Veterans at their best, while having fun in the sun and prepared to catch catfish for a benefit to support the community!!!
The 35th Short Story
Fishing Follies, Part 5: Hooked
"Fishing Follies, Part 5: Hooked"
ANDY'S LESSONS FROM LIFE
My 35th Short Story
Here is another of my longer than I expected Short Stories. Enjoy!!!
Warning: If you don't want to look at dead fish or one that is being fileted, you will want to avoid looking at three of the pictures in the set that are attached.
"Fishing Follies, Part 5: Hooked"
“Put a bunch of goofballs on a boat and bad things are bound to happen.”
--Andy Skrzynski
If our merry gang of veterans weren’t having a blast, we’d likely be getting into trouble -- one way or another. This was certainly the case, whenever our clan took off for an expedition to Lake Texoma.
After gulping down breakfast and finishing off several cups of coffee on the second day of our first trip to the Air Force Annex, we all headed toward the marina. On the way, a handful of hefty whitetail bucks and more than a dozen does, with their latest spring fawns, paused for a sip of water while strolling along the rocky shoreline.
When we arrived at the parking lot, we unloaded the vehicles and lugged our gear toward the docks. Our buddy, Ed, slipped and almost fell on the metal ramp, leading down to the marina.
I grabbed his arm and helped steady him before turning toward the others behind me. “Careful. The ramp’s slick from the morning’s dew.” One-by-one, eight happy souls marched down the docks and stepped onto John’s pontoon boat, where we set our tackle and other pertinent gear in place.
Our commandant, Jerry, rang out the orders, and we followed suit. The first chore on his mental list was quite obvious. Can’t catch fish without good ole fashion bait.
He pointed toward the shallow portion of the cove, “I think we’ll have the best shot at catching shad over there.” Our leader slid behind the steering wheel and guided the craft along the shoreline. Within a couple of minutes, he cut the engine.
Whistling as he strolled toward the bow, Jerry lowered the trolling motor into the water. “Pay attention, you rookies. I’m going to teach you the proper way to catch shad. Andy, grab that pail and get ready to put it next to me when I tell you.”
Being the newest rookie to boot, every time Jerry barked an order, I dutifully replied, “Yes, Sir!” Of course, I couldn’t resist adding a smirky glance, every time I did it. Knowing I was just being a goofball, he’d simply roll his eyes with a frown.
That was one of the things I truly liked about Jerry. He was great at taking things with a grain of salt and enjoying the moment. Most of us, who stood by him no matter what, did so because he was a man true to his word.
Our commandant led by example -- none of that “do as I say, not as I do” bull crap. He possessed many great traits, and one of his best was his ability to tell hilarious jokes with impeccable timing to lighten the mood.
With such a mentor to admire, I gladly helped him untangle a large, round net, with weights distributed around the perimeter. When done, he draped a couple of folds over one arm, while gripping the outer edge with the other. Before I knew it, he spun full-circle and flung the net out over the boat.
The heavy weights immediately dove deep into the water, dragging the netting with them. Our master fisherman waited a second or two before jerking the center rope tight, while pulling it upward, hand-over-fist as fast as he could.
When the fresh haul broke the lake’s surface, I spotted several shiny baitfish, ferociously wiggling in a fruitless attempt to escape their unforeseen trap. Jerry quickly quipped, “Get that pail closer to me, Andy.”
As I placed it in position, he raised the net high and centered it over the orange, five-gallon bucket, before releasing the contents. Most of the shad landed in their new prison, as their captor vigorously shook the net. A few hopeful escapees flopped on the carpeted deck for a couple of seconds.
I quickly scooped the stragglers up and tossed them into the bucket to return with their other classmates, from the school with which they had been swimming. We repeated the process four or five more times, until the bucket was almost full.
Jerry smiled. “That ought to do it.” While we secured everything so they wouldn’t fly out of the boat, he hollered. “Let's go set out the jugs!”
After lifting the trolling motor from the water, he returned to the pilot seat and started the engine. Off we slowly cruised passed the marina.
As soon as we cleared the “No Wake” buoys, he pushed the accelerator forward, and the Yamaha engine roared. The pontoons skimmed across the calm water's surface.
