Just another day at the lake for Andy!
The 31st Short Story
Fishing Follies, Part 1: An Alligator's Revenge
"Fishing Follies, Part 1: An Alligator's Revenge"
ANDY'S LESSONS FROM LIFE
My 31st Short Story
Thank you so much for continuing to enjoy my short stories. Like so many others, this one turned out to be longer than anticipated. It's hard to wrap up oodles of fishing tales in anything shorter!
"Fishing Follies, Part 1: An Alligator's Revenge"
“Murphy’s Law is always in play even while fishing.”
--Andy Skrzynski
I never met Murphy and knew next to nothing about the fellow, but he sure loved to play havoc during my entire life. One thing is certain, he must have hated fishing.
On most occasions, this wonderful hobby was a blast, but life wouldn’t be true to its nature without throwing a monkey wrench into the works from time to time. When you’ve been casting and reeling for more than 50 years, those follies have added up to a boatful of fond and a few not-so-fond memories.
Lake Austin was one of my favorite spots to fish after sampling many of the lakes, not far from where Bonnie and I lived in the northern part of Austin, Texas. Lake Travis was much more impressive in size and beauty, while also offering oodles of fishing opportunities. However, since Lake Austin was smaller, it seemed more peaceful with far less aggravation from jet skis, buzzing near my preferred fishing holes.
The massive floodgates of Mansfield Dam often unleashed torrential streams from the bottom of Lake Travis. The gushing, fresh water provided plenty of bait to fatten the largemouth bass in Lake Austin.
Most times, when I fished this particular lake on the Colorado River, I often drifted my aluminum bass boat with the current, along the edge of expansive, underwater weed beds. The luscious vegetative paradise provided a haven for bass to sneak up and ambush unwary prey which swam too close to the shadows, where the bigger predator fish lurked.
I typically took advantage of the Carolina rig as my preferred method of inducing a strike from these magnificent bass. The heavy, egg-shaped weight dragged along the muddy river bottom, while allowing my seductive plastic lure to float merrily along on a two-foot leader of fishing line.
Typically, I used a watermelon/red-flake worm or brush hog for the artificial lure. To improve my chances of landing a big lunker, I often spiked the swimmy tails with a bright chartreuse tint and an irresistible, scented mixture to entice the finned beasts.
The allure of the garlic/shad oil in the concoction drove the bass crazy, leaving them no choice but to aggressively chomp my offering and cling to the lure throughout its ride back to the boat and into my net. I’d regularly catch a few 2 to 3-pounders, and an occasional 4 to 5-pounder during each outing.
Early, one particular morning, before the sun had risen, I towed my tan Skeeter boat, with a modest Yamaha 130 horsepower engine, to the ramp I typically used to fish Lake Austin. After removing the cover, I transferred my gear from the back of my Chevy pickup to the deck of my boat.
I slowly backed the trailer down the sloped concrete until the boat was positioned just so -- ready for me to release it off the carpeted rails. Smiling big, I couldn't contain my giddiness. I'm gonna catch that eight-pounder today. I know it!
A couple of seconds after the backend of the boat slid into the lake, a strong stream of water shot four feet high from an opening in the transom of the boat. My eyes grew large. Why’s the bilge pump running?
A shot of adrenaline rushed through my veins. Oh no! Water must be getting into the boat. Quickly lifting the door to the bilge area, I retraced my steps when preparing to launch the boat. It can’t be the plug. I remember putting it in!
My mind raced as water gushed from the plastic bilge pump, filling the bottom of the boat. What on Earth? I quickly knelt down and inspected the damage. Crap! How did that happen?
Water gushed from a crack in the input duct where the hose connected. I closed my eyes. It’s too close to the pump housing. It can’t be fixed. Madder than a hornet, I yelled, “Son of a @#%!” I’ve got to get this out of the water fast!
I rushed to the front of the boat and swung my leg over and down toward the frame of the trailer. As soon as my foot hit the wet, metal rail, the rubber soles of my tennis shoes slipped. Losing my balance, I reached out to grab the edge of the boat, but I could not prevent my fall.
The force of my tumble into the cold waters almost yanked my shoulder out of its socket. I hollered, “Ahhh!”
A sharp pain shot down my arm. Soaking wet, I scrambled to my feet and almost fell again as my shoes slipped on the mossy ramp.
As quick as possible, I jumped into the truck, put it into gear, and pulled the boat out of the water. My dreams of catching a lunker that day vanished.
While transferring some of the looser fishing gear back into my pickup, I was furious as the pain in my shoulder screamed at me. On the way back home, I kept thinking, Why me?
Precious moments for my favorite hobbies were quite limited and now this. What a waste of a day!
Most of my time was consumed by working 45 to 60 hours a week at IBM. I also shared other responsibilities with Bonnie, including chauffeuring the kids to their sporting activities and catching up with the yard work and other chores from my lovely wife’s to-do list.
I reached for the knob on the radio. “Ow!” My right shoulder made sure I understood there was to no more stretching any time soon.
As I barreled down the highway with the boat in tow, a nagging thought kept hammering my head. Bad things usually come in threes. I had heard that claim from family and friends for years, but rarely paid much heed to such a superstition.
Wouldn’t you know. While speeding down a steep hill on Bee Caves Road, a deafening screech pierced my ears. I growled, “What now!”
The high-pitched shrill blasted my eardrums so bad that I pressed the brakes and slowed the truck. The terrible noise didn’t let up one bit. Where is that horrible sound coming from?
My imagination shifted into overdrive. It must be the engine. No, maybe it's the bearings of the trailer wheels! None of the problems rushing through my mind were things you’d wish upon anybody, but your worst enemy.
Leaning to the left, right, back and forward, I tried to decide which direction it was coming from. The racket didn’t seem to change. Then, I lifted my left arm to the top of the steering wheel, and the screech got louder. What? No way!
I moved my left wrist closer to my ear. “Ahhh! That’s it!” My watch sounded worse than the squealing brakes of a semi-truck. I must have hit it when I fell, or maybe water got into it.
With one eye on the road and the other peeking at the battery-operated watch, while I pressed every button on the stupid thing, I finally gave up. Nothing I tried would halt the blare, ripping through my ears and pounding in my head. I’ve got to stop this!
Frustrated to the hilt, I depressed the button on the door's armrest, and the passenger window lowered. Still traveling at 55 mph down the highway, I flung that crazy watch out over the ditch and into a cluster of cedar trees.
I sighed as my ears thanked me. By the time I got home, I wanted to crawl under a rock and never come out. My wife must have heard me drive up and met me at the door. “What happened? Why are you back so soon?”
With my shoulder killing me, a chill settling in from my wet clothes, and my ears barely able to hear a thing, I lowered my head. “Don’t ask.”
Fortunately, not all fishing adventures ended so badly or with so much pain, but I began to pay more heed to that crazy superstition about bad things coming in threes. A few years later, when I had more time on my hands, I joined a fishing club in Austin.
At the beginning of the year, we all voted on which Texas lake we’d like to fish a tournament on each month. We changed the locations each month, so we could enjoy the greatest sampling of the different parks around the state.
On this particular weekend in August, we had chosen Choke Canyon Reservoir, south of San Antonio. Of course, being that it wasn’t really that far from the Mexican border, it was going to be a scorcher.
My partner, Rick, and I remained hopeful at the start of the tournament and zigzagged all over the lake. We sampled several coves and points while trying to locate some bass. After a futile couple of hours without so much as a nibble, our optimism waned.
It’s one thing not to catch a fish, but it’s another whole world of frustration when the sun is toasting you to a crisp. Nonetheless, we bit the bullet and kept casting and reeling.
Nothing we tried worked. I only brought five rods with me, which was nothing compared to the dozen my partner always lugged on each trip.
We must have tied at least 30 different kinds of lures and rigs, trying our darndest to entice anything at all. The two of us might as well have been pitching our lures into a toilet for all the luck we mustered.
I hated being bored, and at that moment, I was about as tired of trying to catch some stupid ole fish as I could possibly be. About that time, my “gotta have some fun” urge kicked in.
I wracked my brain, trying to think of opportunities for more pleasure than we had experienced up to that point. Suddenly, something caught the corner of my eye. It was the slightest movement, but when I turned and stared across that area, everything remained at a dead still.
Continuing to scan the surface, I finally spotted something intriguing. Two bulging eyes barely floated along the top of the water. Aha! There you are!
Figuring my next move, I turned toward my buddy and pointed. “Hey, take us toward that stump.”
“Why? There ain’t no fish over there. We tried that area earlier.”
A sly grin escaped me. “Just do as I say. You’ll see.”
Reluctantly, he turned the trolling motor in that direction and slowly approached the shallow area while grumbling to himself. Halfway there, I whispered, “Stop it here.”
By then, suspicion was written all over Rick’s face. “What are you up to?”
“If we can’t catch fish, we’re going to have some fun, one way or another.” I motioned in the direction of my target. “Look over there. Do you see those eyes sticking up out of the water?”
He peered across the glistening ripples. “I don’t see anything, but that stump. What are you talking about?”
“Look closer to the left. Those are gator eyes.”
Squinting, he leaned forward. “Naw, those are just stick-ups poking out of the water.”
I shook my head. “Oh no they’re not. I’m telling you, that’s an alligator. Just watch.”
He shot me that wary look. “What are you doing?”
I picked up my rod with a popper tied at the end. “You’ll see.”
I reached back and whipped the rod. The top-water lure flew through the air and splashed about two feet past the two buggy eyes. The peepers didn’t budge at all. The harder I stared, the more I began to wonder, Maybe Rick’s right after all.
Undeterred, I started jerking the popper toward and a bit to the right of the supposed eyes. Still, not a twitch. Baffled, I kept jerking the lure until it finally lined up to the right of both eyes. Without warning, huge jaws burst from the water and grabbed the lure in an instant.
My eyes grew large as my heart practically leapt from my throat. “See, I told you! It’s an alligator!” I leaned back hard and stretched the braided line taut. The crusty leathered beast opened its mouth, and the lure popped out.
Frenzied, my partner screamed. “You're crazy! I don’t want you dragging that thing on my boat!”
The last thing I worried about was that clumsy creature making it on board. Rick’s boat had high, solid aluminum rails, like most pontoon boats, but his vessel had a regular V-shaped hull and the deck sat much higher out of the water. “Oh, come on! You’re such a pansy! I just want to have some fun."
I searched the ripples for my target again. "I’ll make sure to set the hook this time.”
Before he could say another word, I whipped my rod and the lure shot past the eerie eyes, sitting on top of the water once again. Just like the first time, it landed a bit beyond them.
I quickly retrieved the popper. When the lure reached 90 degrees to the right of the eyes, the prehistoric-looking brute burst from the water and chomped on the lure once more. This time, I jerked the rod back to set the hook.
We fought for a moment before it opened its jaws, and the lure popped again. Shocked, I glance at my partner. “Man, the insides of its mouth must be way tougher than I ever thought. I’m going to have to jerk that line really hard this time.”
He shook his head. “Oh no you don’t.”
Ignoring the party pooper, I let the popper fly. This time, the alligator must have been pissed. As soon as the lure splashed down, the angry predator spun around and sped after the popper, chomping it immediately. I yanked the line much harder than before.
As I pulled the line taut, the ferocious maneater rose high out of the water on its tail. Standing as tall as me, it wagged its massive jaws to and fro.
Rick hollered. “Let it go!”
I pulled harder. “No way! I’ve got him good!”
The more I yanked the faster the boat drifted toward the alligator, as it pulled back in our all-out war. In full panic, my buddy screamed louder. “Cut the line! We’re getting too close. It’s going to kill us!”
Paying no heed, I continued to battle the brute. “You’re such a baby!” Trying to soothe my buddy with a touch of humor, I chuckled. “Don’t just stand there. Get the net!”
Appearing stunned, he yelled. “You’re an idiot. I ain’t going anywhere near that thing.”
I leaned back and put all my weight into it, and the alligator opened its jaws. The lure shot from its mouth and struck me in the arm. “Owww!”
I looked down at the pain. One of the hooks was stuck in my bicep, and my partner was laughing his head off. “That’ll teach you! Man, did you ever deserve that!”
Scanning the water, all I spotted was the pointy humps of the alligator’s back. Its tail swam back and forth a few times before it dove into deeper water.
Staring at the wound, I plucked the hook from my arm. Fortunately, the barb hadn’t sunk below the surface, and a small drop of blood formed in the hole left behind.
Frustrated, I shrugged. What kind of a fisherman am I? I couldn’t even boat that sucker. How pathetic is that?
**********
That's it for now. I hope you enjoyed the latest of my experiences.
Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures from back in those days. I didn't bother to take my camera during most of those trips, and I was too busy fishing or trying to catch alligators to bother taking pictures anyway. I'm stuck with sharing some of my more recent pictures, when I used the camera more frequently.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski
ANDY'S LESSONS FROM LIFE
My 31st Short Story
Thank you so much for continuing to enjoy my short stories. Like so many others, this one turned out to be longer than anticipated. It's hard to wrap up oodles of fishing tales in anything shorter!
"Fishing Follies, Part 1: An Alligator's Revenge"
“Murphy’s Law is always in play even while fishing.”
--Andy Skrzynski
I never met Murphy and knew next to nothing about the fellow, but he sure loved to play havoc during my entire life. One thing is certain, he must have hated fishing.
On most occasions, this wonderful hobby was a blast, but life wouldn’t be true to its nature without throwing a monkey wrench into the works from time to time. When you’ve been casting and reeling for more than 50 years, those follies have added up to a boatful of fond and a few not-so-fond memories.
Lake Austin was one of my favorite spots to fish after sampling many of the lakes, not far from where Bonnie and I lived in the northern part of Austin, Texas. Lake Travis was much more impressive in size and beauty, while also offering oodles of fishing opportunities. However, since Lake Austin was smaller, it seemed more peaceful with far less aggravation from jet skis, buzzing near my preferred fishing holes.
The massive floodgates of Mansfield Dam often unleashed torrential streams from the bottom of Lake Travis. The gushing, fresh water provided plenty of bait to fatten the largemouth bass in Lake Austin.
Most times, when I fished this particular lake on the Colorado River, I often drifted my aluminum bass boat with the current, along the edge of expansive, underwater weed beds. The luscious vegetative paradise provided a haven for bass to sneak up and ambush unwary prey which swam too close to the shadows, where the bigger predator fish lurked.
I typically took advantage of the Carolina rig as my preferred method of inducing a strike from these magnificent bass. The heavy, egg-shaped weight dragged along the muddy river bottom, while allowing my seductive plastic lure to float merrily along on a two-foot leader of fishing line.
Typically, I used a watermelon/red-flake worm or brush hog for the artificial lure. To improve my chances of landing a big lunker, I often spiked the swimmy tails with a bright chartreuse tint and an irresistible, scented mixture to entice the finned beasts.
The allure of the garlic/shad oil in the concoction drove the bass crazy, leaving them no choice but to aggressively chomp my offering and cling to the lure throughout its ride back to the boat and into my net. I’d regularly catch a few 2 to 3-pounders, and an occasional 4 to 5-pounder during each outing.
Early, one particular morning, before the sun had risen, I towed my tan Skeeter boat, with a modest Yamaha 130 horsepower engine, to the ramp I typically used to fish Lake Austin. After removing the cover, I transferred my gear from the back of my Chevy pickup to the deck of my boat.
I slowly backed the trailer down the sloped concrete until the boat was positioned just so -- ready for me to release it off the carpeted rails. Smiling big, I couldn't contain my giddiness. I'm gonna catch that eight-pounder today. I know it!
A couple of seconds after the backend of the boat slid into the lake, a strong stream of water shot four feet high from an opening in the transom of the boat. My eyes grew large. Why’s the bilge pump running?
A shot of adrenaline rushed through my veins. Oh no! Water must be getting into the boat. Quickly lifting the door to the bilge area, I retraced my steps when preparing to launch the boat. It can’t be the plug. I remember putting it in!
My mind raced as water gushed from the plastic bilge pump, filling the bottom of the boat. What on Earth? I quickly knelt down and inspected the damage. Crap! How did that happen?
Water gushed from a crack in the input duct where the hose connected. I closed my eyes. It’s too close to the pump housing. It can’t be fixed. Madder than a hornet, I yelled, “Son of a @#%!” I’ve got to get this out of the water fast!
I rushed to the front of the boat and swung my leg over and down toward the frame of the trailer. As soon as my foot hit the wet, metal rail, the rubber soles of my tennis shoes slipped. Losing my balance, I reached out to grab the edge of the boat, but I could not prevent my fall.
The force of my tumble into the cold waters almost yanked my shoulder out of its socket. I hollered, “Ahhh!”
A sharp pain shot down my arm. Soaking wet, I scrambled to my feet and almost fell again as my shoes slipped on the mossy ramp.
As quick as possible, I jumped into the truck, put it into gear, and pulled the boat out of the water. My dreams of catching a lunker that day vanished.
While transferring some of the looser fishing gear back into my pickup, I was furious as the pain in my shoulder screamed at me. On the way back home, I kept thinking, Why me?
Precious moments for my favorite hobbies were quite limited and now this. What a waste of a day!
Most of my time was consumed by working 45 to 60 hours a week at IBM. I also shared other responsibilities with Bonnie, including chauffeuring the kids to their sporting activities and catching up with the yard work and other chores from my lovely wife’s to-do list.
I reached for the knob on the radio. “Ow!” My right shoulder made sure I understood there was to no more stretching any time soon.
As I barreled down the highway with the boat in tow, a nagging thought kept hammering my head. Bad things usually come in threes. I had heard that claim from family and friends for years, but rarely paid much heed to such a superstition.
Wouldn’t you know. While speeding down a steep hill on Bee Caves Road, a deafening screech pierced my ears. I growled, “What now!”
The high-pitched shrill blasted my eardrums so bad that I pressed the brakes and slowed the truck. The terrible noise didn’t let up one bit. Where is that horrible sound coming from?
My imagination shifted into overdrive. It must be the engine. No, maybe it's the bearings of the trailer wheels! None of the problems rushing through my mind were things you’d wish upon anybody, but your worst enemy.
Leaning to the left, right, back and forward, I tried to decide which direction it was coming from. The racket didn’t seem to change. Then, I lifted my left arm to the top of the steering wheel, and the screech got louder. What? No way!
I moved my left wrist closer to my ear. “Ahhh! That’s it!” My watch sounded worse than the squealing brakes of a semi-truck. I must have hit it when I fell, or maybe water got into it.
With one eye on the road and the other peeking at the battery-operated watch, while I pressed every button on the stupid thing, I finally gave up. Nothing I tried would halt the blare, ripping through my ears and pounding in my head. I’ve got to stop this!
Frustrated to the hilt, I depressed the button on the door's armrest, and the passenger window lowered. Still traveling at 55 mph down the highway, I flung that crazy watch out over the ditch and into a cluster of cedar trees.
I sighed as my ears thanked me. By the time I got home, I wanted to crawl under a rock and never come out. My wife must have heard me drive up and met me at the door. “What happened? Why are you back so soon?”
With my shoulder killing me, a chill settling in from my wet clothes, and my ears barely able to hear a thing, I lowered my head. “Don’t ask.”
Fortunately, not all fishing adventures ended so badly or with so much pain, but I began to pay more heed to that crazy superstition about bad things coming in threes. A few years later, when I had more time on my hands, I joined a fishing club in Austin.
At the beginning of the year, we all voted on which Texas lake we’d like to fish a tournament on each month. We changed the locations each month, so we could enjoy the greatest sampling of the different parks around the state.
On this particular weekend in August, we had chosen Choke Canyon Reservoir, south of San Antonio. Of course, being that it wasn’t really that far from the Mexican border, it was going to be a scorcher.
My partner, Rick, and I remained hopeful at the start of the tournament and zigzagged all over the lake. We sampled several coves and points while trying to locate some bass. After a futile couple of hours without so much as a nibble, our optimism waned.
It’s one thing not to catch a fish, but it’s another whole world of frustration when the sun is toasting you to a crisp. Nonetheless, we bit the bullet and kept casting and reeling.
Nothing we tried worked. I only brought five rods with me, which was nothing compared to the dozen my partner always lugged on each trip.
We must have tied at least 30 different kinds of lures and rigs, trying our darndest to entice anything at all. The two of us might as well have been pitching our lures into a toilet for all the luck we mustered.
I hated being bored, and at that moment, I was about as tired of trying to catch some stupid ole fish as I could possibly be. About that time, my “gotta have some fun” urge kicked in.
I wracked my brain, trying to think of opportunities for more pleasure than we had experienced up to that point. Suddenly, something caught the corner of my eye. It was the slightest movement, but when I turned and stared across that area, everything remained at a dead still.
Continuing to scan the surface, I finally spotted something intriguing. Two bulging eyes barely floated along the top of the water. Aha! There you are!
Figuring my next move, I turned toward my buddy and pointed. “Hey, take us toward that stump.”
“Why? There ain’t no fish over there. We tried that area earlier.”
A sly grin escaped me. “Just do as I say. You’ll see.”
Reluctantly, he turned the trolling motor in that direction and slowly approached the shallow area while grumbling to himself. Halfway there, I whispered, “Stop it here.”
By then, suspicion was written all over Rick’s face. “What are you up to?”
“If we can’t catch fish, we’re going to have some fun, one way or another.” I motioned in the direction of my target. “Look over there. Do you see those eyes sticking up out of the water?”
He peered across the glistening ripples. “I don’t see anything, but that stump. What are you talking about?”
“Look closer to the left. Those are gator eyes.”
Squinting, he leaned forward. “Naw, those are just stick-ups poking out of the water.”
I shook my head. “Oh no they’re not. I’m telling you, that’s an alligator. Just watch.”
He shot me that wary look. “What are you doing?”
I picked up my rod with a popper tied at the end. “You’ll see.”
I reached back and whipped the rod. The top-water lure flew through the air and splashed about two feet past the two buggy eyes. The peepers didn’t budge at all. The harder I stared, the more I began to wonder, Maybe Rick’s right after all.
Undeterred, I started jerking the popper toward and a bit to the right of the supposed eyes. Still, not a twitch. Baffled, I kept jerking the lure until it finally lined up to the right of both eyes. Without warning, huge jaws burst from the water and grabbed the lure in an instant.
My eyes grew large as my heart practically leapt from my throat. “See, I told you! It’s an alligator!” I leaned back hard and stretched the braided line taut. The crusty leathered beast opened its mouth, and the lure popped out.
Frenzied, my partner screamed. “You're crazy! I don’t want you dragging that thing on my boat!”
The last thing I worried about was that clumsy creature making it on board. Rick’s boat had high, solid aluminum rails, like most pontoon boats, but his vessel had a regular V-shaped hull and the deck sat much higher out of the water. “Oh, come on! You’re such a pansy! I just want to have some fun."
I searched the ripples for my target again. "I’ll make sure to set the hook this time.”
Before he could say another word, I whipped my rod and the lure shot past the eerie eyes, sitting on top of the water once again. Just like the first time, it landed a bit beyond them.
I quickly retrieved the popper. When the lure reached 90 degrees to the right of the eyes, the prehistoric-looking brute burst from the water and chomped on the lure once more. This time, I jerked the rod back to set the hook.
We fought for a moment before it opened its jaws, and the lure popped again. Shocked, I glance at my partner. “Man, the insides of its mouth must be way tougher than I ever thought. I’m going to have to jerk that line really hard this time.”
He shook his head. “Oh no you don’t.”
Ignoring the party pooper, I let the popper fly. This time, the alligator must have been pissed. As soon as the lure splashed down, the angry predator spun around and sped after the popper, chomping it immediately. I yanked the line much harder than before.
As I pulled the line taut, the ferocious maneater rose high out of the water on its tail. Standing as tall as me, it wagged its massive jaws to and fro.
Rick hollered. “Let it go!”
I pulled harder. “No way! I’ve got him good!”
The more I yanked the faster the boat drifted toward the alligator, as it pulled back in our all-out war. In full panic, my buddy screamed louder. “Cut the line! We’re getting too close. It’s going to kill us!”
Paying no heed, I continued to battle the brute. “You’re such a baby!” Trying to soothe my buddy with a touch of humor, I chuckled. “Don’t just stand there. Get the net!”
Appearing stunned, he yelled. “You’re an idiot. I ain’t going anywhere near that thing.”
I leaned back and put all my weight into it, and the alligator opened its jaws. The lure shot from its mouth and struck me in the arm. “Owww!”
I looked down at the pain. One of the hooks was stuck in my bicep, and my partner was laughing his head off. “That’ll teach you! Man, did you ever deserve that!”
Scanning the water, all I spotted was the pointy humps of the alligator’s back. Its tail swam back and forth a few times before it dove into deeper water.
Staring at the wound, I plucked the hook from my arm. Fortunately, the barb hadn’t sunk below the surface, and a small drop of blood formed in the hole left behind.
Frustrated, I shrugged. What kind of a fisherman am I? I couldn’t even boat that sucker. How pathetic is that?
**********
That's it for now. I hope you enjoyed the latest of my experiences.
Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures from back in those days. I didn't bother to take my camera during most of those trips, and I was too busy fishing or trying to catch alligators to bother taking pictures anyway. I'm stuck with sharing some of my more recent pictures, when I used the camera more frequently.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski
Here's Andy Junior -- much older and wiser -- fishing on our neighborhood paradise, Lake Brenda, a few years ago.
This is in honor of my wonderful buddy, Reid Simpson, who died from cancerous brain tumors a few years back. Reid and I fished many lakes in East Texas, and he was always encouraging me to move to that part of the state after he retired. I'm no dummy. Immediately upon retirement, Bonnie and I moved to Lake Brenda Estates. This picture was taken on my bass boat while we were fishing Lake Brenda. At that time, Reid and his wife lived in Athens, Texas, near another great lake. Rest in peace, my good friend. I miss the great years of fishing with you.
This is my trusty ole Chevy Silverado, with my wonderful Skeeter bass boat in tow. I bought the pair, brand new, back at the turn of the century. I told everyone back then that I'd keep them until I died. Well, 22 years later, I'm 68 years old, and they still serve this old fart's fishing pleasures! This is the ramp to Lake Brenda, in our neighborhood.