Naked and Angry

“What the F*%&!” was what I heard today when I barged in on a naked guy in his office in a small manufacturing warehouse near South Lamar and Oltorf, in the heart of South Austin today.

Searching for a Power Take Off (PTO) bushing that belongs to a 1973 Ford 3000 tractor had taken my brother and I on a trip around the Internet, Burnet, Marble Falls with no luck.  Finally Cindy and I go to South Austin Machine Shop in hopes of finding someone who could repair ours or build another one.  The burly guys in the office on Friday afternoon all shook their heads and said I needed to go to Apollo’s Machine Shop down the road.  He had the equipment to do it.  “Go down past the light, turn left on the next street and it’ll be down there on the right”.  Easy enough.

So Cindy and I jump back in the crazy traffic on South Lamar in search of Apollo.  Turning left, we drive down the street passing several warehouse/office looking buildings, but no Apollo anything.   Seeing a fabrication sign, and some metal work and a welder near an open shop door, we pull up, and I go in to ask if he knows of Apollo’s Machine Shop or anything.  Going through a wide open garage door into a dirty machine shop looking area, with a car engine in rebuild and a variety of welders and other grimy looking tools, I see somebody turn into what appeared to be an office.  I walked the roughly 30 feet to the back, winding around a big welder and say “hello” and poke my head into the office.

He had just shucked his clothes.  

The look on his face was priceless as he was scrambling for his fresh change of clothes.  I popped back out REAL FAST, as he exclaimed “WHAT THE F&%#!”  I laughed and said “Dude put some clothes on!” and backed up even further because I needed to give this guy some room.  Due to his shouting, it appeared he was coming unglued.  He comes out in jeans, pulling on a shirt.  “What the hell are you doing in here?” 

“Umm, I was looking for some guy named Apollo or a machine shop of the same name?  I heard it was on the street in this area” I said sheepishly.

“DID YOU SEEN MY SIGN?  DOES IT SAY APOLLO?!” (he really was yelling).

“Umm, no.  It didn’t. “

“THEN WHY DID YOU COME IN HERE?”

“Umm, I was hoping that maybe you could just point me the right direction”.

“Man its not even in this building.  Not even on this property!  They even have a sign on their door too.  You know what it says?  APOLLO!” 

At this point, I was grinning.  I was biting my tongue to not egg him on, he was SO mad.   I was one slip of the tongue away from saying, “Man, you really are an a$$-hole aren’t you.  But he ducked back into his office to grab his shoes.   

“Hey did you say it’s further down the street on the right?”

He comes back out of his office, incredulous that I’m still standing in his shop.  “Look, I would be in a better frame of mind if I hadn’t just gotten back from a six hour drive.  And been f-ing naked.” 

I still grinned… this guy was so pissed I couldn’t get angry myself.  Did he not realize he was right off a main road, with a sign on his door, his shop wide open, his office wide open, and he’s naked.  I was just as shocked as he was. 

“Okay, further down on the right, another building and property.  Thanks for your help!  Hey and sorry about the whole barging in thing.”  And I left, laughing all the way to the car.  The guys at Apollo were very nice in contrast.  The manager found the part I needed on-line, printed out an order form for it, and said it would be cheaper for me to order it than for him to make it. 

When I drove past the naked guy’s shop, his garage door was pulled almost closed.  I think he wanted his privacy.  This incident made the search for the broken part worth ALL the trouble!

Lost in a Red Brick Forest

“Why in the hell doesn’t this map have a ‘you are here’ on it?”  I grumbled today as I’m trying to hold on to a tri-fold paper map of the Baylor University campus in the blistering hot humid winds.  I was so confused.

It reminded me of the first time I was in downtown Chicago.  I felt like such a Hick standing on a street corner way back then gazing in awe at the height of the structures.  I wondered how anyone could tell directions when the sun was completely blotted out by the buildings.

So today, during freshman orientation, I found myself in the same position.  A Hick, a little older and a little wiser, but still a Hick.  I stood there on a street corner in my walking shorts, white socks, tennis shoes, and printed Academy fish shirt.  My Oakley “Flak Jackets” helped hide my confusion as I stood there in a forest of beautiful old red brick buildings.  As I spun around I noted the majestic oak trees and the huge pecans.  Everything was beautiful and clean – and looked exactly the same.  But like the big city, the buildings and the trees blocked the sun at times, providing some shaded relief.  The only indication of North from South was the wind, which has haunted us everyday it seems since March.