We zipped easterly, along the main lake channel to the spot where we had set out 100 numbered jugs in a straight line, the day before. Each white container floated on the surface and was anchored in place by a long, stout fishing line, tied to a heavy weight that was firmly rooted in the muddy river bottom. Two stainless steel hooks were strategically placed one foot apart from the donut-shaped weight at the end of the line.
As we approached the bobbing jugs, Jerry glanced at the rest of us. “We could use a couple of volunteers. I need a hooker and a masterbaiter.”
Scrunching our faces, we looked at each other, then I asked, “What in the world does a hooker and masterbaiter have to do?”
A sly grin creased his lips. “Ain’t you ever heard of a hooker before?”
I chuckled. “Of course, I have, but I don’t know what that has to do with fishing.”
He laughed out loud. “See that thing?” Our commandant pointed at a long, wooden handle with a huge, metal hook attached at one end.
“Yeah? What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Well, when I pull the boat up next to the first jug, you snag the line underneath it with that hook and quickly retrieve it, while one of these other guys grabs the jug. Hopefully, there’ll be a catfish or two on the hooks. If so, they’ll remove the fish and toss ‘em in those blue tubs.”
He pointed at two large, cylindrical contraptions. “When the hooks are clear, they’ll hand them to the masterbaiter.”
“Okay, but what does the masterbaiter…” Just as the next word was about to exit my lips, it dawned on me. “Ah, he puts the bait on the hooks! Now I’ve got it!”
Jerry smirked, “It’s about time, Rookie!”
As we approached each jug, I snagged them and swung the long-handled hook toward the other helpers, who removed fish and added more bait. While we conducted our work, Jerry kept the boat spinning in a tight circle around the spot where we picked up the jug, so we could drop it in a straight line with the others, when ready.
We repeated the cycle as we continued to check the remaining jugs. At first, we conducted ourselves like a perfect combination of the Keystone Cops, listening to instructions from Abbott and Costello. We were totally out of sync and couldn’t remember who was doing what. Finally, after we haphazardly dealt with half of the jugs, we began clicking like a finely oiled machine.
When we encountered a missing jug, Jerry called out. “Looks like a big catfish or striper took off with it. Remember that number, and we’ll search for the jug when we’re done checking all of the others.”
While we dutifully worked, we’d all rib each other and tell whopping fish tales to pass the time. Our commandant called out several more orders, and after about 20 “Yes, Sirs” from me, Jerry shot one of those, I'm-about-to-throw-you-overboard kinda glares.
I gulped. Oops, I better not push it any farther. Smiling big, I looked him in the eye. “Just kidding.” From then on, I was a good little rookie and behaved myself, sorta.
After checking the last jug, we searched the area and shorelines for the one that got away. It took a while, but we finally located it. By then Garry had switched with me, and he took over as hooker while I helped get our bounty off the hooks.
As Jerry pulled alongside the stray jug, Garry hooked it and immediately hollered, “It’s a big one! I could use a little help!”
I rushed to his side, and while struggling a bit, he lifted the line toward me. I reeled it in hand over fist until I spotted the first hook. It was clean as a whistle, but I could see the brute of a catfish on the last one.
I yelled, “It’s huge!”
The hefty prize pulled hard as I continued to retrieve it from the depths. In the excitement, I lost track of the first hook, and the monster catfish kicked its tail and jerked the slimy line right through my hands. The line zipped through my slippery grip, and the forgotten hook sunk its sharp point and barb all the way through the second knuckle of my middle finger.
I screamed. “Ahhh! The hook went through my finger!”
My eyes bulged to the point of almost popping out of my head, as I stared at my injury. The long, thick shank was firmly planted directly in the center of my knuckle. Blood dripped from the curved portion of the stainless-steel shank, where the point and barb protruded all the way through to the other side of my painful appendage.
The others hurried to my side and grabbed the line to help secure the dastardly fish. While I was still tethered to the frightened creature, every time the blasted sucker whipped its tail, it shot another round of torment through my knuckle and up my arm.
I hollered, “Careful with that thing! My finger’s killing me!”
Finally, after my friends lugged the huge catfish onboard, they snipped the line to the hook, still firmly impaling through my finger. Unperturbed, Jerry looked at the others. “Any of you got any wire cutters?”
