shell-hell all week.  We had been hoping for at least one trip offshore in search of King Mackerel.  Kingfish.

We woke up early that last morning, checkout day, to a calm sea and blue water visible from our condo on the beach.  Cindy decided to sleep in and get the condo ready for checkout.  My kids, Walter and Lindsey, and her friend Mariah,  jumped at the chance for one more trip out in the boat.  Check out time:  11:00 AM.

9:00 AM, 10 miles out at sea. 

After circling the standpipe rigs several times I turned the eighteen foot bay boat and made a bearing toward a couple of ships waiting at anchor, two miles further out, for their turn to enter into the ship channel.  The lazy rocking of the small boat in the rough seas had us all feeling just a bit queasy.  The July heat and boat exhaust were not helping.

***

We hustled the boat into town and stopped at Woody’s for ribbonfish, ice, and last minute survival food: DPs, candy bars, and white powdered donuts.  Time was at a premium so we were in a hurry.  Pulling into the boat ramp at the harbor, I started running through my mental checklist:

Fuel √

Oil √

Flares √

Survival Food √

Gaff √

GPS √

Marine Radio √

Tools √

Fishing Tackle √

Knife √

First aid kit √

9:30 AM, 11 miles out.

About 400 yards straight off the bow a commotion briefly erupted on the surface that was just visible in the three-foot swells.  It was just enough to catch my attention and I was heading right for it.  In a hurry I bumped up the speed just slightly.  I wasn’t sure what kind of fish it was, but I was confident that it was a game fish that had just attacked some bait that it had cornered against the surface of the water.   At trolling speed it takes a few minutes to cover a quarter mile.  During those minutes the monotony of dragging bait in the water kicked back in and my head lolled on my shoulders with the rocking of the boat. 

***

Looking at my watch I wonder how we’ll ever do it.  We needed to get to the blue water, which was at least five miles off shore.  In those swells, it was going to take at least thirty minutes to get there.  I also wondered how we would have enough time to fish, make the trip back to the harbor, get the boat on the trailer, to the condo, showered, and out the door by eleven.  I was being WAY optimistic; but there were fish to be caught.

9:45 AM, 11 miles out.

Doubting myself, I know I should really turn the boat towards Port Aransas.  Cindy is at the condo packing our bags for us.  I really should…. “FISH ON!!!” Walter shouts.  Simultaneously I hear the drag on our surface rod start zinging as the line starts ripping off the spool.  Just as soon as it started it stopped.  The line went slack and the four of us are standing at the stern of the idling boat wondering what monster King we just missed. 

***

Coming out into the gulf at the end of the jetties is always interesting in the bay boat.  Even with the deep-V of the bow, the rip currents, wind, and swells make for an interesting ride.  Beyond a couple of hundreds yard past the end, the swells settled into their pattern, and I found the right speed for our boat and aimed for the standpipes.  Repeatedly, as we crested the top of each wave, the bow would suddenly dropped into the next trough, the nose of the boat just inches from the next wave washing over.

9:47 AM, 11 miles out. 

I make a quick loop back to the strike zone.  I wanted another shot at that fish.  While I’m doing this Walter is resetting the line on the down-rigger and putting a fresh ribbonfish on the surface line.  Back to trolling speed, I point the bow toward the ships.  We’ll be back in the zone in a moment.  I’ll give us fifteen more minutes.

***

A half-mile out of the standpipes I drop to trolling speed and the kids pull down two boat rods.  Five feet long, thick, and stiff, they each hold a Penn off-shore reel loaded with thirty pound test line.  We had pre-made our king-fish rigs:  Eight inches of stainless steel wire with loops built-in and three large 5/0 hooks.  One goes through the jaws of the bait, one in the middle, and the third stinger at the tail for short striking kings.  The first bait goes out.  With Lindsey at the helm, aiming for the left hand side of the rig, Walter lets out the line on the left as I prep the down-rigger.  Once he has that line out, I clip the downrigger release to the line and get a good hold on the 8 pound bullet weight, and take a counter-clockwise turn on the downrigger to let the cable loose.  Easing the weight into the water, I carefully control the spool as the weight starts to drop.  As the line feeds out I watch the countdown to eighteen feet.  As I'm doing this Walter drops in the surface bait and feeds it out, stopping it 75 yards behind us.  With both rods in the holders we settle into our routine.