“Didn’t we park in that parking garage?”

“No Dad, that’s on the other side of campus.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.  We’ve walked past this spot 30 times today.”

Of course we had.  I knew that.  I was just testing her. 

Plop me down in the woods anywhere and I can find my way out.  But if you plop me down in the middle of the Baylor Campus please leave me with a survival kit because I’m going to be hungry and thirsty before I find my way out.  Not that it is really all that big.  But it is just confusing to me.  The buildings are all just beautiful.  And red.  And brick.  Grand oak trees that provide beautiful cooling shade surround every building.  They also block the names of the buildings.

But I had a map.  Not that it helped much.  I must be getting color blind as well as far-sighted.  Either that or my arms are getting shorter.  The map provided is a 3-D version that makes it useful from really only one direction.  When I look at a map, I like to turn it to a position relative to the direction I’m facing.  When a 3-D map gets upside down, well, the buildings are, upside down.  So there I stood, holding the map out, turning, referencing, reaching for my trusty boy scout compass...

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to figure out where we are.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I just feel more secure knowing where I am I guess.”

“Dad, we’re right here” (Thumping on the map.)

“Oh.  Is that our parking garage?”

“Yes.”

“Right.  I knew that.  I bet you don’t know what floor we parked on?”

She did.  She took us right to the car.  Thank God.

Don’t they make a phone app for people like me?

Things your Retail Manager really wants to tell you...

I know this may make me sound old, (I’m not), but I enjoy Reader’s Digest magazine.  Occasionally they come out with a story with the title “Things your (insert professional title) won’t tell you”.  I usually find those stories pretty entertaining, because the (insert professional title) is usually calling us all idiots. 

I keep waiting for the “Things your Retail Manager won’t tell you” article.  My most recent profession was a Retail Manager.  It was by far, of all my jobs, the most challenging physically and mentally.  It was also very rewarding because I grew so much in my abilities to deal with a wide variety of people in all directions, (customers, peers, employees, upper management,  corporate, buyers, suppliers, truckers, fire fighters (yes, fire fighters), vendors, etc.).  You either learn to juggle the knives or they’ll slice you up.

Rather than wait for Reader’s Digest to write the story, here is my own list of Things your Retail Manager won’t tell you”.  My title is a bit different:

“Things your Retail Manager really wants to tell you.”

The customer is not always right.

What is it about walking into a store that turns a customer into a complete monster?

“Excuse me, but this newspaper ad says this grill is thirty cents.  I’ll take two please, and I want free delivery.  This afternoon.  And if you don’t do it I’m calling corporate, and my attorney, is on his way, and he is a deceptive trade practice specialist.”

What the manager wants to say:  “Baaaaaaaahaaaaaahaaaaa.  You’re an idiot.  That is a tiny spec of stray ink from the printer that makes $300.00 look like $.300  Umm…No.”

When a scratch is not really a scratch

“Yes, um, your delivery person delivered this washer and dryer set today.  And after they left I found a scratch on the side.  Please just credit my account for 50% off for my trouble.”

Manager:  “How big is the scratch?”

“Huge.  Maybe half an inch.  If you hold the flashlight just right you can see it glaring like an infected wound right there in the very back by the hose.  It’s just a tragedy.  My cat won’t eat and my husband is so mad he can’t see straight.  He wants to just bring it all back.”

Manager:  “Oh, looking at your receipt I see that you bought this for 25% off on clearance.  As is.  Nice try.  No.”

***

I was at the register at Cabela’s recently, after a shopping spree, and heard a raised voice two lines over:  “But I was told that since I'm a military veteran you would give me 10% off on my entire purchase.”  He was really trying to make a scene, projecting his voice, feigning a heart attack, hand on his chest, pointing as his basket full of stuff, jumping up and down, threatening to call somebody, demanding the manager.  I was so proud of the manager.  “Um…No.” 

(Not that I have anything against veterans, this person was just trying to be ugly, take advantage, making a scene and hoped the veteran card would work for him.)

***

Don’t make my cashiers cry

Some customers are sure that if they bully enough people, they’ll get the discount they “deserve”.  That mean, big box corporate retail representative, (my 18 year old cashier), you just made cry?  She is trying to raise a family working two part time jobs.  Its not her fault a stray speck of ink landed on the ad and made it appear we are giving that grill away for thirty cents.  If you make my cashier cry, you will not get your way.  Go shop somewhere else.

We do not rent tools

If you need a power tool for a day, go rent it.  Don’t buy it today and bring it back tomorrow and tell me that it just wasn’t what you needed.  Yes it was.  It was what you needed for a day.  I can see right through your story.

If you want a good deal, be nice.

Want to win me over and get a deal?  Smile.  We deal with so much controversy and so many people who feign heart attacks over a minor scratch, that a smile and a kind word makes a HUGE difference and gets you much better service and just might get you a better deal.

Don’t abuse the privilege

Just because I gave you a good deal on a damaged item last week, doesn’t give you carte blanche authority to come in here this week and search my shelves for scratches and expect me to follow you around and give you good deals.  The more I see you the more I start to duck you.

I get three to five requests for donations a day

I really wish we could sponsor that $5000 hole for your golf tournament, or provide you with a nice power tool for your silent auction, or (name your need).  However our budget for charitable cause donations is extremely small and completely out of my hands.  If I say “no” it doesn’t mean I don’t care, it just means I can’t.

Do you request a 10% discount at the grocery store?

Our gross margin is thin, and net margin is like a razor’s edge.  I’m not going to go in the hole on your purchase.  So stop asking.

***

So BE NICE to that cashier.  She might just be a senior in high school trying to graduate or a new Mother who just left her baby in day care for the first time, or he might just be a retired veteran who last month was dodging IEDs in Afghanistan, and they’re all just trying to make ends meet.

And thank you for shopping!

Shopping Hell: Pumps or Heels?

I’m a terrible shopper…a great buyer mind you but a terrible shopper.  When I go to any store, I’m the guy on a B line through the store right to my target.  I can be in and out of HEB before most people can find a parking spot up close.   However my shopping capabilities increase exponentially if I’m in Academy Sports & Outdoors within 200’ of the guns, ammo, and fishing counter.  There I can spend some serious time.  I also tend to be a pretty good shopper at Cabela’s.   There I usually start off on a buying trip that morphs into a shopping spree spending lots of time and too much money.  And what trip to Cabela’s is complete without a stroll through the aquarium?

“Dad, I need shoes that go with my dress for graduation.”

“Aren’t they all covered up by the gown anyway? “ I naively ask.

Here comes the stare.

“And wait, didn’t you just get a pair of heels for that same dress?”  I further wade into shopping hell.

“Dad, those were pumps.”

“Why can’t you just wear those?”

“I need heels, Dad, that make a statement.” she stared.

“Didn’t you just get ‘heels’ for prom?” I say, feeling a spark of debate coming on.

“Dad, those were for the maroon dress.  This dress is teal.”  She says as if I am a complete idiot.

And as you can imagine, there is no way I can win this debate.   If I am the King of the stare down, Lindsey is the Queen.  However she is the winner-take-all of getting the last word.  In fact the last word usually ends with me in a trance nodding my head saying “yes princess, I will transfer money from my retirement savings to your checking account so you can have the shoes you can’t possibly walk across the graduation stage without…” Of course, she only graduates from High School once, so how can I possibly refuse?

How many pairs of shoes must one teenage girl own?  Shouldn’t there be an area in the store labeled “these shoes only work once therefore they are really inexpensive”?  The life expectancy for any given pair of heels is one engagement anyway…right?   Then they’ll sit in the dust-covered box in the darkest corner of the closet for two years.  After which they’ll end up at the Goodwill store selling for $3.99, originally $79.99.  What a deal.  “Only worn once” the tag reads.

Compare that to fishing rods.  How many pairs of shoes do you have that belonged to your grandfather?    Who would want his nasty stinking work boots anyway?  But fishing rods?  Now that’s art.  While a brand new Shimano may be what is attached to my favorite composite poppin’ rod, it’s the stack of old fiberglass and bamboo rods that sit front and center in the man-cave. 

How many women have their old shoes on display where they can sit with a beer and recall fond stories of that date with young Jeremy?

Old shoes get retired to Goodwill.  Old rods get retired to the man-cave.   So now when your buddies come over they can ooh and ahh over your collection and immediately a story of dad or grandpa comes out.  Eventually you’ll find yourself admiring an old tackle box full of retired lures and an antique rapala fillet knife.  So if you have a story to swap and want to sort through some old rods, come to the man-cave.

In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be at Kohl’s waiting while the wife finds that perfect dress for this occasion.  And I’ll be minding my manners.  “Yes Dear, that length is perfect for you.  Don’t you think a nice new pair of suede flats in a complementing color would be appropriate?”

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!