LeeRoy, a man that weighed a jolly 300 pounds in the least, rummaged through his tackle box. “Here, this is the best I’ve got!”
He grabbed a small wire cutter and promptly placed each of its sharp jaws around the shank of the hook and began squeezing it. The wimpy blades barely scratched the thick stainless-steel metal, so he began jerking it with each squeeze.
Every time he yanked it side-to-side, the hook sent another series of tortuous pain through my knuckle. After a couple more jerking sessions, I glared at LeeRoy and growled. “Stop it, you idiot! You ain’t doing a d@#$ bit of good!”
I probably shouldn’t have snapped at him, but at that moment, I was in no mood to be polite. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Normally, I loved the big oaf, but he totally ignored me and kept jerking the wire cutters.
Growing madder than a hornet, I grabbed his wrist with my free hand and shot a hateful glare.” You do that one more time, I’m gonna kill you!”
Totally shocked by my reaction, his jaw dropped as the tool fell to the floor. One of the other guys blurted, “I once read where you can tie a fishing line to the curve of the hook and yank it fast and hard. Maybe we should try that!”
By that time, my blood was boiling and if eyes could kill, I’m sure mine had that guy squirming in his boots. I shot more daggers at everybody on the boat and snarled, “Any of you touch that hook again, you’re going to die! You hear me?”
From the expressions on their faces, they clearly understood. With my finger throbbing, I turned toward Jerry. “Take us back to shore. I’m going to the hospital, so they can cut this thing off.
My good buddy, Ed, immediately replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you there.”
John piloted the boat, while the commandant gave us directions to the nearest town with a hospital. As soon as we reached shore, my chauffeur and I quickly disembarked and hit the road.
Ed pushed the speed limits as his tan Chevy Suburban zoomed along the roads. Most of the way there, I bit my lip and closed my eyes while doing the best I could to tough out the pain.
Since we started out from the middle of nowhere, it took us an hour to finally reach our destination. We ran into the emergency entrance and to the closest desk, where I held out my finger for the lady to see.
The friendly woman shook her head. “Oh boy. That looks nasty.”
Smiling, she handed me a clipboard with three sheets of paper and a pen. “Have a seat over there and fill out these forms. When done, bring them back to me.”
Ed wrote while I gave him the particulars, and he returned the completed forms. Several minutes later, a nurse took us to one of the makeshift rooms, enclosed with blue, cloth drapes.
When the doctor arrived, he took one look at the hook and turned toward the nurse. “Get me the saw.”
I gasped. A saw? It better not be a big one!
After examining the wound for a moment, the physician looked up at me. “How did you manage to do this? It must hurt quite a bit.”
Several rather crude responses came to mind, but I bit my tongue. Better not piss him off if he’s doing the cutting. He might decide to take the finger with it.
Trying to remain polite, I forced the tiniest grin I could muster. “A huge catfish jerked, while I tried to bring him in, and the slimy line slipped through my hands.”
As he grabbed a vial and syringe, he replied, “I’m going to deaden the pain so I can remove the hook and treat your wound.”
By that time, my finger had ballooned quite large and every time he penetrated that needle near the knuckle, it stung like the dickens -- not quite as bad as the hook, but more pain than I cared for at that moment.
The nurse returned and handed him a tool, with a little circular blade at the end. He looked me in the eye. “This won’t take long. I’m going to cut the hook here and pull the shank back through your finger after it cools.”
At that point, nothing could hurt any worse than what I had already endured. Here goes. I held my breath and intently watched the man slice through the stainless steel with ease.
He lifted his head. “See. That wasn’t so bad. Now, we’ll let that cool a minute or so, and I’ll pull it back through your knuckle. You won’t feel a thing.”
Yeah, sure. I had heard those words way too many times in my life to start believing them now.
After waiting a bit, he slid the shank through the wound without the slightest twinge of pain. A huge sigh escaped my lips. Thank you, Lord!
The friendly nurse cleaned and treated the bloody hole in my knuckle from both sides and wrapped a mesh bandage around my finger. Afterward, she explained how I needed to clean and dress the injury during the days that followed. After checking out at the payment desk, Ed and I headed back to the parking lot.
