The 34th Short Story
Fishing Follies, Part 4: Stripers and Stinkers
"Fishing Follies, Part 4: Stripers and Stinkers"
ANDY'S LESSONS FROM LIFE
My 34th Short Story
Like so many times, this story grew to be much longer than I expected. I had to break it off before I got to the "Hooked" part of my experience, hence the title for my next story to come. For now, I hope you enjoy this portion of my fishing story!!!
"Fishing Follies, Part 4: Stripers and Stinkers"
“Don’t always trust your eyes in the dark.”
--Andy Skrzynski
Devoted veterans from every branch of the service participated in many activities, planned by our local Marine Detachment in Mineola, Texas. Annually, anywhere from six to a dozen of these loyal members ventured out for an expedition on Lake Texoma, 80 miles north of Dallas.
The goal for such adventures was simple: bring home enough catfish filets for a large fish fry to benefit those of need in our community. Without question, having loads of fun in the process was an absolute necessity.
Whenever we gathered our fine group of pranksters within a small area, it was inevitable. We usually figured ways to accomplish stupid stuff, while communicating in a language unsuitable to the public. Fishermen alone would be bad enough, but when a high percentage included military veterans, we created an unholy alliance, filled with drinking, boastful storytelling, occasional cussing, and raucous laughter.
Even though I never served in the military, these hooligans always invited me along because of my youthful strength and undying charm. I knew better, of course. What they really needed was someone younger to do the dirty work.
Fortunately, they had taken a liking to me, when I became their commandant's right-hand man, after moving to Mineola with Bonnie in 2007. I readily helped with their Toys for Tots and other programs, geared to earn money to aid the community.
It certainly didn’t hurt that I had more nimble fingers than most of them and volunteered to deal the cards at our regular poker games. Most of them suffered from arthritis or a missing finger, and they looked forward to someone else shuffling the deck and flicking cards to their compadres.
Even so, they made sure I understood my place in the pecking order for this trip. Jerry Penrod, the commandant at that time, awarded me a nifty black cap.
To signify my rank among the group, he wittingly ordered one with “ROOKIE” prominently displayed across the front in neon-yellow letters. Anybody with decent eyesight could spot the thing from across a football field.
Early, on the morning of our fishing expedition in May of 2009, our convoy of vehicles took off from the Walmart parking lot in Mineola, and continued northwest, along Highway 69 toward Greenville. Being the leader of this rowdy bunch of tag-alongs, Jerry knew his way to, from, and around Lake Texoma like the back of his hand. For decades, he had fished the large lake on the Red River which ran along the border between Texas and Oklahoma.
I rode shotgun with our leader on this particular trip, and we led the pack to and from our destination. Given my prior experiences on trips to Toledo Bend, I suggested each vehicle carry a walkie-talkie to chat during the ride.
Now that I was a bit older and wiser, I had learned to enjoy talking up a storm and sharing stories -- some true, some exaggerated -- during our brief but welcome break from our lovely spouses. Of course, our wives were just as thrilled to be rid of most of us and made sure to let us know of their delight, each and every year.
In fact, Bonnie would get so giddy for the entire week prior to my departure, I began to wonder what my lovely wife got so excited about, while I was gone. Is she seeing someone on the side?
I knew better, but that didn’t keep the thought from popping into my head, whenever I saw that joyous smile of hers, as she saw me off. The fact of the matter was that all of us had marvelous marriages and rarely gave such notions any real credence.
Besides, us overaged boys were intent on having a blast one way or another. Jerry and John, another good friend of ours, typically towed their bass and pontoon boats to accommodate the rest of us fishermen.
We stopped at our regular breakfast joint, along the way in Emory, and filled our bellies with coffee and an abundance of food from their buffet bar. This was typically the first chance some of the newer members of our gang got to become acquainted with the rest of us.
Believe me, it never took long, since none of us were bashful about ribbing one another, while sharing some of our most embarrassing stories. Nothing was off limits with this motley crew.
