The 33rd Short Story
Fishing Follies, Part 3: Beware the Seagull
"Fishing Follies, Part 3: Beware the Seagull"
ANDY'S LESSONS FROM LIFE
My 33rd Short Story
I hope you enjoy more of Andy's life experiences and the lessons that come with them.
Caution: If you have a weak stomach, you may not want to be eating while reading this story.
"Fishing Follies, Part 3: Beware the Seagull"
“Fishing is fun most of the time but beware the bloopers.”
--Andy Skrzynski
If practicing the art of angling to entice a finned wiggler wasn’t a blast, I wouldn’t have spent a good portion of my life enjoying the challenge. Outdoor activities have always been my preference over being holed up inside, for an extended period of time. Casting and reeling proved to be loads of fun -- except when the fishing gremlins decided to strike.
A couple of buddies at IBM asked me to join them for some deep-sea fishing, off the shores of Padre Island, Texas. They didn’t have to ask twice. I hadn’t ever fished the Gulf of Mexico, and any offer, including the word “fishing,” certainly triggered my affirmative reaction.
The first night we arrived, the three of us young men stopped at a restaurant, housed in a big fishing boat along the beach in Corpus Christi. After downing a delicious platter, mounded with an assortment of fried seafood, I couldn’t wait to continue our trip over the long bridge to our final destination.
Hyped about the next day’s activities, I tossed and turned as my stomach roiled most of the night. With my restless sleep, I didn’t really feel like eating much the next morning. I slowly downed a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and a glass of milk.
Paul, one of my middle-aged friends on the trip, held out his hand. “You might want to take one of these, before going out on the boat.” His smile extended ear-to-ear. “It could get rough out there in the deeper water.”
With a wary eye, I looked at the small, yellow pill nestled in his palm. “What is it?”
“Dramamine to help prevent sea-sickness.”
He scratched his partly bald scalp and plopped a wrinkled hat over his head. Made of white cloth with a wide brim around the entire circle, it could have passed for Gilligan's favorite headgear.
I scoffed. “Nah, I don’t think I need any. I’ve never had trouble on boats before.”
Jim, the other fella of our trio, looked me in the eye. “You sure? I’m taking one. The last time I was out on rough waves, I got sicker than a dog. They’re supposed to help a lot.”
Shaking my head, I waved my hand. “I don't like taking pills. I’ll be fine.”
He smirked. “Alright, but don’t say didn’t warn you.”
His nudging got me thinking, but I wasn’t familiar with the drug, and my stomach was still churning from the prior evening’s dinner. It might just make it worse.
We met the fishing guide by the dock, and after helping him carry a couple of large coolers onto his 28-foot whaler with a center console, we headed out of the marina. At first, the waves weren’t too choppy, and everything seemed fine.
Unfortunately, the wind picked up a little, as we continued eastward toward the sun. The bow of the decent sized craft began to rise and fall with a more pronounced bounce. Still, my stomach didn’t seem any worse for the wear.
The drone of the dual outboard motors filled the air, while we cruised onward, toward deeper waters for several minutes. When my belly remained as before, I knew for sure I didn’t need that pill. Nothing’s going to happen.
A few seconds later, the pilot gently pulled the throttle back a touch, and the boat slowed to a crawl. Our guide zigzagged through the choppy waters for a few more minutes, in search of a school of king fish. Suddenly, he pulled back on the throttle, and glanced up at his partner. “They’re underneath us. Let’s get the lines in the water.”
As if on cue, my stomach began churning up a storm. Oh no. I held my tummy as the rumbling growled at me. Maybe, Jim was right after all.
The skipper pushed the throttle forward a tad, and the boat cruised at a slow speed. After grabbing a long rod and clicking the release of the reel, the weighted line zipped through the water. Before the baited, stainless-steel hook could get very far, the remains in my stomach raced for my mouth.
I quickly leaned over the side of the boat and puked my guts out. After wiping my mouth, I glanced over at Jim. “Don’t say a word. I hope that’s the last…” Before I could finish the sentence, another part of my meal rushed for the exit, and I shot my head over the rail once again. Rank remains of my dinner and breakfast shot from my mouth and nose, as I continuously barfed -- hard and hearty.
All through the rest of the morning and early afternoon, my stomach did its best to empty every last bit of its contents. My belly succumbed to a continuous give and take of calming for a moment, before convulsing and unloading even more.