More than three hours had passed before my good buddy and I returned to the cabins at the Annex. As soon as we entered the door, everybody took turns giving me the business. “What took so long? You hooked yourself just to get out of all the hard work! Man, you are a rookie. Did you cry, when the doctor removed the hook?”
On and on they went, and all I could do was take it. Anything I’d do to try to deny any of their claims would only be met with more harassment.
When they finally grew silent, I smiled at Ed, and he returned the same. A sly grin grew wide across my face as I smirked. “Well, it probably wouldn’t have taken so long, if we hadn’t stopped at the casino.”
Each of our companions took turns interrogating me. “What? Where did you find a casino? You’re telling us you were playing, while we were slaving down at the marina, as we cut up the filets? You’re kidding, right?”
Ed and I grinned big as my buddy replied. “He's not joking. We had to wait for the prescription, and there was a casino, calling to us from across the road. We figured we might as well have fun for half an hour, rather than sit in a stupid chair doing nothing.” We both chuckled.
For the rest of the day, they complained about us skipping out on them to have fun while they worked. Of course, Ed and I kept rubbing it in with pleasure.
During the remaining couple of days, we checked all the jugs and baited the hooks three times daily. We caught so many catfish we were all tired of pulling them in and fileting them afterward.
Four of us operated the electric knives, while the others packed them in plastic bags. By the time we finished at the end of the day, the knives were so hot it was difficult to hold them while slicing the filets.
As we headed out for the final check on the last day, we were so weary we actually prayed that we wouldn't find any more catfish. God must have spotted all of our shenanigans during the trip and decided to ignore our requests. Almost every jug had one and sometimes two captives at the end of a hook for us to retrieve.
Even though we were worn to the bone, Jerry refused to allow our spirits to be dampened. As John piloted the boat back toward the marina, our commandant opened a compartment door of the vessel.
He retrieved a spanking new Marine Corp. flag, attached to a short wooden pole. As we pulled near the marina, we all belted out the Marine’s hymn: “From the Halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli….”
Since we were at the Air Force Annex, we were certain our glorious singing would prick the goat of all flyboys in hearing distance. Sure enough, a handful ran to the edge of the docks and shook their fists at us in jest.
By then, word had spread about all the catfish we had been bringing in after each trip, and several of the other fishermen stood by and watched. Some even pitched and helped us, as we turned our bounty into filets.
All-in-all, we ended up with over 1,000 pounds of filets, packed with ice in huge white coolers. As was tradition, we used a small portion of our catch for a fish fry on our last night, to end our trip on a high note.
Jerry led the way in demonstrating the proper way to season the cornmeal breading and heat the oil in the fryers to the proper temperature to prepare our meal to perfection. When done with our tasty feast, we all pitched in to clean and put away the dishes.
After that, we enjoyed a final evening of poker and eventually called it a night. Even though our stay had come to an end, we all had a blast.
None of us had trouble sleeping that night. We were too doggone tired.
We enjoyed several more trips over the years, and most times, we’d bring home plenty of filets for a fish fry or two, that earned enough money for a few of our activities to help the community, especially the Toys for Tots program.
Presently, many of our fun-loving comrades have already passed along and reside peacefully in Heaven. They are sorely missed, and I, like the few fishing buddies who still remain here on Earth, certainly look forward to seeing our heavenly brethren again, but hopefully not too soon.
**********
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 35th Short Story
Here is another of my longer than I expected Short Stories. Enjoy!!!
Warning: If you don't want to look at dead fish or one that is being fileted, you will want to avoid looking at three of the pictures in the set that are attached.
"Fishing Follies, Part 5: Hooked"
“Put a bunch of goofballs on a boat and bad things are bound to happen.”
--Andy Skrzynski
If our merry gang of veterans weren’t having a blast, we’d likely be getting into trouble -- one way or another. This was certainly the case, whenever our clan took off for an expedition to Lake Texoma.
After gulping down breakfast and finishing off several cups of coffee on the second day of our first trip to the Air Force Annex, we all headed toward the marina. On the way, a handful of hefty whitetail bucks and more than a dozen does, with their latest spring fawns, paused for a sip of water while strolling along the rocky shoreline.
When we arrived at the parking lot, we unloaded the vehicles and lugged our gear toward the docks. Our buddy, Ed, slipped and almost fell on the metal ramp, leading down to the marina.
I grabbed his arm and helped steady him before turning toward the others behind me. “Careful. The ramp’s slick from the morning’s dew.” One-by-one, eight happy souls marched down the docks and stepped onto John’s pontoon boat, where we set our tackle and other pertinent gear in place.
Our commandant, Jerry, rang out the orders, and we followed suit. The first chore on his mental list was quite obvious. Can’t catch fish without good ole fashion bait.
He pointed toward the shallow portion of the cove, “I think we’ll have the best shot at catching shad over there.” Our leader slid behind the steering wheel and guided the craft along the shoreline. Within a couple of minutes, he cut the engine.
Whistling as he strolled toward the bow, Jerry lowered the trolling motor into the water. “Pay attention, you rookies. I’m going to teach you the proper way to catch shad. Andy, grab that pail and get ready to put it next to me when I tell you.”
Being the newest rookie to boot, every time Jerry barked an order, I dutifully replied, “Yes, Sir!” Of course, I couldn’t resist adding a smirky glance, every time I did it. Knowing I was just being a goofball, he’d simply roll his eyes with a frown.
That was one of the things I truly liked about Jerry. He was great at taking things with a grain of salt and enjoying the moment. Most of us, who stood by him no matter what, did so because he was a man true to his word.
Our commandant led by example -- none of that “do as I say, not as I do” bull crap. He possessed many great traits, and one of his best was his ability to tell hilarious jokes with impeccable timing to lighten the mood.
With such a mentor to admire, I gladly helped him untangle a large, round net, with weights distributed around the perimeter. When done, he draped a couple of folds over one arm, while gripping the outer edge with the other. Before I knew it, he spun full-circle and flung the net out over the boat.
The heavy weights immediately dove deep into the water, dragging the netting with them. Our master fisherman waited a second or two before jerking the center rope tight, while pulling it upward, hand-over-fist as fast as he could.
When the fresh haul broke the lake’s surface, I spotted several shiny baitfish, ferociously wiggling in a fruitless attempt to escape their unforeseen trap. Jerry quickly quipped, “Get that pail closer to me, Andy.”
As I placed it in position, he raised the net high and centered it over the orange, five-gallon bucket, before releasing the contents. Most of the shad landed in their new prison, as their captor vigorously shook the net. A few hopeful escapees flopped on the carpeted deck for a couple of seconds.
I quickly scooped the stragglers up and tossed them into the bucket to return with their other classmates, from the school with which they had been swimming. We repeated the process four or five more times, until the bucket was almost full.
Jerry smiled. “That ought to do it.” While we secured everything so they wouldn’t fly out of the boat, he hollered. “Let's go set out the jugs!”
After lifting the trolling motor from the water, he returned to the pilot seat and started the engine. Off we slowly cruised passed the marina.
As soon as we cleared the “No Wake” buoys, he pushed the accelerator forward, and the Yamaha engine roared. The pontoons skimmed across the calm water's surface.
We zipped easterly, along the main lake channel to the spot where we had set out 100 numbered jugs in a straight line, the day before. Each white container floated on the surface and was anchored in place by a long, stout fishing line, tied to a heavy weight that was firmly rooted in the muddy river bottom. Two stainless steel hooks were strategically placed one foot apart from the donut-shaped weight at the end of the line.
As we approached the bobbing jugs, Jerry glanced at the rest of us. “We could use a couple of volunteers. I need a hooker and a masterbaiter.”
Scrunching our faces, we looked at each other, then I asked, “What in the world does a hooker and masterbaiter have to do?”
A sly grin creased his lips. “Ain’t you ever heard of a hooker before?”
I chuckled. “Of course, I have, but I don’t know what that has to do with fishing.”
He laughed out loud. “See that thing?” Our commandant pointed at a long, wooden handle with a huge, metal hook attached at one end.
“Yeah? What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Well, when I pull the boat up next to the first jug, you snag the line underneath it with that hook and quickly retrieve it, while one of these other guys grabs the jug. Hopefully, there’ll be a catfish or two on the hooks. If so, they’ll remove the fish and toss ‘em in those blue tubs.”
He pointed at two large, cylindrical contraptions. “When the hooks are clear, they’ll hand them to the masterbaiter.”
“Okay, but what does the masterbaiter…” Just as the next word was about to exit my lips, it dawned on me. “Ah, he puts the bait on the hooks! Now I’ve got it!”
Jerry smirked, “It’s about time, Rookie!”
As we approached each jug, I snagged them and swung the long-handled hook toward the other helpers, who removed fish and added more bait. While we conducted our work, Jerry kept the boat spinning in a tight circle around the spot where we picked up the jug, so we could drop it in a straight line with the others, when ready.
We repeated the cycle as we continued to check the remaining jugs. At first, we conducted ourselves like a perfect combination of the Keystone Cops, listening to instructions from Abbott and Costello. We were totally out of sync and couldn’t remember who was doing what. Finally, after we haphazardly dealt with half of the jugs, we began clicking like a finely oiled machine.
When we encountered a missing jug, Jerry called out. “Looks like a big catfish or striper took off with it. Remember that number, and we’ll search for the jug when we’re done checking all of the others.”
While we dutifully worked, we’d all rib each other and tell whopping fish tales to pass the time. Our commandant called out several more orders, and after about 20 “Yes, Sirs” from me, Jerry shot one of those, I'm-about-to-throw-you-overboard kinda glares.
I gulped. Oops, I better not push it any farther. Smiling big, I looked him in the eye. “Just kidding.” From then on, I was a good little rookie and behaved myself, sorta.
After checking the last jug, we searched the area and shorelines for the one that got away. It took a while, but we finally located it. By then Garry had switched with me, and he took over as hooker while I helped get our bounty off the hooks.
As Jerry pulled alongside the stray jug, Garry hooked it and immediately hollered, “It’s a big one! I could use a little help!”
I rushed to his side, and while struggling a bit, he lifted the line toward me. I reeled it in hand over fist until I spotted the first hook. It was clean as a whistle, but I could see the brute of a catfish on the last one.
I yelled, “It’s huge!”
The hefty prize pulled hard as I continued to retrieve it from the depths. In the excitement, I lost track of the first hook, and the monster catfish kicked its tail and jerked the slimy line right through my hands. The line zipped through my slippery grip, and the forgotten hook sunk its sharp point and barb all the way through the second knuckle of my middle finger.
I screamed. “Ahhh! The hook went through my finger!”
My eyes bulged to the point of almost popping out of my head, as I stared at my injury. The long, thick shank was firmly planted directly in the center of my knuckle. Blood dripped from the curved portion of the stainless-steel shank, where the point and barb protruded all the way through to the other side of my painful appendage.
The others hurried to my side and grabbed the line to help secure the dastardly fish. While I was still tethered to the frightened creature, every time the blasted sucker whipped its tail, it shot another round of torment through my knuckle and up my arm.
I hollered, “Careful with that thing! My finger’s killing me!”
Finally, after my friends lugged the huge catfish onboard, they snipped the line to the hook, still firmly impaling through my finger. Unperturbed, Jerry looked at the others. “Any of you got any wire cutters?”
LeeRoy, a man that weighed a jolly 300 pounds in the least, rummaged through his tackle box. “Here, this is the best I’ve got!”
He grabbed a small wire cutter and promptly placed each of its sharp jaws around the shank of the hook and began squeezing it. The wimpy blades barely scratched the thick stainless-steel metal, so he began jerking it with each squeeze.
Every time he yanked it side-to-side, the hook sent another series of tortuous pain through my knuckle. After a couple more jerking sessions, I glared at LeeRoy and growled. “Stop it, you idiot! You ain’t doing a d@#$ bit of good!”
I probably shouldn’t have snapped at him, but at that moment, I was in no mood to be polite. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Normally, I loved the big oaf, but he totally ignored me and kept jerking the wire cutters.
Growing madder than a hornet, I grabbed his wrist with my free hand and shot a hateful glare.” You do that one more time, I’m gonna kill you!”
Totally shocked by my reaction, his jaw dropped as the tool fell to the floor. One of the other guys blurted, “I once read where you can tie a fishing line to the curve of the hook and yank it fast and hard. Maybe we should try that!”
By that time, my blood was boiling and if eyes could kill, I’m sure mine had that guy squirming in his boots. I shot more daggers at everybody on the boat and snarled, “Any of you touch that hook again, you’re going to die! You hear me?”
From the expressions on their faces, they clearly understood. With my finger throbbing, I turned toward Jerry. “Take us back to shore. I’m going to the hospital, so they can cut this thing off.
My good buddy, Ed, immediately replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you there.”
John piloted the boat, while the commandant gave us directions to the nearest town with a hospital. As soon as we reached shore, my chauffeur and I quickly disembarked and hit the road.
Ed pushed the speed limits as his tan Chevy Suburban zoomed along the roads. Most of the way there, I bit my lip and closed my eyes while doing the best I could to tough out the pain.
Since we started out from the middle of nowhere, it took us an hour to finally reach our destination. We ran into the emergency entrance and to the closest desk, where I held out my finger for the lady to see.
The friendly woman shook her head. “Oh boy. That looks nasty.”
Smiling, she handed me a clipboard with three sheets of paper and a pen. “Have a seat over there and fill out these forms. When done, bring them back to me.”
Ed wrote while I gave him the particulars, and he returned the completed forms. Several minutes later, a nurse took us to one of the makeshift rooms, enclosed with blue, cloth drapes.
When the doctor arrived, he took one look at the hook and turned toward the nurse. “Get me the saw.”
I gasped. A saw? It better not be a big one!
After examining the wound for a moment, the physician looked up at me. “How did you manage to do this? It must hurt quite a bit.”
Several rather crude responses came to mind, but I bit my tongue. Better not piss him off if he’s doing the cutting. He might decide to take the finger with it.
Trying to remain polite, I forced the tiniest grin I could muster. “A huge catfish jerked, while I tried to bring him in, and the slimy line slipped through my hands.”
As he grabbed a vial and syringe, he replied, “I’m going to deaden the pain so I can remove the hook and treat your wound.”
By that time, my finger had ballooned quite large and every time he penetrated that needle near the knuckle, it stung like the dickens -- not quite as bad as the hook, but more pain than I cared for at that moment.
The nurse returned and handed him a tool, with a little circular blade at the end. He looked me in the eye. “This won’t take long. I’m going to cut the hook here and pull the shank back through your finger after it cools.”
At that point, nothing could hurt any worse than what I had already endured. Here goes. I held my breath and intently watched the man slice through the stainless steel with ease.
He lifted his head. “See. That wasn’t so bad. Now, we’ll let that cool a minute or so, and I’ll pull it back through your knuckle. You won’t feel a thing.”
Yeah, sure. I had heard those words way too many times in my life to start believing them now.
After waiting a bit, he slid the shank through the wound without the slightest twinge of pain. A huge sigh escaped my lips. Thank you, Lord!
The friendly nurse cleaned and treated the bloody hole in my knuckle from both sides and wrapped a mesh bandage around my finger. Afterward, she explained how I needed to clean and dress the injury during the days that followed. After checking out at the payment desk, Ed and I headed back to the parking lot.
More than three hours had passed before my good buddy and I returned to the cabins at the Annex. As soon as we entered the door, everybody took turns giving me the business. “What took so long? You hooked yourself just to get out of all the hard work! Man, you are a rookie. Did you cry, when the doctor removed the hook?”
On and on they went, and all I could do was take it. Anything I’d do to try to deny any of their claims would only be met with more harassment.
When they finally grew silent, I smiled at Ed, and he returned the same. A sly grin grew wide across my face as I smirked. “Well, it probably wouldn’t have taken so long, if we hadn’t stopped at the casino.”
Each of our companions took turns interrogating me. “What? Where did you find a casino? You’re telling us you were playing, while we were slaving down at the marina, as we cut up the filets? You’re kidding, right?”
Ed and I grinned big as my buddy replied. “He's not joking. We had to wait for the prescription, and there was a casino, calling to us from across the road. We figured we might as well have fun for half an hour, rather than sit in a stupid chair doing nothing.” We both chuckled.
For the rest of the day, they complained about us skipping out on them to have fun while they worked. Of course, Ed and I kept rubbing it in with pleasure.
During the remaining couple of days, we checked all the jugs and baited the hooks three times daily. We caught so many catfish we were all tired of pulling them in and fileting them afterward.
Four of us operated the electric knives, while the others packed them in plastic bags. By the time we finished at the end of the day, the knives were so hot it was difficult to hold them while slicing the filets.
As we headed out for the final check on the last day, we were so weary we actually prayed that we wouldn't find any more catfish. God must have spotted all of our shenanigans during the trip and decided to ignore our requests. Almost every jug had one and sometimes two captives at the end of a hook for us to retrieve.
Even though we were worn to the bone, Jerry refused to allow our spirits to be dampened. As John piloted the boat back toward the marina, our commandant opened a compartment door of the vessel.
He retrieved a spanking new Marine Corp. flag, attached to a short wooden pole. As we pulled near the marina, we all belted out the Marine’s hymn: “From the Halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli….”
Since we were at the Air Force Annex, we were certain our glorious singing would prick the goat of all flyboys in hearing distance. Sure enough, a handful ran to the edge of the docks and shook their fists at us in jest.
By then, word had spread about all the catfish we had been bringing in after each trip, and several of the other fishermen stood by and watched. Some even pitched and helped us, as we turned our bounty into filets.
All-in-all, we ended up with over 1,000 pounds of filets, packed with ice in huge white coolers. As was tradition, we used a small portion of our catch for a fish fry on our last night, to end our trip on a high note.
Jerry led the way in demonstrating the proper way to season the cornmeal breading and heat the oil in the fryers to the proper temperature to prepare our meal to perfection. When done with our tasty feast, we all pitched in to clean and put away the dishes.
After that, we enjoyed a final evening of poker and eventually called it a night. Even though our stay had come to an end, we all had a blast.
None of us had trouble sleeping that night. We were too doggone tired.
We enjoyed several more trips over the years, and most times, we’d bring home plenty of filets for a fish fry or two, that earned enough money for a few of our activities to help the community, especially the Toys for Tots program.
Presently, many of our fun-loving comrades have already passed along and reside peacefully in Heaven. They are sorely missed, and I, like the few fishing buddies who still remain here on Earth, certainly look forward to seeing our heavenly brethren again, but hopefully not too soon.
**********
That's it for now. I hope you enjoyed the latest of my experiences.
Thank you so much for your wonderful support!
Andy Skrzynski
Our motley fishing crew from left to right: John, Dan, Ed, Jerry, Shelby, LeeRoy, Garry, John, and Ralph. I'm behind the camera. We're all standing near the ramp, close to the Air Forces Annex marina on the Texas side of Lake Texoma.
Our commandant and great friend, Jerry, piloting John's pontoon boat.
Our wonderous leader, Jerry, showing us rookies the proper way to catch shad as bait for the catfish we desired for our fish fry benefits.
Jerry, piloting the boat. Starting from the back, left to right: John, Ed, LeeRoy, Andy with his hand up in the air, guy in blue shirt (can't remember guest's name), Garry in the light green jacket.
Dan (orange coat), Shelby (red), and Big Bad John (green).
The bounty of catfish after just one run of checking our 100 jugs three times a day, every three hours or so. The huge catfish in the picture weighed in at a whopping 52 pounds. When a catfish is larger than your leg, you know it's a BIGGIE!!! That sucker is the one that drove that large stainless-steel hook through the knuckle of my middle finger. Left to right: LeeRoy, Jerry, John, and Garry -- yes, this Garry has two "r's."
LeeRoy, holding one of the many catfish shown, after one of our runs to check the 100 jugs three times daily. This monster catfish weighed 52 pounds and is the one that drove a large stainless-steel hook through the knuckle of my middle finger. To this day, more than a decade later, you can see the hole in the middle of a large callas that was left in the wake of the healed injury.
Seagulls would follow our boat several times on trips out and back in from our chores of checking the jugs for catfish.
Jerry, demonstrating how to filet the catfish with an electric knife. Nothing went to waste. We'd toss the remains of the catfish, after we filleted them, over the rail, where LeeRoy is standing. Turtles, seagulls, and other scavenger fish would pick the bones clean.
Jerry Penrod, leading by example and showing us how to properly fry the fish for our final meal of the trip.
LeeRoy, a jolly ole friend who always smiled -- no matter what!!!