Stuffed and perked with plenty of food and caffeine, we continued along our way. When we finally reached our destination, after a potty break or two, we paired up and checked into the Air Force Annex on the Texas side of the lake. Shelby, a retired flyboy and a man we all respected as the greatest gentlemen to set foot on this planet, booked our reservations ahead of time to make it easier for the rest of us.
The military park maintained a nice marina with plenty of bargain-priced cabins, compared to most accommodations in the area. After unloading the vehicles, we gathered in the roomiest place to chat some more and indulge ourselves with dinner.
Dan, a retired police officer and jolly ole soul, always volunteered to cook, while the rest of us pitched in by setting the table and cleaning up afterward. Following a delicious meal, most of us settled into drinking, playing poker, and sharing lots of very tall tales.
Typically, most of our clan didn’t stay up too late after the long trip, because lots of work awaited us near the crack of dawn. A couple of us didn’t conform to the tried-and-true sleep habits of the others.
During a break, between our dealer’s choice poker game, Garry, a man whose flamboyant language rarely left out some form of insult or cuss word, interrupted the proceedings. “Do any of you retards want to go down to the marina to fish? I overheard one of the other campers mention that stripers were feeding on shad, under the dock lights after dark.”
With a huge smile, I immediately replied, “You betcha. I wanna, but I’m no retard.”
A sly grin creased his lips. “Oh yeah? Why are you wearing a cap with “ROOKIE” across the front? Go get your fishing gear and put it in my truck, Retard.”
The others promptly chuckled before giving their versions of why they preferred going to bed early. Ed, one of my very good friends with a raspy voice, often spoken so softly I had trouble hearing him, grumbled, "It's way too late for me to go fishing. It's about time to get some sleep."
Garry and I happily bowed out of the card game and said our goodbyes, before gathering our tackle and driving down to the marina, less than a quarter mile from the cabins. The glaring flood lights, surrounding the metal-encased office building, crappie shack, and a long row of boat slips, glowed like a beacon. After parking, we both tied on a couple of plastic swimbaits that looked exactly like the shad, typically found in that lake.
As my witty partner and I walked down the long metal ramp to the marina, swarms of flying insects -- mostly moths and mosquitoes -- dive-bombed the lightbulbs, as if their noggins were made of stone. Occasionally, one smacked the glass too hard and tumbled to the water below. Bluegills and other patiently waiting panfish happily swallowed them whole and whipped their tails with a splash, as they sped off with their tasty morsel.
I watched Garry as he positioned himself at the opposite end of the central dock, near the last boat slip. Good. That should be far enough to keep our lines from getting tangled.
I casted and reeled my lure for a few minutes without any hits. Looking at my new friend-of-sorts at the other end, I hollered, “You getting any strikes over there?”
“Hell no but be patient. They’ll come.”
Less than a minute later, a thunderous splash to my left startled me. My heart leapt with excitement. That had to be a striper! It was huge!
Quickly reeling in my line, I tossed my shad imitation in the middle of the water rings, spreading outward from the center point of that last strike. After the swimbait sank for a moment, my line suddenly tightened and jerked to the right with a mighty force.
I immediately set the hook and leaned back while reeling in my catch as quickly as I could. I hollered, “I got a big one!”
The line dove deeper and swerved back and forth as I continued to lean back and retrieve my trophy. The huge fish never gave up, fighting me the entire way toward my location.
Throughout the battle, the tip of my rod was bent over hard and kept swinging back and forth, from one side to the other. Whoa, this thing is strong!
Never had I caught such a powerful fish as that one. Gripping the cork handle with all my might, I was determined not to lose my rod, during the heat of the moment.
After the striper finally wore out a tad, I knelt down while lifting my rod high. I carefully lipped the hefty bass with narrow dark stripes along its silvery sides. As soon as I clenched its jaw, it shook so hard, I almost lost it.