That seafood from the night before certainly tasted a whole lot better going in than it did flying out. Dry heaves are the worst!
By the time we finally headed back toward shore, I was looking forward to getting my butt off the water. I took absolutely no pleasure in puking over the side of the boat, each and every time I reeled in one of those king fish.
As soon as the pilot stopped and tied the boat to the dock, I raced off the deck, knelt on the nearest plot of grass, and proceeded to kiss the ground. I didn’t give a flip whether some stupid, old dog peed on that spot or not. I was just thankful to be on solid footing once again.
While this was one of those trips that began with lots of hope and ended in disappointment, I was sure it wouldn’t be the last. You see, that's the thing about fishing. You never know what you’re going to get on any particular day.
Almost a decade later, after Bonnie and I were married, we always sought fun activities with our daughters. The warmer, summer months proved best, because the girls had plenty of spare time on their hands.
The first couple of years, we found a place with small cabins, along the shore of one of Lake Buchanan’s quiet, little coves. The cinder block construction, and strategic location, under a few tall sycamore trees, kept the quaint retreat rather cool, during the heat of the Texas sun.
We invited a couple of very close friends of our family along on our virgin trip. Vernon and Julie drove separately and followed us to our destination.
After settling in a bit, Vernon and I prepared hamburgers and hotdogs over charcoal, in a grill, not far from our cabin. It ended up being the perfect kickoff for our long weekend, away from home.
Our wonderful guests had gotten to know our girls well, after Bonnie moved to Texas, and we always had such great times together. That evening, we laughed and joked around while playing a few board games, before calling it a night.
The next morning, after breakfast, Vernon strolled out to the trunk of their car and retrieved a bag of golf clubs. Always looking for fun, our daughters tagged along, right behind him.
During this particular trip, the lake level was extremely low from a prolonged drought that continued to linger. For the most part, the cove was bone dry except for a very narrow channel of water that ran down the center. My good buddy walked out on the parched, dry lake bottom and proceeded to pull out one of his drivers and a few golf balls.
Shannon, our oldest daughter, looked up to him with inquisitive eyes. “What are you going to do?” As she spoke, her sister grinned with her beautiful teeth aglow and her bangs flopping in the breeze.
Vernon's tight lips cracked a smile. “I’m going to practice my swing a little. Do you want to shag the balls for me? I’ll pay you girls a quarter for everyone you bring back.”
Both of our daughters’ eyes grew huge. Shannon gasped. “A quarter? You bet we will!”
Vernon had been golfing for a few years and developed a pretty nice swing. Every time he smacked the white, dimpled ball, it would fly off the tee and travel well past the stream, almost to the other side of the cove. After whacking away at several, he’d motion to the girls. “Alright, go ahead and get ‘em.”
Motivation leapt to peak heights, since the girls loved quarters for all those crank machines, positioned at the entrance of many restaurants. They craved jaw breakers, bubble gum, and the little surprises that would tumble through the chute after placing those shiny coins in the slot and twisting the handle a few times.
Excited to the hilt, they both raced each other and gathered as many golf balls as they could hold. When they returned, they sported smiles bigger than a crescent moon.
Vernon would meticulously count the balls and hand them a shiny quarter for each and every one. You’d think the girls had just seen Santa Claus the way their eyes lit up. Being the polite children we taught them to be, they’d respond with a delightful “thank you.”
Later that evening, with dusk’s light beginning to fade, as the sun slowly slipped below the horizon, all of us pitched in and gathered several dry branches and twigs. We stacked them in a makeshift campfire on the lake's mud-crusted bottom.
Before long, the flames roared, and we all treated ourselves to gooey, chocolaty s'mores, while sharing scary fairy tales. Millions of stars sparkled like bright shiny diamonds against the pitch-black sky. The glow from the flickering flames and smell of the fire were mesmerizing, and I couldn’t imagine a more peaceful way to end such a fun-filled day.
The next year, while on another long weekend at the same Lake Buchanan retreat, the water level had risen substantially. Bonnie, the girls, and I swam near a 4-foot-tall retaining wall on the shoreline by the cabins, for most of the afternoon. We all looked like prunes, when we finally toweled ourselves off.
After a short nap during the heat of the day, I took our daughters out by the water and taught them the basics of fishing with a bobber and nightcrawler. While we did our thing, Bonnie prepared dinner.
Colleen caught her very first fish ever, a wiggly bluegill that refused to give up the fight. We all ended up catching a few more panfish, before calling it quits.
After dinner, I spotted a large cottonmouth, slithering in the lake around a set of concrete steps, we had used to exit the water that afternoon. A few seconds later, the blackish-brown snake dove and disappeared behind them.
Gulping, my heart flopped. That thing could have bitten one of us earlier. I grabbed a couple of big rocks from around a nearby campsite and waited for the unwelcome creature to resurface, but it never showed its ugly head again.
I couldn’t get that stupid thing out of my noggin, while the girls and us grownups played a game of double-deck pinochle, before heading to bed. How am I ever going to keep those girls away from there?
Shannon and Colleen loved water like a couple of pollywogs, swimming to their hearts’ content. I decided not to mention the snake to them or Bonnie. They’d be scared out of their wits and wouldn’t set foot outside the cabin. I need to get rid of that thing, somehow!
In the middle of the night, I had a nightmare and jumped up from my sleep. Adrenalin raced through my veins. During the frightful dream, it had been pouring rain for several days, and hundreds of snakes were slithering all around me in the shallow waters of the floods.
I shook my head. Gotta stop thinking about that snake, or I’ll never get any sleep.
After several minutes, I finally dozed off once again, until awakening to a delightful aroma. Smiling, Bonnie whispered. “Coffee’s ready, sleepyhead.”
I groaned. “Didn’t get much sleep.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got to run to the bathroom first. I’ll tell you later.”
“Okay. I’ll pour you a cup and meet you by the lake.”
After doing my business, I tip-toed outside so as not to bother our daughters. Bonnie was seated near the edge of the lake, a good way from where I spotted that snake.
While sipping our coffees and chatting about our plans for the day, my wife stopped mid-sentence. “Do you see that?” She motioned with her arm while squinting.
“What? I don’t see anything.” Dawn had just broken, and it was still rather dark.
“Over there.” She pointed toward the middle of the cove. “Is that a snake?”
Sure enough. Something slithered along the surface of the water, and it was headed in the general direction of those same steps from the day before. “You’re right. That is a snake.”
I shot from my lawn chair. “Stay here and watch it while I grab my fishing rod.”
“What on Earth are you going to do with a fishing pole?”
“You’ll see. Just keep an eye on that stupid thing and don’t lose sight of it.”
I raced toward the cabin and quietly snatched the rod I left near the door. I quickly tied a large popper with a couple of treble hooks to the line and ran toward those steps. “Where did it go?”
Standing on her tiptoes, Bonnie pointed. “Over there. It’s headed toward the shore -- not far from you. Be careful.”
Scanning the water, I spotted it and reared back with my rod. Whipping it forward, I let my lure fly out past the slithering menace.
As soon as it hit the water, I started reeling in the popper as fast as possible. When it neared the snake, I jerked it hard.
The cottonmouth splashed and churned in the water, as I set the hook again to make sure I snagged it good. The angry creature thrashed and flopped the entire way back, while I retrieved my catch.
When it got close to shore, I lifted the weighty prize high with my arms extended to keep it away from me. Twice, it struck out toward me, but it fell short both times.
I yelled. “Bonnie, grab the broom and bring it to me -- fast!”
As she rushed inside the cabin, Shannon cried out, “Mom, what’s wrong?”
Bonnie feverishly replied. “Dad’s killing a snake!” She popped her head out the door and threw the broom in my direction. “There it is. I'm not going out there!”
I rolled my eyes and inched my way toward the makeshift weapon. Slowly bending my knees while holding the rod straight out, I grabbed the wooden handle with my right hand.
The angry cottonmouth’s jaws lurched toward me again, but still fell short of its mark. It opened its mouth wide, displaying its long, dripping fangs.
The inside of its mouth was as white as snow. No wonder they call it a cottonmouth! I whacked its hard head, over and over again, until it finally grew limp in the clutches of my lure’s treble hooks.
I’ve got to make sure it can’t bite anybody. I hollered to Bonnie. “Grab me a big screwdriver from the toolbox in the minivan.”
Keeping her distance, she cautiously ran to the vehicle. A few seconds later, she tossed the tool near my foot. “There you go.”
I carefully laid the long, thick snake out, while watching it ever so closely to make sure it was dead. Stories about vipers and turtles, that were thought to be dead, striking out and chomping someone’s finger, flooded my mind. I’m not going to let that happen!
I stomped on the snake’s neck and drove the screwdriver through its head. Once it was firmly secured, I called out to my wife. “You can come out now. It’s safe.”
She and the girls tentatively poked their heads out and slowly crept out the door. They cautiously inched their way toward the dead snake. Halfway there, the viper suddenly moved and curled itself around the screwdriver.
Screaming, they all jumped back. Bonnie glared and me and hollered, “It’s still alive! I thought you said it was safe!”
I sighed. “That’s just its nerves. Believe me it’s deader than a doornail. Just don’t get too close.” I stared at the girls. “Don’t you guys touch this thing. I’ve got to bury it, so nobody gets hurt.”
They all crept closer, but every time the snake twitched, they jumped back again. I chuckled inside, each and every time. What a bunch of scaredy cats! They’ve got to learn somehow.
After such an exciting day, I woke up real early the next morning and snuck out to fish, before Bonnie and the girls woke up. Figuring I’d be able to get my fill of casting and reeling for a couple of hours, while they slept it off, I walked the shoreline along the brushy end of the group of cabins.
I kept heaving a buzz bait and quickly reeling it across the top of the water. The clunky propeller churned on the surface with such a clatter, it would awaken any wiggler within 20 feet.
If that wasn’t enough to entice them, the bright yellow and white plastic grub with a glittery skirt, certainly would. Every once in a while, a 10 to 15-inch largemouth bass would burst from the depths and swallow the lure hard. I’d set the hook, retrieve my prize, and after inspecting it, I’d toss it back into the lake for another day.
About a half hour later, another fisherman, who must have spotted my occasional success, moseyed over and started fishing not far from me. Chatting about our past experiences, we continued to cast and reel while moving along the brushy shoreline.
Just as my new fishing buddy and I were getting to know each other, a tremendous splash broke the water’s surface. Suddenly, the cove all around that area erupted into churning bubbles and ripples with no end in sight. The familiar screeches of seagulls filled the air as they zoomed in from above, toward the growing commotion.
A white bass, then another, flew from the water and returned to feast on the school of shad again. I yelled to my new friend. “Come on! Start throwing rattle traps into the frenzy. We’re going to catch some white bass!”
I quickly tied on a silver and blue metal lure that looked like a shad with a big, black spot on each side. When done, I positioned myself on the other side of a huge willow tree from the other guy.
Looking out over the lake, I leaned back and let my rattle trap fly in the direction of the churning water. Staring at the tumultuous ripples, I waited for the lure to splash, but a few seconds past and it never did. What on Earth? Where'd my lure go?
To my amazement, the line kept jerking, time and time again, yet I couldn’t locate where the lure hit the water. Finally, I followed the braided line up toward the sky. You’ve got to be kidding!
Apparently, a stupid seagull dove and grabbed my lure midair. The more it pulled and flapped its wings, the more it tangled itself with the line.
Perturbed to the hilt, I jerked the rod, and the seagull fell to the water. I can’t believe it!
Growing angrier by the second, I reeled the thing in as fast as I could. That stupid bird is keeping me from catching fish!
After getting it on shore, I tried to swiftly untangle the frenzied bird. Every time I’d reach for the line, it would peck me. Before I knew it, the sharp beak had bloodied my hand, and I wasn’t making much progress at all.
The other guy yelled from the other side of the willow. “How are you doing over there? I’m killing ‘em over here. I just caught two white bass on the same cast! I’ve never seen anything like this!”
Furious with my predicament, I snapped back. “You won’t believe it. I haven’t caught a @#$% thing. I’m trying to untangle a stupid seagull!”
“Seagull? You better hurry up. The feeding frenzy is slowing down.”
Frustrated to no end, I finally cut the line in several places and untangled the worn-out bird. After inspecting it for any broken bones, I tossed it into the air. It flapped its wings and took off, away from all the commotion.
Quickly retying my lure, I glanced out over the water, but the ripples were gone, and the surface looked like glass. I closed my eyes. Dang that stupid bird! The fish are already gone. A deep sigh escaped my lungs.
Proud as could be, the other fisherman marched my way, holding out the biggest stringer of white bass I had ever seen. “Look what I caught!”
None too happy, I grumbled to myself. “Lucky you.” I looked down. All I had to show for my effort were bloody fingers and the remnants of cut fishing line at my feet.
**********
That's it for now. I hope you enjoyed the latest of my experiences.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski
ANDY'S LESSONS FROM LIFE
My 33rd Short Story
I hope you enjoy more of Andy's life experiences and the lessons that come with them.
Caution: If you have a weak stomach, you may not want to be eating while reading this story.
"Fishing Follies, Part 3: Beware the Seagull"
“Fishing is fun most of the time but beware the bloopers.”
--Andy Skrzynski
If practicing the art of angling to entice a finned wiggler wasn’t a blast, I wouldn’t have spent a good portion of my life enjoying the challenge. Outdoor activities have always been my preference over being holed up inside, for an extended period of time. Casting and reeling proved to be loads of fun -- except when the fishing gremlins decided to strike.
A couple of buddies at IBM asked me to join them for some deep-sea fishing, off the shores of Padre Island, Texas. They didn’t have to ask twice. I hadn’t ever fished the Gulf of Mexico, and any offer, including the word “fishing,” certainly triggered my affirmative reaction.
The first night we arrived, the three of us young men stopped at a restaurant, housed in a big fishing boat along the beach in Corpus Christi. After downing a delicious platter, mounded with an assortment of fried seafood, I couldn’t wait to continue our trip over the long bridge to our final destination.
Hyped about the next day’s activities, I tossed and turned as my stomach roiled most of the night. With my restless sleep, I didn’t really feel like eating much the next morning. I slowly downed a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and a glass of milk.
Paul, one of my middle-aged friends on the trip, held out his hand. “You might want to take one of these, before going out on the boat.” His smile extended ear-to-ear. “It could get rough out there in the deeper water.”
With a wary eye, I looked at the small, yellow pill nestled in his palm. “What is it?”
“Dramamine to help prevent sea-sickness.”
He scratched his partly bald scalp and plopped a wrinkled hat over his head. Made of white cloth with a wide brim around the entire circle, it could have passed for Gilligan's favorite headgear.
I scoffed. “Nah, I don’t think I need any. I’ve never had trouble on boats before.”
Jim, the other fella of our trio, looked me in the eye. “You sure? I’m taking one. The last time I was out on rough waves, I got sicker than a dog. They’re supposed to help a lot.”
Shaking my head, I waved my hand. “I don't like taking pills. I’ll be fine.”
He smirked. “Alright, but don’t say didn’t warn you.”
His nudging got me thinking, but I wasn’t familiar with the drug, and my stomach was still churning from the prior evening’s dinner. It might just make it worse.
We met the fishing guide by the dock, and after helping him carry a couple of large coolers onto his 28-foot whaler with a center console, we headed out of the marina. At first, the waves weren’t too choppy, and everything seemed fine.
Unfortunately, the wind picked up a little, as we continued eastward toward the sun. The bow of the decent sized craft began to rise and fall with a more pronounced bounce. Still, my stomach didn’t seem any worse for the wear.
The drone of the dual outboard motors filled the air, while we cruised onward, toward deeper waters for several minutes. When my belly remained as before, I knew for sure I didn’t need that pill. Nothing’s going to happen.
A few seconds later, the pilot gently pulled the throttle back a touch, and the boat slowed to a crawl. Our guide zigzagged through the choppy waters for a few more minutes, in search of a school of king fish. Suddenly, he pulled back on the throttle, and glanced up at his partner. “They’re underneath us. Let’s get the lines in the water.”
As if on cue, my stomach began churning up a storm. Oh no. I held my tummy as the rumbling growled at me. Maybe, Jim was right after all.
The skipper pushed the throttle forward a tad, and the boat cruised at a slow speed. After grabbing a long rod and clicking the release of the reel, the weighted line zipped through the water. Before the baited, stainless-steel hook could get very far, the remains in my stomach raced for my mouth.
I quickly leaned over the side of the boat and puked my guts out. After wiping my mouth, I glanced over at Jim. “Don’t say a word. I hope that’s the last…” Before I could finish the sentence, another part of my meal rushed for the exit, and I shot my head over the rail once again. Rank remains of my dinner and breakfast shot from my mouth and nose, as I continuously barfed -- hard and hearty.
All through the rest of the morning and early afternoon, my stomach did its best to empty every last bit of its contents. My belly succumbed to a continuous give and take of calming for a moment, before convulsing and unloading even more.
That seafood from the night before certainly tasted a whole lot better going in than it did flying out. Dry heaves are the worst!
By the time we finally headed back toward shore, I was looking forward to getting my butt off the water. I took absolutely no pleasure in puking over the side of the boat, each and every time I reeled in one of those king fish.
As soon as the pilot stopped and tied the boat to the dock, I raced off the deck, knelt on the nearest plot of grass, and proceeded to kiss the ground. I didn’t give a flip whether some stupid, old dog peed on that spot or not. I was just thankful to be on solid footing once again.
While this was one of those trips that began with lots of hope and ended in disappointment, I was sure it wouldn’t be the last. You see, that's the thing about fishing. You never know what you’re going to get on any particular day.
Almost a decade later, after Bonnie and I were married, we always sought fun activities with our daughters. The warmer, summer months proved best, because the girls had plenty of spare time on their hands.
The first couple of years, we found a place with small cabins, along the shore of one of Lake Buchanan’s quiet, little coves. The cinder block construction, and strategic location, under a few tall sycamore trees, kept the quaint retreat rather cool, during the heat of the Texas sun.
We invited a couple of very close friends of our family along on our virgin trip. Vernon and Julie drove separately and followed us to our destination.
After settling in a bit, Vernon and I prepared hamburgers and hotdogs over charcoal, in a grill, not far from our cabin. It ended up being the perfect kickoff for our long weekend, away from home.
Our wonderful guests had gotten to know our girls well, after Bonnie moved to Texas, and we always had such great times together. That evening, we laughed and joked around while playing a few board games, before calling it a night.
The next morning, after breakfast, Vernon strolled out to the trunk of their car and retrieved a bag of golf clubs. Always looking for fun, our daughters tagged along, right behind him.
During this particular trip, the lake level was extremely low from a prolonged drought that continued to linger. For the most part, the cove was bone dry except for a very narrow channel of water that ran down the center. My good buddy walked out on the parched, dry lake bottom and proceeded to pull out one of his drivers and a few golf balls.
Shannon, our oldest daughter, looked up to him with inquisitive eyes. “What are you going to do?” As she spoke, her sister grinned with her beautiful teeth aglow and her bangs flopping in the breeze.
Vernon's tight lips cracked a smile. “I’m going to practice my swing a little. Do you want to shag the balls for me? I’ll pay you girls a quarter for everyone you bring back.”
Both of our daughters’ eyes grew huge. Shannon gasped. “A quarter? You bet we will!”
Vernon had been golfing for a few years and developed a pretty nice swing. Every time he smacked the white, dimpled ball, it would fly off the tee and travel well past the stream, almost to the other side of the cove. After whacking away at several, he’d motion to the girls. “Alright, go ahead and get ‘em.”
Motivation leapt to peak heights, since the girls loved quarters for all those crank machines, positioned at the entrance of many restaurants. They craved jaw breakers, bubble gum, and the little surprises that would tumble through the chute after placing those shiny coins in the slot and twisting the handle a few times.
Excited to the hilt, they both raced each other and gathered as many golf balls as they could hold. When they returned, they sported smiles bigger than a crescent moon.
Vernon would meticulously count the balls and hand them a shiny quarter for each and every one. You’d think the girls had just seen Santa Claus the way their eyes lit up. Being the polite children we taught them to be, they’d respond with a delightful “thank you.”
Later that evening, with dusk’s light beginning to fade, as the sun slowly slipped below the horizon, all of us pitched in and gathered several dry branches and twigs. We stacked them in a makeshift campfire on the lake's mud-crusted bottom.
Before long, the flames roared, and we all treated ourselves to gooey, chocolaty s'mores, while sharing scary fairy tales. Millions of stars sparkled like bright shiny diamonds against the pitch-black sky. The glow from the flickering flames and smell of the fire were mesmerizing, and I couldn’t imagine a more peaceful way to end such a fun-filled day.
The next year, while on another long weekend at the same Lake Buchanan retreat, the water level had risen substantially. Bonnie, the girls, and I swam near a 4-foot-tall retaining wall on the shoreline by the cabins, for most of the afternoon. We all looked like prunes, when we finally toweled ourselves off.
After a short nap during the heat of the day, I took our daughters out by the water and taught them the basics of fishing with a bobber and nightcrawler. While we did our thing, Bonnie prepared dinner.
Colleen caught her very first fish ever, a wiggly bluegill that refused to give up the fight. We all ended up catching a few more panfish, before calling it quits.
After dinner, I spotted a large cottonmouth, slithering in the lake around a set of concrete steps, we had used to exit the water that afternoon. A few seconds later, the blackish-brown snake dove and disappeared behind them.
Gulping, my heart flopped. That thing could have bitten one of us earlier. I grabbed a couple of big rocks from around a nearby campsite and waited for the unwelcome creature to resurface, but it never showed its ugly head again.
I couldn’t get that stupid thing out of my noggin, while the girls and us grownups played a game of double-deck pinochle, before heading to bed. How am I ever going to keep those girls away from there?
Shannon and Colleen loved water like a couple of pollywogs, swimming to their hearts’ content. I decided not to mention the snake to them or Bonnie. They’d be scared out of their wits and wouldn’t set foot outside the cabin. I need to get rid of that thing, somehow!
In the middle of the night, I had a nightmare and jumped up from my sleep. Adrenalin raced through my veins. During the frightful dream, it had been pouring rain for several days, and hundreds of snakes were slithering all around me in the shallow waters of the floods.
I shook my head. Gotta stop thinking about that snake, or I’ll never get any sleep.
After several minutes, I finally dozed off once again, until awakening to a delightful aroma. Smiling, Bonnie whispered. “Coffee’s ready, sleepyhead.”
I groaned. “Didn’t get much sleep.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got to run to the bathroom first. I’ll tell you later.”
“Okay. I’ll pour you a cup and meet you by the lake.”
After doing my business, I tip-toed outside so as not to bother our daughters. Bonnie was seated near the edge of the lake, a good way from where I spotted that snake.
While sipping our coffees and chatting about our plans for the day, my wife stopped mid-sentence. “Do you see that?” She motioned with her arm while squinting.
“What? I don’t see anything.” Dawn had just broken, and it was still rather dark.
“Over there.” She pointed toward the middle of the cove. “Is that a snake?”
Sure enough. Something slithered along the surface of the water, and it was headed in the general direction of those same steps from the day before. “You’re right. That is a snake.”
I shot from my lawn chair. “Stay here and watch it while I grab my fishing rod.”
“What on Earth are you going to do with a fishing pole?”
“You’ll see. Just keep an eye on that stupid thing and don’t lose sight of it.”
I raced toward the cabin and quietly snatched the rod I left near the door. I quickly tied a large popper with a couple of treble hooks to the line and ran toward those steps. “Where did it go?”
Standing on her tiptoes, Bonnie pointed. “Over there. It’s headed toward the shore -- not far from you. Be careful.”
Scanning the water, I spotted it and reared back with my rod. Whipping it forward, I let my lure fly out past the slithering menace.
As soon as it hit the water, I started reeling in the popper as fast as possible. When it neared the snake, I jerked it hard.
The cottonmouth splashed and churned in the water, as I set the hook again to make sure I snagged it good. The angry creature thrashed and flopped the entire way back, while I retrieved my catch.
When it got close to shore, I lifted the weighty prize high with my arms extended to keep it away from me. Twice, it struck out toward me, but it fell short both times.
I yelled. “Bonnie, grab the broom and bring it to me -- fast!”
As she rushed inside the cabin, Shannon cried out, “Mom, what’s wrong?”
Bonnie feverishly replied. “Dad’s killing a snake!” She popped her head out the door and threw the broom in my direction. “There it is. I'm not going out there!”
I rolled my eyes and inched my way toward the makeshift weapon. Slowly bending my knees while holding the rod straight out, I grabbed the wooden handle with my right hand.
The angry cottonmouth’s jaws lurched toward me again, but still fell short of its mark. It opened its mouth wide, displaying its long, dripping fangs.
The inside of its mouth was as white as snow. No wonder they call it a cottonmouth! I whacked its hard head, over and over again, until it finally grew limp in the clutches of my lure’s treble hooks.
I’ve got to make sure it can’t bite anybody. I hollered to Bonnie. “Grab me a big screwdriver from the toolbox in the minivan.”
Keeping her distance, she cautiously ran to the vehicle. A few seconds later, she tossed the tool near my foot. “There you go.”
I carefully laid the long, thick snake out, while watching it ever so closely to make sure it was dead. Stories about vipers and turtles, that were thought to be dead, striking out and chomping someone’s finger, flooded my mind. I’m not going to let that happen!
I stomped on the snake’s neck and drove the screwdriver through its head. Once it was firmly secured, I called out to my wife. “You can come out now. It’s safe.”
She and the girls tentatively poked their heads out and slowly crept out the door. They cautiously inched their way toward the dead snake. Halfway there, the viper suddenly moved and curled itself around the screwdriver.
Screaming, they all jumped back. Bonnie glared and me and hollered, “It’s still alive! I thought you said it was safe!”
I sighed. “That’s just its nerves. Believe me it’s deader than a doornail. Just don’t get too close.” I stared at the girls. “Don’t you guys touch this thing. I’ve got to bury it, so nobody gets hurt.”
They all crept closer, but every time the snake twitched, they jumped back again. I chuckled inside, each and every time. What a bunch of scaredy cats! They’ve got to learn somehow.
After such an exciting day, I woke up real early the next morning and snuck out to fish, before Bonnie and the girls woke up. Figuring I’d be able to get my fill of casting and reeling for a couple of hours, while they slept it off, I walked the shoreline along the brushy end of the group of cabins.
I kept heaving a buzz bait and quickly reeling it across the top of the water. The clunky propeller churned on the surface with such a clatter, it would awaken any wiggler within 20 feet.
If that wasn’t enough to entice them, the bright yellow and white plastic grub with a glittery skirt, certainly would. Every once in a while, a 10 to 15-inch largemouth bass would burst from the depths and swallow the lure hard. I’d set the hook, retrieve my prize, and after inspecting it, I’d toss it back into the lake for another day.
About a half hour later, another fisherman, who must have spotted my occasional success, moseyed over and started fishing not far from me. Chatting about our past experiences, we continued to cast and reel while moving along the brushy shoreline.
Just as my new fishing buddy and I were getting to know each other, a tremendous splash broke the water’s surface. Suddenly, the cove all around that area erupted into churning bubbles and ripples with no end in sight. The familiar screeches of seagulls filled the air as they zoomed in from above, toward the growing commotion.
A white bass, then another, flew from the water and returned to feast on the school of shad again. I yelled to my new friend. “Come on! Start throwing rattle traps into the frenzy. We’re going to catch some white bass!”
I quickly tied on a silver and blue metal lure that looked like a shad with a big, black spot on each side. When done, I positioned myself on the other side of a huge willow tree from the other guy.
Looking out over the lake, I leaned back and let my rattle trap fly in the direction of the churning water. Staring at the tumultuous ripples, I waited for the lure to splash, but a few seconds past and it never did. What on Earth? Where'd my lure go?
To my amazement, the line kept jerking, time and time again, yet I couldn’t locate where the lure hit the water. Finally, I followed the braided line up toward the sky. You’ve got to be kidding!
Apparently, a stupid seagull dove and grabbed my lure midair. The more it pulled and flapped its wings, the more it tangled itself with the line.
Perturbed to the hilt, I jerked the rod, and the seagull fell to the water. I can’t believe it!
Growing angrier by the second, I reeled the thing in as fast as I could. That stupid bird is keeping me from catching fish!
After getting it on shore, I tried to swiftly untangle the frenzied bird. Every time I’d reach for the line, it would peck me. Before I knew it, the sharp beak had bloodied my hand, and I wasn’t making much progress at all.
The other guy yelled from the other side of the willow. “How are you doing over there? I’m killing ‘em over here. I just caught two white bass on the same cast! I’ve never seen anything like this!”
Furious with my predicament, I snapped back. “You won’t believe it. I haven’t caught a @#$% thing. I’m trying to untangle a stupid seagull!”
“Seagull? You better hurry up. The feeding frenzy is slowing down.”
Frustrated to no end, I finally cut the line in several places and untangled the worn-out bird. After inspecting it for any broken bones, I tossed it into the air. It flapped its wings and took off, away from all the commotion.
Quickly retying my lure, I glanced out over the water, but the ripples were gone, and the surface looked like glass. I closed my eyes. Dang that stupid bird! The fish are already gone. A deep sigh escaped my lungs.
Proud as could be, the other fisherman marched my way, holding out the biggest stringer of white bass I had ever seen. “Look what I caught!”
None too happy, I grumbled to myself. “Lucky you.” I looked down. All I had to show for my effort were bloody fingers and the remnants of cut fishing line at my feet.
**********
That's it for now. I hope you enjoyed the latest of my experiences.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski