Quite a few folks around these parts are fishermen. In fact, I suspect that a good many of these folks are great fishermen. I am not, but it isn’t because I haven’t tried.
In my mind, fishing seems somehow tied in with birthdays. I know this may seem strange, but then, who can explain the workings of a demented mind?
When I turned eight years old, my Dad rousted me out of bed before the sun was even close to the eastern horizon and announced that we were going fishing with my Uncle Homer, who was visiting us at our home in Florida. Fishing wasn’t exactly how I wanted to celebrate my birthday, let alone getting out of bed at an hour that would make a rooster cranky. Arguing with my Dad about such a turn of events, however, would not only have been in bad form, it would have been futile.
We headed down to Lemon Bay, just south of where we lived, and walked out onto a rickety old bridge that had long ago seen its best days. We put our lines out in the water and commenced to fishing in earnest. My Dad and my uncle were hauling in the fish one after another. As soon as their lines hit the water, their rods were bent double and the line whined as they began to reel in their catch. I, on the other hand, didn’t get a nibble.
After about an hour of this I figured I was doing something wrong. I asked my Uncle Homer what was going on. How was it that he had already reeled in 10 fish and I didn’t have a bite? Mulling my question over for a few minutes, Uncle Homer issued forth with an answer that is of stereotypical proportions in fishing lore.
“Well, you’re just not holding your mouth right.”
My uncle’s answer only baffled me more. Keep in mind I was only eight-years-old and it never occurred to me that Uncle Homer might be messing around with my head. I asked for clarification and got it.
“Well, we’re fishing in salt water. Up in Alabama I am used to fishing in fresh water. One thing I’ve learned is that if you want to catch fish in salt water, you’ve got to hold your mouth differently than you do when fishing in fresh water.”
Uncle Homer went on to demonstrate several ways to hold your mouth, ways that were designed to increase your chances of landing a big one a hundred fold. I experimented with my uncle’s facial contortions but still had little success.
Fast forward to my 30th birthday. My friend Mike said he had a surprise for me and he wasn’t kidding. He showed up at my house at 4:30 AM with my birthday present, a new fly rod. Fancy that. On a good day I have trouble tying my shoes. The finesse required to handle a fly rod was totally beyond my meager talents.
Mike announced that we were going fishing and so we did. He drove down south of Decatur to Flint Creek. My only experience with Flint Creek had been a couple of years before when I fell out of a canoe in December. I was chilled for days.
Mike had a ten-foot flat bottom boat that was powered by nothing but oars, sweat and Ben Gay. We put the boat in the water and off we went. After about an hour we had caught nothing and I was trying hard to remember what Uncle Homer had said about how to hold your mouth while fishing in fresh water. That’s when the first bit of bad luck hit.
We were drifting backwards with the current. For some reason I turned around and thank God I did. We were headed for an old pine tree that had fallen into the water. I saw movement on the tree and my breath left me when I discovered the source of that movement. About 10 Cotton Mouths were slithering about, sunning themselves in the early light of that languid morning. Not knowing whether or not I was holding my mouth right for being bit by a poisonous snake, I did the only logical thing considering the circumstances. I screamed at the top of my lungs.
We began paddling hard but there were a few moments, it seemed like an eternity, when we kept drifting backwards toward that tree full of snakes. My adrenal glands worked overtime as I realized I was but a stone’s throw from the mouth of Hell.
Fortunately, we managed to escape a collision with the fallen tree. That’s when the second disaster struck.
It would seem that my snake-induced scream attracted the attention of a game warden who just happened to be in the area, doing God knows what. He stood on the bank and motioned us over. To make a long story short, we were ticketed for not wearing personal flotation devices and were taken down to Hartselle to pay our fines. We sat in front of the house of a Justice of the Peace for three hours, waiting for him to get home. He showed up in a pickup truck, carrying a string of fish. I guess he knew how to hold his mouth.
The game warden took us back to our boat but we were not allowed to get in it. We had to carry the thing two miles, all the way back to Mike’s truck. I figured this birthday couldn’t get much worse.
That’s when the thunderstorm hit.
At six o’clock that evening, we finally made it home. As we walked through the door of Mike’s house, dripping wet and frustrated, about forty people jumped out of the woodwork, yelling “Surprise.” On top of all this I was about to have a birthday party.
At least I held my mouth right for something.