9:51 AM, 11 miles out.

Cindy is going to kill me if I’m late.  I probably already am late.  Cell phones don’t work 10 miles out.  I’ve got to turn… “STRIKE!”.  I whip my head around as the rod springs back to a straight position, the line limp.  Looking out where the bait should be I see a shadow.  A REALLY BIG shadow – moving very slowly.  I ease back on the throttle and can make out a very translucent blue beast 75 yards out.  It is perpendicular to the boat when it rolls and this huge sail comes out of the water as it attacks our bait.  “SAILFISH!!!” Walter and I both scream.

We are definitely going to be late.

LIKE A PRO Walter sets the hook.  The rod doubles over and the reel starts singing as this most beautiful thing I have ever seen launches itself out of the water and starts skipping across the surface tied to my boat by a thin strand of monofilament.  God I hope my knots hold.  “Keep the tip up!  Loosen the drag!!  Don’t horse him!!!”  All these things rush through my mind and come out of my mouth as if I’m a freaking sailfish catching veteran.  Hell I didn’t know what to do; I was making it up as I went along.  Lindsey starts cranking in the other line as I bring up the down-rigger.  Mariah takes the helm and keeps us moving forward in a straight line.

I don’t give a damn if we are going to be late.  This is an epic adventure.

“Lindsey grab the camera.”  She asks, “Where is it?”  “In the chest in front of the console”, I reply.  “Walter, let Mariah have a few minutes with the fish!”  The look in his eye telling me otherwise, he very cooperatively hands her the rod and coaches her as she takes on her first saltwater fish.  A sailfish.  Damn.

“Lindsey take the helm, I'll look for the camera.”  Digging through the box I don’t see it either.  I jump to the front and dig through the starboard storage box.  Nothing.  To the port side…nothing.  My mental checklist starts pounding in my head.   “OH NO!”  “What Dad?”  “My camera is in the truck.”  Impossibly far away.  “Mariah do you have your phone?”  “No.”  Oh crap.  And our phones don’t have cameras.  Looking around I see the next closest boat is more than half mile away.

This epic adventure is not going to be on film.  Nobody is going to believe this.

“Lindsey!  Take over for Mariah.”  I wanted to get my hands on that pole so bad.  But I wanted them to have this experience for themselves as well.   The fish goes deep and starts coming at us.  After a few minutes Lindsey’s arms are tired.  Thank God.

By now the fish is directly below us and is wearing down as I gently crank him in.  We see a flash of his color and that huge sail about fifteen feet down.  At the same time he sees us and with a second wind he stole out another fifty feet of line, ripping it from my reel.  But his energy soon played out and the tired giant came on up and alongside the boat.  This is one beautiful creature.  Walter reaches over and grabs two handfuls of fish, just above the tail and carefully brings him into the boat.  I didn’t want to hurt this fish any more than we already had, so we quickly got the hooks out and admired our catch.  This was a first for us all.  That thin leather-like sail was amazingly flexible.  It could stand straight up and full, or could be pushed down to where it almost laid flat on his back.  His bill was long and sharp.  Even with this weapon at the front he looked amazingly vulnerable as we held him and touched him.  I didn’t have a tape measure long enough to measure or a scale big enough to weigh him.  So I stood up on the bow of the boat and reached up with his tail as high as I could manage.  Doing this, his bill just came up to the top of the deck.  This fish was over six feet long.  I have no idea what he weighed.  50 lbs?  75?  Doesn’t matter.

We got him back over the side quickly.  With Lindsey at the helm and moving us slowly, I held onto his bill and kept him upright as the life giving water eased through his gills giving him air to breath once again.  After about thirty seconds he started to keep up with the boat on this own…I turned loose and he slowly pulled away.  With a flash and a turn, he disappeared into the depths.

We stow our gear and each crack open an ice cold Dr. Pepper in celebration.    Finally I turn the boat towards Port Aransas.  At least I have a good reason to explain why we are late.  I just wish we had a picture to prove it!

Friends, Enemies, and Angry Rattlesnakes

Why is it that rattlesnakes always seem to cross a road perpendicularly?  The many that I have driven up on always seem to be a curiously long stick lying partway across the road, perfectly perpendicular.  Almost always at night, the closer I get the more they become part of a mirage that disappears.  The stick that one moment was in my lane has somehow slid a few feet over into the opposing one.  In that brief moment my mind registers:  “Rattlesnake!”  During the fall and spring, after a sunny warm day and as the night has started cooling the air, the cold blooded rattlesnakes come out of the grass to seek the heat that is being held by the paved roads.  There they lay looking like a stick in your path.

This is how it was an evening in October 1989.  The summer had held on longer than normal and the rattlesnakes had yet to den up.  I was out on a coyote hunt with my best friend Mark Kohler and his Dad, Lawrence.  We had just left a farm near Coupland, TX, home of cotton farmers and the famous Coupland Inn and Dance Hall.   Driving in my old Chevy pickup, Mark was riding shotgun and his Dad was crammed into the half-sized back seat.  Q-Beam spotlights were jammed between our legs with the cords running out the windows to a direct connection on the battery.  Both Mark and I had our favorite coyote rifle within easy reach, barrels pointing down into the floor, the stocks bumping our elbows in the crowded cab.

We turned off of the paved road and onto a gravel county road as the lights lit up an annoying stick in our way.  Simultaneously Mark and I shouted “Rattlesnake!” as a three-footer slid across the road to the right and started to disappear into the grass.  I yanked the wheel hard to the right taking my truck into the bar ditch and slammed on the brakes in attempt to pin the snake under my left front tire.  Coming to a sliding stop, with Mark's Dad hanging on to keep from coming over the seat and ending up impaled on the stick shift, the chalk dust from the gravel road enveloped the truck for a few moments.

Throwing open my door, a spotlight cord wrapped around my left foot, I jumped out.  With its cord ripped from the socket, the spotlight clanged as it bounced across the floor of the truck and hit the gravel useless.  All I could hear was the buzzing of a really angry rattler.  One thing I learned that night.  Mark hates rattlesnakes.  Mark’s Dad REALLY hates rattlesnakes.

With my flashlight in my hands I could see we had the snake pinned between the tire and a thick bed of grass just off the gravel.  The rear six inches of this snake was pointing toward the road, the rattle at the tip buzzing.  The other thirty inches of fanged madness was repeatedly throwing itself at the tire, its mouth wide open, striking at the monster that had it pinned to the ground.  Mark was behind me.  Mark’s Dad was WAY behind me.   All the while the snake was fiercely rattling his tail letting out a buzz like two hot wires in a high voltage short.   I don’t know how the snake managed it, but he  quickly squirmed his way out from under the 5000 lb truck.  He was about to get away.  Umm…I don’t think so.  I wasn’t quite done playing with him.

And I reiterate, Mark was safely behind me with his Dad still WAY behind me.

As I saw the tail just break free, I did the only thing any sane person would do:  I reached down and grabbed a fistful of angry rattles and quickly tossed the rattlesnake back to the center of the road.

Here is where it got REAL exciting.  Mark had exited his position of safety directly behind me and had come to the front of the truck, out of my line of sight, to get a better look.

Who needs enemies when your best friend hits you in the chest with three feet of angry rattlesnake? 

In slow motion it seems, I expertly flicked the snake out from under the truck.  Like a squirming boomerang it flew through the air rotating two and a half times before hitting Mark square in the chest.  I really didn’t know Mark could move that fast.  With flailing hands and high stepping boots, he could have done the 40-yard dash in 4.5 seconds, in reverse.  I guess he thought harsh language would kill it or something because for the next thirty seconds or so it streamed out of Mark’s mouth.  Now that I look back on it, I’m not sure if it was aimed at the snake or me.  I’m guessing it was aimed at me.  Shaken and thinking we had had enough fun for the night, we killed the snake, packed up the broken spotlight, and headed to the house.

During the one-hour trip back to the house, the only thing I remember Mark’s Dad saying was, “Kendall, I can’t believe you threw a live rattlesnake at my Son.”  I’m pretty sure he repeated this several times.   Even though he was grown up and married, Mark’s Mother had forbade him from doing anything with me for the next six months.  This sweet lady, my second Mom, had given me the dreaded stink-eye.  She made it painfully clear.  I would not be putting her son in any sort of imminent danger ever again.

These days I’m not as foolhardy as I was back then.  Sitting in front of the TV with my kids, watching Jeff Corwin on Animal Plant, I grew an appreciation for all things snake and now tend to let them hang around as part of the local ecology.  Now I let the stick slide on across the road.  If its in my yard, I carefully urge it into a container and move it far enough away that I won’t have to worry about seeing it in my yard again.

No more throwing snakes for me.  Besides, I would hate to hear the string of foul language from Mark repeated and definitely do not ever want to see that stink-eye from his Mother again.

Shooting and being shot

Prologue

Summer 1972

That mysterious shiny dark blue Colt .45 sat on the top shelf in the closet, wrapped in a well-oiled gray cloth, and stuffed into a hand tooled leather western-style holster.  He could barely see the edge of the holster just hanging off of the shelf, wedged in-between the stacked shoeboxes and the well-used carry-on suitcase.  Until now it had been unreachable.

He discovered that if he dragged his mother’s vanity seat the ten feet into the closet, climbed up and stood on his tippy-toes, his fingers could just catch the edge of the leather and pull the pistol into his hands.  Finally.  He climbed back down and stood in the dark of the closet with an overwhelming feeling of awe and curiosity.  He had gotten the prize.  He pulled the cloth-wrapped pistol out of the holster and set the holster on the seat.  Then he unwrapped the shiny, beautiful pistol and just stared.  He had seen his father do this so many times.  If you grab the top and pull back, it will break loose and slide on a heavy spring.  It was a hard pull but he managed to pull it back.  As the port opened up he could see a shiny brass bullet sitting on top of the stacked magazine.  Not knowing what to do, he let go, and with a jolt the slide shot forward and the bullet was gone.  Fear immediately pounded in his throat.  Did that bullet go into the barrel?   As he looked at the rear of the gun he could tell that the hammer was sitting in the cocked position.  He knew enough to quickly figure out that this gun was loaded and ready to fire.  He had never fired a gun before and the red flag of danger replaced the awe and curiosity.  He also knew that his father would notice the hammer in a different position and he would be the first blamed, and with that blame would come several licks with a well aimed belt.

Carefully holding the pistol he slipped out the sliding-glass door and into the fenced in backyard.  He understood the danger he was in. Getting down low, he pointed the pistol into the grass, pinched the hammer between his thumb and pointer finger, held tight and pulled the trigger.  Only by the mercy of God did he feel the hammer come free and he somehow found the strength to slowly let it fall.  With a rush of relief he quickly eased back into the house, wrapped the cloth around the pistol, just like it had been, and slipped it back into the holster.  He then climbed onto the vanity seat and pushed the bundle back to the shelf.   Having putting everything back where it belonged he could finally breathe a sigh of relief.  All was good.

October 1972

Alone in his bedroom the former U.S. Army M.P. steps into his closet to check his weapon. His wife was in the kitchen with the iron in one hand pressing a long-sleeve shirt. The telephone was in the crook of her neck, wedged between her shoulder and jaw.  There was gossip to share and she often found ironing was the best time to do it.  The kids were laying on the floor in front of the TV, elbows ground into the shag carpet fibers with two hands supporting each head.  The palms of each hand were on each side of their jaw with fingers going straight up towards their ears.

A deafening blast roared through house.  The iron fell to its side and the phone slowly crashed toward the floor. Before the handset could hit the ground, the M.P.’s twice widowed wife let out a shrieking scream yelling her husband’s name as she ran in terror towards the bedroom.  A barely audible “Honey I’m okay” came from the bedroom closet as the shaken former soldier stood there staring in disbelief at his service arm. The acrid gun smoke permeated the closet.  “How in the hell did that happen?”  he said to himself.  His wife stood there crying while the kids looked on not understanding the emotions of either as the smell of the smoke drifted through the room.

The 200-grain soft-point bullet had punctured the drywall, ripped through a 2X4 stud, exited the wall on the other side, and lodged into the gilded frame of the vanity mirror six feet away. The soldier had NEVER kept a round in the chamber when it was stored at home.

****************

The above story is true.  It happened.  I was there the entire time.

I grew up around guns but was not formerly introduced until I was about 15 or so.  Since then I’ve been shooting the balance of my 48 years.   I have shot, been shot (by #8 bird pellets), shot my best friend with an arrow, and shot my brother-in-law in the chest with a 9mm slug on a ricochet. Fortunately the ricochet ended with a whelp and not a trip to the hospital.  Why anybody would want to do anything with me, that even remotely involves launching a projectile, is a mystery.

Until yesterday I had never participated in any formal shooting training.  Fortunately my Mother had seen fit to let me attend hunter safety training when I was sixteen years old.  I learned to shoot on my own and with a fair amount of assistance from friends and relatives. I received some good advice and some not so good advice.  I’m a pretty handy shot with a rifle or a pistol and I’ve been lucky thus far.  Yet I am also paying the price for my own ignorance and stupidity.

About thirty of us were gathered under some shaded picnic tables early yesterday listening as our instructors discussed the plan for the day.  Our ages ranged from 16 to 75 years.  The lead instructor had each of us give a brief rundown of our shooting history.  As one might expect, we all had different backgrounds and levels of shooting experience.  When it was one of the ladies turn to speak, she admitted that she had never fired a gun before.  “Perfect!” the instructor said.  “You are my favorite kind of student.  We won’t have any bad habits to fix and you will learn how to do this right and safely from the

beginning.” When my turn came up I told them my name, that I had been shooting my entire life, thought I was a pretty good shot, and I probably had a lot of bad habits to fix.  I could tell right off:  I was the kind of student they feared the most.

I took home a lot of knowledge and specifics to work on.  However one of the things they told me really struck a chord.  The lead instructor said that those who have never shot before might go home and never shoot again. They may not like it or just never have another opportunity, but through the training they will have gained a lot.  They will have gained a respect for a handgun’s capability and a great understanding of safety and handling should the occasion ever present itself in the future.

That is why I had to tell the story above.  Until now it had never been told.  Only one person knew the entire story.  Me.

There have been guns in my house all of my adult life.  My kids have grown up around them.  I purposefully did not hide them.  They were usually within fairly easy reach, however ammunition rarely was.  My daughter was about seven years old when she first saw a deer shot and field dressed.  My son was barely able to hold up my twelve-gauge shotgun the first time he went dove hunting with me.  He carried a Daisy Red Ryder.  After the dove hunt I helped him hold up the shotgun as he pulverized some empty coke cans.  My kids understood from an early age how powerful and dangerous a gun can be. We talked about how they are not to be touched and so on.  I knew that my daughter never had fear of firearms, yet always carried a great respect for them.  I was also confident my son was the same way.  As I was thinking of writing this today, I decided to call him while on his trip with the Texas Aggie Wranglers to Washington D.C.  I wanted to know if he had ever had an experience like I did as described in the story above.  I told him the statute of limitations was in effect and no answer was wrong.  His answer was “No Dad.  Why would I ever have to sneak around?  You took away all of the mystery and I never had to wonder.  I got to pretty much shoot anytime I wanted anyway.”  I said, “Even to just look at them, play with them, or anything?”  He assured me  “Nope.  We also learned some things in school, and definitely in Boy Scouts, about staying away from guns without proper supervision.”  I told him that was what I had hoped to hear.  That maybe that was one of the things I had done right as a parent.  “Dad, I would say you did it right.”

Could I have done better?  Definitely. Would I do things differently If I could get a re-do on my history of the use of firearms? Absolutely.  The ringing in my ears is a ready reminder as is the loss of hearing in most of the upper frequencies of my left ear.  It makes having conversations in a noisy room extremely uncomfortable and difficult.  My advice here: Don't be stupid enough to be tough enough - protect your eyes and ears.  And as I learned in the class, take safety to the extreme every moment. Nine out of ten times you might be able to back out of the garage without checking behind you first. But the tenth time there just may be a bicycle lying there.

So if you, the reader, can take away anything from this blog, it is that you will take the time to expose yourself, your children, or your grandchildren, to some good firearms training.  Take away the mystery for young people so they won’t have to ever wonder as I did forty something years ago.  Even though you may hate them or fear them, firearms are here and always will be. Enroll in a class somewhere - you will come away with an entirely new perspective.

Be safe!

Into the wind!

Acknowledgements and Prologue

Thanks to my son Walter for his input on this blog.  As he was proofing this last night we discussed how challenging it is to attempt to put on paper the excitement and intricacies of sailing a Hobie Cat.   One can get technical in sailing terms so quick as to possibly have the non-sailing reader glaze over.  My hope is that this blog will put you on the water, with the wind rushing in your face, and feeling the ‘pop’ of the sails as you turn away from the eye of the wind.  Walter and my daughter Lindsey are my sailing partners and have both experienced and learned with me the art of flying a hull one moment, and getting thrashed by an unforgiving craft the next.

Why do I write this stuff?  Mainly for them.    It’s a way for me to record my joys and thoughts and experiences so they can look back later and remember as well.  It is also for me, as it is something I’ve just wanted to do for a while. 

I appreciate the feedback you have given me thus far.  If by some chance you read this, and I don’t know who you are, please let me know, and don’t hesitate to give it a thumbs up…or a thumbs down.

So grab your life jacket.  You will be needing it….

Into the Wind!

There is just something about screaming across the water on twin fiberglass hulls with sails filled to the breaking point by a stiff Gulf breeze that just makes my day.

For me flying a Hobie 18 Catamaran is my extreme sport.    The only thing better than flying the Hobie on Lake Travis, is flying the Hobie out of the Port Aransas, TX surf and into the swells of the Gulf of Mexico.

The Hobie 18, built from the late 70’s through the mid 80’s, is all engine.  The “engine” on a Hobie 18 is 215 sq ft of sails supported by a 28’ aluminum mast.  This mast sits atop twin 18’ fiberglass hulls sitting 8’ apart.   Our Hobie is the “Magnum Version” which is outfitted with “wings” that sit about two feet above the hulls and extend out over the water about two feet.  These provide a comfortable seat and a place to stand as you fly. Total weight the craft:  400lbs.  The hulls are very thin and literally slice through the water with little drag.  Just the slightest puff of air will turn this boat from a raft to a surprisingly quick ride.

When the sails on the Hobie find their shape in the wind, and the pilot has everything adjusted just right, the hulls start slicing through the water.  The daggers, protruding down from each hull into the water prevent the boat from slipping sideways; literally allowing the wind and the water to squeeze the boat forward.  As she comes to speed you hear and feel the rising vibration of the daggers as they cut through the water.  The vibrations increase and you, sitting on the windward hull, start feeling the lift of your hull as the boat heels over to the leeward side.  You can feel the tension on the entire boat as the stay (wire) that supports the mast on the windward side tightens up like a banjo string and the song of the boat seems to hit a whole new octave.  The blocks that hold the lines for the sails seem to reach the breaking point.  You are constantly watching the tell-tales on the sails and the wind indicator as you adjust the lines, allowing the sails to keep that perfect shape as a wing in the wind so as to pull the boat forward.  As you build up towards top speed the vibrations cease and all you hear is the water rushing past the back of the hulls and the wind screaming past your ears.

As you get your angle into the wind just right and that hull continues to rise, you clip yourself in to the trapeze wire attached to the top of the mast.  You lean out, keeping steady pressure on your trapeze line,  ease your feet up to the edge of the wing, stand up, and “hang out”.   With your butt now at least five feet above the surface of the water rushing by, the only thing keeping you from falling off and being left behind is that one wire.  You eventually learn to trust that wire; however it takes courage the first few times.

The lift you get as the hull comes all the way out of the water is incredible.  Before you know it the hull is all the way out and just the tip of the dagger is slicing across the surface of the water like the dorsal fin of an inverted shark.  You are hiked out on a parallel plane with the tops of the hulls which puts your head about eight feet above the surface of the water.   With the lines coming out of one hand like the reins to a pair of mustangs pulling a runaway wagon, and the tiller in the other hand, you are one unexpected gust of wind away from disaster.  Disaster can be as simple as a blow-over when you mistakenly turn away from the wind.  Or it can be as dangerous as when the tip of the leeward hull (the hull on the downwind side, the one in the water), digs into the water and 18’ of fiberglass screaming at 20 knots cartwheels to a sudden stop.  The top of the 28’ foot tall mast slams into the surface of the water.  You, on the other end of the trapeze, become an out of control ragdoll at the end of a tetherball line.  As you fly forward, the boat has almost stopped, and you brace for impact watching for the hulls and stays.  If you are lucky you end up in the cushion of the jib.  The unlucky end up crashing into the forward part of the hull.  In-between are a maze of lines and wires waiting to catch you like a clothesline.  Is this fun?  Oh yeah!

Fortunately the sailor learns from these mistakes and in the future adjusts the sails correctly to keep the tip of the leeward hull from going under and digging in like a shovel.

When you head to the beach you quickly understand what sailors mean when they say the Hobie 18 is the ultimate “Beach Cat”.  The beach, the surf, and the swells of the Gulf of Mexico are where this baby shines.  One would think that skipping across the tops of 3’-5’ swells in the Gulf would be a terrifying ride.  But with an eight foot beam and 18 feet of length to bridge across peaks of the swells, the ride is amazingly smooth.  As the aft end of one hull leaves the peak of a swell, the fore end of the opposing hull has already engaged the next swell – creating a delicate balance.  Occasionally you catch a swell just right and the entire 18 feet launch off the liquid ramp and gets airborne.  As you hang out on the trapeze and the hulls gently drop down into the bottom of the swells, you get a cooling splash of water as the tops of the adjacent swells rush by and try to knock you off the wing.

Launching off of the beach through a crashing surf, and then flying through the five-mile run from the jetties at Port Aransas to the grouping of condos half way to Corpus Christi is one of the most exhilarating things I have ever done.  It is never dull, always exciting, and forever inviting.

Here’s to Happy Sailing!

Strings

Have you ever wondered why a guitar has six strings?  I remember Steve Martin years ago doing a comedy skit with his guitar.  He looked at the instrument hanging from the strap around his neck and said something like:  “oh crap, what are all these strings for?”  At the time, I had no idea of Steve’s musical abilities.

I always thought a guitar should have just one string.  That way my simple one dimensional mind could just make music with the thumb on my right hand, and my pointer finger on the left.  Simple.  Whoever thought up the idea of putting five more strings on it was either a real comedian or was really into torturing people like me.

My Dad and his closest friends were REAL musicians.  About the same time in my life that I was screaming about Kiddie Parks and the Zilker Train, our home would regularly become the gathering place for the likes of the Hill Brothers - Ed and Pooch, Raymond Lucky, and my Uncle CD.  Somebody would get on the Baby Grand and invariably a jam session would ensue.  Right there in our living room.  I am really sorry you missed it.

Dad made it look so easy.  He would slide a pick onto each finger of his right hand and start picking while his left hand would morph into a series of unimaginable configurations.  Music would burst from the guitar and flood into every corner of the room, leaving no space unfilled.  I once asked him why it was so easy for him.  Silly me.  He answer was “Eight hours of practice a day.  That’s all I did for a long time, before and after work.”  Now that is patience and determination.

So today as I stand at the bar in the kitchen, with a tired old strap draped around my neck supporting a vintage Gibson Electric, I hope Dad wouldn’t be too disappointed at my efforts of trying to work out the riffs on an old Charley Patton blues song. 

Okay. 3^rd string from the bottom, 2^nd fret.  2^nd string – 1^st fret. 

Isn’t there a way to do this with just one string?

Definitions

It is curious to me how sometimes we come about the definition of words and phrases.  As slobbering young people our brains try to relate how others reference an object or circumstance and apply it in future communications.  We had to learn words by being immersed in the language.  It is amazing to me how some of those childhood memories somehow manage to stick in my head, only to be retrieved on the odd occasion. 

I grew up in Austin within a stone’s throw of the intersection of Barton Springs Road and South Lamar Blvd.   This little intersection was the best place in the World.  Within walking distance was Sandy's Frozen Custard, the bowling alley, (now Bicycle Sport Shop), the roller skating rink, (which became the Armadillo World Headquarters), and Put-Put Golf.  However the biggest attraction for me, and any kid fortunate enough to grow up in the area, was the Mini Carnival.  I am sure it had a real name back then, but to me it was THE place.  The Carnival had the tallest and most amazing Ferris Wheel - it must have towered fifteen feet.  The Shetland Ponies stomped impatiently as they awaited my arrival, and the little wooden boats floated in still waters, ready to deliver me to my next adventure.  Long ago Jack in the Box desecrated this little slice of paradise sending the ponies to pasture, the boats to the bone yard, and the Ferris Wheel to wherever kids memories are kept.

In the 1960s Mopac Expressway/Loop 1 did not yet exist.   From our house, which was in-between Westlake Hills and Rollingwood, the closest grocery store was Kash-n-Karry grocery.  It was one block North of Barton Springs Rd on South Lamar.  We traveled Bee Cave Rd to Barton Springs to S. Lamar daily in route to the grocery store and most other places in the Universe it seems.  But I digress.

The words?  “Maybe” and “I doubt it”.

“Mom can we stop at The Carnival after we leave the store?”

“Maybe.”

In my young impressionable years this one word held the slightest ray of hope. Like a single tired rose on a withering bush, it gave a splash of color to a grey world.  Yet, inevitably, the last petal would land with a deafening crash as we departed the grocery store and Mom would fail to make the turn into heaven.  We would continue home with the meaning of “maybe” answering the question about a pig's ability to fly.

“Mom can we stop at The Carnival after we leave the store?”

“I doubt it.”

Early on “I doubt it” failed to click with me.  I understood “No” really well, but I could not hear a “no” in “I doubt it”. 

It did not take long to learn that “I doubt it” held zero hope.  I guess Mom had learned that if she said “no” then I would soon be clawing at the glass with bloody fingers while dirty tears streamed down my face as I screamed something unintelligible about the injustice being served a perfect child with an abusive Mom denying an Angel his basic necessity in life.   “I doubt it” postponed the inevitable for a while.  Perhaps Mom could make it to Zilker Park where I could focus on the next best thing, the train.

By then I would have surely forgotten the Ferris Wheel.  Maybe.  But I doubt it.