Like a blooming idiot, I chided my catch. “Calm down! I’m trying to get the hook out, you stupid fish!” It sure didn’t take long for me to start sounding like my sharp-tongued buddy at the other end of the marina.
Not more than a second after I released the fine specimen, which measured over 30 inches, Garry’s voice thundered across the way. “I got one too!”
Stripers began feasting on shad with a vengeance as the water splashed and churned all around us. Just as fast as we could release one and get the line back in the water, we’d reel in another with a tremendous fight.
My heart raced like wild horses being chased by a cougar, as the smile in my soul kept growing larger by the second. This is the best fishing ever!
After catching a few more stripers, my arms actually grew weary. Glancing at my friend, as I reeled in another, I yelled, “This is a blast! I’ve never seen anything like it!”
He grinned and nodded, while he lipped another and hauled it up on the dock. “Yep, that camper sure knew what he was talking about!”
Several minutes later, as the strong breeze grew colder, the feeding frenzy slowed to a halt, and the surface of the water smoothed. Having gotten our fill, Garry and I packed up our gear and returned to the cabins.
We said our goodbyes and headed toward our sleeping quarters. Except for the yellow porch light, my cabin was already dark as I approached the front door. Clyde must have conked out already.
As I quietly opened the screen door, leaves rustled on the ground, while something small and dark scampered around the corner. Must be one of those wild cats. Earlier that evening, a half dozen feral felines clustered near the front door of the bigger cabin, where we ate. We later discovered that this was a common routine of theirs, as they awaited scraps from each meal.
I lightly tiptoed inside, so as not to disturb my bunking partner. He never stirred once, while I brushed my teeth and settled into bed. Exhausted from reeling in those huge stripers, I nodded off as soon as my head hit the pillow.
In the wee hours of the night, a horrific odor invaded my nostrils, and I shot up out of bed. I stared at the blurry, red numerals on the clock. It’s only 3:35 in the morning! Ugh, what’s that smell?
With my nose and eyes stinging like crazy, I flipped on the light and scanned the room. Suddenly, it dawned on me as I yelled. “That wasn’t a cat! There’s a skunk in the cabin!”
Clyde turned on his light and hollered, “Oh man, what is that smell? I can’t stand it!”
We quickly searched every crook and cranny in the place but couldn’t find a thing. By then, we’d figured the horrible odor must have been coming from underneath the floorboards. The terrible stench permeated every taste bud and hair follicle in my nose. Tears streamed from my burning eyes.
Gagging, I looked at my partner who had his arm over his mouth and nostrils. “I can’t take this any longer. Those skunks must have been fighting under the cabin!”
Clyde nodded. “Let’s get out of here!”
We quickly packed up some of our belongings and ran out the door. My bunk partner and I trotted across the road and camped out on the porch of the bigger cabin, where we were to gather for breakfast later.
Needless to say, neither one of us got any more sleep. When Jerry and one of his closest friends, LeeRoy, finally stirred inside and turned on the lights, I knocked and entered.
Before I could even utter a word, Jerry backed away, with his hand pinching his nostrils. “You stink! Where on Earth have you been?”
Clyde followed me in and responded. “A bunch of skunks sprayed the underside of our cabin.”
I blurted, “It’s horrible over there! We can’t even sleep with that smell.”
Jerry pointed at the door. “Well don’t stink up our place! Sit out there on the porch!”
I lowered my head. “Okay, but plug in that large coffee pot of mine on the counter, so we can all have some in a few minutes.” Clyde and I trudged out the door.
A few minutes later, others from our clan approached from their cabins. They didn’t even get past the middle of the road, before they started bellyaching. “Oh man, where have you guys been? You smell like a skunk.”
I smirked. “Like we don’t know. Our cabin got sprayed in the middle of the night.”
Needless to say, it took a while before the others grew accustomed to our smell, and neither Clyde nor I handled any bait that day. We certainly didn’t want to scare off the fish.
**********
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 34th Short Story
Like so many times, this story grew to be much longer than I expected. I had to break it off before I got to the "Hooked" part of my experience, hence the title for my next story to come. For now, I hope you enjoy this portion of my fishing story!!!
"Fishing Follies, Part 4: Stripers and Stinkers"
“Don’t always trust your eyes in the dark.”
--Andy Skrzynski
Devoted veterans from every branch of the service participated in many activities, planned by our local Marine Detachment in Mineola, Texas. Annually, anywhere from six to a dozen of these loyal members ventured out for an expedition on Lake Texoma, 80 miles north of Dallas.
The goal for such adventures was simple: bring home enough catfish filets for a large fish fry to benefit those of need in our community. Without question, having loads of fun in the process was an absolute necessity.
Whenever we gathered our fine group of pranksters within a small area, it was inevitable. We usually figured ways to accomplish stupid stuff, while communicating in a language unsuitable to the public. Fishermen alone would be bad enough, but when a high percentage included military veterans, we created an unholy alliance, filled with drinking, boastful storytelling, occasional cussing, and raucous laughter.
Even though I never served in the military, these hooligans always invited me along because of my youthful strength and undying charm. I knew better, of course. What they really needed was someone younger to do the dirty work.
Fortunately, they had taken a liking to me, when I became their commandant's right-hand man, after moving to Mineola with Bonnie in 2007. I readily helped with their Toys for Tots and other programs, geared to earn money to aid the community.
It certainly didn’t hurt that I had more nimble fingers than most of them and volunteered to deal the cards at our regular poker games. Most of them suffered from arthritis or a missing finger, and they looked forward to someone else shuffling the deck and flicking cards to their compadres.
Even so, they made sure I understood my place in the pecking order for this trip. Jerry Penrod, the commandant at that time, awarded me a nifty black cap.
To signify my rank among the group, he wittingly ordered one with “ROOKIE” prominently displayed across the front in neon-yellow letters. Anybody with decent eyesight could spot the thing from across a football field.
Early, on the morning of our fishing expedition in May of 2009, our convoy of vehicles took off from the Walmart parking lot in Mineola, and continued northwest, along Highway 69 toward Greenville. Being the leader of this rowdy bunch of tag-alongs, Jerry knew his way to, from, and around Lake Texoma like the back of his hand. For decades, he had fished the large lake on the Red River which ran along the border between Texas and Oklahoma.
I rode shotgun with our leader on this particular trip, and we led the pack to and from our destination. Given my prior experiences on trips to Toledo Bend, I suggested each vehicle carry a walkie-talkie to chat during the ride.
Now that I was a bit older and wiser, I had learned to enjoy talking up a storm and sharing stories -- some true, some exaggerated -- during our brief but welcome break from our lovely spouses. Of course, our wives were just as thrilled to be rid of most of us and made sure to let us know of their delight, each and every year.
In fact, Bonnie would get so giddy for the entire week prior to my departure, I began to wonder what my lovely wife got so excited about, while I was gone. Is she seeing someone on the side?
I knew better, but that didn’t keep the thought from popping into my head, whenever I saw that joyous smile of hers, as she saw me off. The fact of the matter was that all of us had marvelous marriages and rarely gave such notions any real credence.
Besides, us overaged boys were intent on having a blast one way or another. Jerry and John, another good friend of ours, typically towed their bass and pontoon boats to accommodate the rest of us fishermen.
We stopped at our regular breakfast joint, along the way in Emory, and filled our bellies with coffee and an abundance of food from their buffet bar. This was typically the first chance some of the newer members of our gang got to become acquainted with the rest of us.
Believe me, it never took long, since none of us were bashful about ribbing one another, while sharing some of our most embarrassing stories. Nothing was off limits with this motley crew.
Stuffed and perked with plenty of food and caffeine, we continued along our way. When we finally reached our destination, after a potty break or two, we paired up and checked into the Air Force Annex on the Texas side of the lake. Shelby, a retired flyboy and a man we all respected as the greatest gentlemen to set foot on this planet, booked our reservations ahead of time to make it easier for the rest of us.
The military park maintained a nice marina with plenty of bargain-priced cabins, compared to most accommodations in the area. After unloading the vehicles, we gathered in the roomiest place to chat some more and indulge ourselves with dinner.
Dan, a retired police officer and jolly ole soul, always volunteered to cook, while the rest of us pitched in by setting the table and cleaning up afterward. Following a delicious meal, most of us settled into drinking, playing poker, and sharing lots of very tall tales.
Typically, most of our clan didn’t stay up too late after the long trip, because lots of work awaited us near the crack of dawn. A couple of us didn’t conform to the tried-and-true sleep habits of the others.
During a break, between our dealer’s choice poker game, Garry, a man whose flamboyant language rarely left out some form of insult or cuss word, interrupted the proceedings. “Do any of you retards want to go down to the marina to fish? I overheard one of the other campers mention that stripers were feeding on shad, under the dock lights after dark.”
With a huge smile, I immediately replied, “You betcha. I wanna, but I’m no retard.”
A sly grin creased his lips. “Oh yeah? Why are you wearing a cap with “ROOKIE” across the front? Go get your fishing gear and put it in my truck, Retard.”
The others promptly chuckled before giving their versions of why they preferred going to bed early. Ed, one of my very good friends with a raspy voice, often spoken so softly I had trouble hearing him, grumbled, "It's way too late for me to go fishing. It's about time to get some sleep."
Garry and I happily bowed out of the card game and said our goodbyes, before gathering our tackle and driving down to the marina, less than a quarter mile from the cabins. The glaring flood lights, surrounding the metal-encased office building, crappie shack, and a long row of boat slips, glowed like a beacon. After parking, we both tied on a couple of plastic swimbaits that looked exactly like the shad, typically found in that lake.
As my witty partner and I walked down the long metal ramp to the marina, swarms of flying insects -- mostly moths and mosquitoes -- dive-bombed the lightbulbs, as if their noggins were made of stone. Occasionally, one smacked the glass too hard and tumbled to the water below. Bluegills and other patiently waiting panfish happily swallowed them whole and whipped their tails with a splash, as they sped off with their tasty morsel.
I watched Garry as he positioned himself at the opposite end of the central dock, near the last boat slip. Good. That should be far enough to keep our lines from getting tangled.
I casted and reeled my lure for a few minutes without any hits. Looking at my new friend-of-sorts at the other end, I hollered, “You getting any strikes over there?”
“Hell no but be patient. They’ll come.”
Less than a minute later, a thunderous splash to my left startled me. My heart leapt with excitement. That had to be a striper! It was huge!
Quickly reeling in my line, I tossed my shad imitation in the middle of the water rings, spreading outward from the center point of that last strike. After the swimbait sank for a moment, my line suddenly tightened and jerked to the right with a mighty force.
I immediately set the hook and leaned back while reeling in my catch as quickly as I could. I hollered, “I got a big one!”
The line dove deeper and swerved back and forth as I continued to lean back and retrieve my trophy. The huge fish never gave up, fighting me the entire way toward my location.
Throughout the battle, the tip of my rod was bent over hard and kept swinging back and forth, from one side to the other. Whoa, this thing is strong!
Never had I caught such a powerful fish as that one. Gripping the cork handle with all my might, I was determined not to lose my rod, during the heat of the moment.
After the striper finally wore out a tad, I knelt down while lifting my rod high. I carefully lipped the hefty bass with narrow dark stripes along its silvery sides. As soon as I clenched its jaw, it shook so hard, I almost lost it.
Like a blooming idiot, I chided my catch. “Calm down! I’m trying to get the hook out, you stupid fish!” It sure didn’t take long for me to start sounding like my sharp-tongued buddy at the other end of the marina.
Not more than a second after I released the fine specimen, which measured over 30 inches, Garry’s voice thundered across the way. “I got one too!”
Stripers began feasting on shad with a vengeance as the water splashed and churned all around us. Just as fast as we could release one and get the line back in the water, we’d reel in another with a tremendous fight.
My heart raced like wild horses being chased by a cougar, as the smile in my soul kept growing larger by the second. This is the best fishing ever!
After catching a few more stripers, my arms actually grew weary. Glancing at my friend, as I reeled in another, I yelled, “This is a blast! I’ve never seen anything like it!”
He grinned and nodded, while he lipped another and hauled it up on the dock. “Yep, that camper sure knew what he was talking about!”
Several minutes later, as the strong breeze grew colder, the feeding frenzy slowed to a halt, and the surface of the water smoothed. Having gotten our fill, Garry and I packed up our gear and returned to the cabins.
We said our goodbyes and headed toward our sleeping quarters. Except for the yellow porch light, my cabin was already dark as I approached the front door. Clyde must have conked out already.
As I quietly opened the screen door, leaves rustled on the ground, while something small and dark scampered around the corner. Must be one of those wild cats. Earlier that evening, a half dozen feral felines clustered near the front door of the bigger cabin, where we ate. We later discovered that this was a common routine of theirs, as they awaited scraps from each meal.
I lightly tiptoed inside, so as not to disturb my bunking partner. He never stirred once, while I brushed my teeth and settled into bed. Exhausted from reeling in those huge stripers, I nodded off as soon as my head hit the pillow.
In the wee hours of the night, a horrific odor invaded my nostrils, and I shot up out of bed. I stared at the blurry, red numerals on the clock. It’s only 3:35 in the morning! Ugh, what’s that smell?
With my nose and eyes stinging like crazy, I flipped on the light and scanned the room. Suddenly, it dawned on me as I yelled. “That wasn’t a cat! There’s a skunk in the cabin!”
Clyde turned on his light and hollered, “Oh man, what is that smell? I can’t stand it!”
We quickly searched every crook and cranny in the place but couldn’t find a thing. By then, we’d figured the horrible odor must have been coming from underneath the floorboards. The terrible stench permeated every taste bud and hair follicle in my nose. Tears streamed from my burning eyes.
Gagging, I looked at my partner who had his arm over his mouth and nostrils. “I can’t take this any longer. Those skunks must have been fighting under the cabin!”
Clyde nodded. “Let’s get out of here!”
We quickly packed up some of our belongings and ran out the door. My bunk partner and I trotted across the road and camped out on the porch of the bigger cabin, where we were to gather for breakfast later.
Needless to say, neither one of us got any more sleep. When Jerry and one of his closest friends, LeeRoy, finally stirred inside and turned on the lights, I knocked and entered.
Before I could even utter a word, Jerry backed away, with his hand pinching his nostrils. “You stink! Where on Earth have you been?”
Clyde followed me in and responded. “A bunch of skunks sprayed the underside of our cabin.”
I blurted, “It’s horrible over there! We can’t even sleep with that smell.”
Jerry pointed at the door. “Well don’t stink up our place! Sit out there on the porch!”
I lowered my head. “Okay, but plug in that large coffee pot of mine on the counter, so we can all have some in a few minutes.” Clyde and I trudged out the door.
A few minutes later, others from our clan approached from their cabins. They didn’t even get past the middle of the road, before they started bellyaching. “Oh man, where have you guys been? You smell like a skunk.”
I smirked. “Like we don’t know. Our cabin got sprayed in the middle of the night.”
Needless to say, it took a while before the others grew accustomed to our smell, and neither Clyde nor I handled any bait that day. We certainly didn’t want to scare off the fish.
**********
That's it for now. I hope you enjoyed the latest of my experiences.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski