when i grow up

I now know what I want to do with my life.
It's taken me the better part of 41 years to realize it, and with a simple click of a mouse while looking for an old influence, I found the road map.
In the spring of 1989, I drove up Route 86 just outside of Lake Placid, N.Y, and parked my Subaru on the side of the road where there was a clear, but adventurous, path down past and between a few boulders so colossal that only God Himself could have rolled them into place on the fabled Au Sable River. If I slipped, I not only would have lost the first fly fishing rod I ever owned (an old fiberglass Fenwick), I would have lost my life.
At the time, it didn't seem to matter much. I was in my early twenties and recently divorced. I was flunking several courses in college, and because of the tumultuous one-year relationship that technically ended with a priest from her church annulling it — as if it never happened — I had to forgo an internship at Adirondack Life magazine, which, at the time, epitomized the my goal in life: to write about life in a natural place.
And that morning, as the sun strained to eclipse the tall peaks and the river was separated from air only through a thick silt of gray fog, I slipped into the river as gently as a great blue heron stalking his prey.
In my ten dollar Kmart rubber boots and a green felt Orvis hat that I couldn't have been more proud of, I waded close to the bank, but just far enough to avoid getting my fly line hung up in the trees above.
These are trophy waters, meaning no trout under a foot long could be kept. That didn't matter to me because the last thing I would expect to happen to a novice such as me would be that I would catch any fish in the raging spring trophy waters of the most prolific trout stream east of the Mississippi, but even if I did happen to graze dumb luck, the ideal conservationist that I was wouldn't have allowed me to keep the fish, legal or not.
But God decided to begin my love affair with the river where another such relationship dried up. At the end of my line, a pretty little rainbow, a foot long, give or take an inch.
I didn't know how to land him. Born into a family of bait-casters, I reeled the fish in. Somehow, the barbless hook held and into my hand was the spectacular fish.
I removed the hook with little damage, held him in the water to keep his gills pumping, smiled and let him go.
That was the first and last trout I'd catch on the mighty Au Sable. It was dumb luck, I know, but all the same, it was one of the greatest fishing memories in the North Country.
I, fingers frozen, toes numb, spirit resilient, was victorious, maybe even invincible.
After a few hours more of swatting at the water, I climbed the boulders back out of the river in which I was just baptized a fly fisherman, and headed back to the little four-wheel drive Subaru.
I slipped out of the waders, got dry, hit the engine and turned on the heat. I flipped a Gordon Lightfoot tape into the cassette deck. I was genuinely happy.
And hungry.
I decided I'd take the long way back to my apartment near the college campus. The route would take me to Lake Placid, the site of the 1980 Winter Olympics — the one known for the Miracle on Ice. I might stop for a beer, then head north toward Saranac before hanging a right on Route 3 back to Plattsburgh. It was a long trip, but I love adventure, and if adventure means driving through mean, snowy terrain, so be it.
Just outside Placid, Route 86 winds along the edges of Whiteface Mountain. It splits some of the tall peaks of the Adirondacks, and is flanked by gorge on one side and the most breathtaking stands of white birch I've ever seen.
This is what the road to Heaven looks like, I'm convinced.
But up on the left with a clear view of the Au Sable, a kitschy little roadside fly shop stood, inviting passers-by to stop in. On the side of the building, someone had made a humorous mural of a woman in a short, pink skirt and cowboy hat fishing, but the fly hook had caught the back of her skirt, and, well, you can imagine the rest.
As I strode through the door still high from the trophy fish I caught, a man sat in a flannel shirt hunkered over a table where a number of flies and hackle lay.
By nature, I'm an introvert. I'm not the guy who strikes up witty conversations or brags about the fish he's caught. I'll talk, and I'll talk about the fish even, but I'm pretty low key as far as being the initiator of a conversation.
Fran Betters is, however, and it wouldn't have taken a clairvoyant to know that I was fresh from the Au Sable. Hell, the only folks who probably wandered in were fresh from the river. Or they were looking for a bathroom.
He asked if I did any good, and I told him I got one and threw it back. He nodded. I didn't tell him it was my first time in the river, but I should have. From the stories I've heard, Fran is a very paternal sort of fellow. One who takes time to give advice and feed your addiction. He's got a whole fly shop, complete with custom rods, namesake flies and a shelf of books that he authored himself to prove it.
I left the shop with a handful of Au Sable Wulff flies that are his patent and a book, "Fly Fishing in the Adirondacks." He autographed it for me, and today, it sits on a shelf with all the other fishing books I own, but his is pretty special, and not simply because he signed it.
The book sparked sort of a revolution in me, one that was culminating in that day or at least fixing to erupt. It was an independence I could experience only in nature, and one that was personified greatly standing in a river with a fly rod. For if bait casting is checkers, then fly fishing was chess. It was a game, one that moved very slowly, that took a great deal of thought — and not just when you're waist-deep in technical waters; but when you're driving around listening to Gordon Lightfoot on your way to or from the river, near the river, or anywhere that reminds you that this invisible shadow we call our souls is, indeed, a fisherman.
My father was this man. And that apple, which had rolled some three-hundred miles from that tree, was too.
So on April 30, 2008, not quite a month before a spring jaunt back into the Adirondacks to visit family, my father-in-law and I will venture out into the still-cold streams, rivers and lakes to maybe or maybe not catch a fish. It's a ritual at least once a year that I fish when we visit the in-laws. There are a lot of good bodies of water up that way, after all.
But it's been awhile, and I thought I'd check in with some local fly shops to see what patterns I either need to buy or tie, depending on the extra time I may or may not have in the next week or so.
So I searched for Fran's shop online. Now, I haven't been to his store since the late 'eighties, and not that he was old when I met him, but years that go by have a cruel way of erasing people and places if you lose track of them. Living in South Carolina for the past nine years, it was safe to say that I'd lost track of Mr. Betters.
But there he was, online, a picture of him flanked by the typical buttons of an online shopping page. Flies, custom rods, books, tips, charts and such. But there was a note that sort of troubled me. After 44 years, Fran was getting out of the Adirondack Sport Shop. I was troubled because I probably wouldn't have the chance to drive up and see him, not that he'd remember me. My son, who is nearing one year old, wouldn't remember it if I brought him. I probably couldn't buy one of Frans custom poles or one of his own hand-tied flies, which, no joke, are collectors' items.
Then I noticed that Fran was selling the place. The whole thing: the shop, the restaurant, the lodge, the apartments. Now, all I remember was the tacky fly shop — nothing more. But it seems in that time lost, Fran had relocated just up the road and had acquired the other outposts.
I could do this, I thought to myself. In fact, it would be perfect. I could run the shop, learn to tie the flies and build the rods (Fran, himself, offered to do just that in the ad) and in the winter, I could write. My father-in-law could help tie flies. Other family members could help run the place. My bride could continue her free-lance writing career. My son could grow up on the banks of a fantastic river. Maybe he'd take over the shop one day. I could cook. I could have money pouring in from the lodge and apartments. I can't lose.
Of course, there's the capital investment part... My 401(k) and savings account probably isn't enough to do the trick.
But in my heart, I know I could do this.
Now, if I could only get an investor...

johnson skipper 125

I don't know how old I was, or whether I opened a long package tied up in gift wrap one Saturday morning. I don't know if the rod and reel inside that wrap was new or used, if it was old and had been polished by my dad or whether he bought it one night while he moonlighted selling lawn equipment at the Montgomery Ward just up the road from our house.
In fact, I don't remember the first time I cast it or the last time. I wish I knew where it was today.
But I do know the reel was a Johnson Skipper 125, closed bail with the little thumb trigger on it, and it was green and sort of an off-white with a white handle.
The rod it was attached to might have been 3 or four feet. It was a two-piece, though; I remember this because Dad had shown me how to rub the tip of the ferrule behind my ear to get it good and greasy so that it would slide into the female barrel. It, too, was sort of an off-white with a tint of green to it, like an Easter egg that was taken from the green food-coloring dye way too early. It had red threaded wraps around the shiny steel guides.
On my desk at work, there is a photograph of that rod and that reel in the small and clumsy hands of maybe a five- or six-year old boy. But the rod is holding steady because my father's right hand is gently guiding it as we fish off a small bridge over the Erie Canal near a place called Poverty Flats in Central New York.
Although I can remember my first open bale reel — a brand called Match, which my dad thought was Mitchell when we bought it from an old fly-tier who worked out of his garage a mile or so from our house. It was green, just like a Mitchell, and the style of lettering was very similar. Of course the price was far cheaper, and Dad thought we got a great deal on it.
I couldn't tell you how happy I was to have a better reel than the Montgomery Ward Speed-King my dad used; he even told me so.
It's been years since I had replaced the Mitchell, or Match, but I never noticed that it wasn't the real deal until a year or so ago, when I pulled it from an old fishing box that my dad gave to me, and looked at the label. I was half expecting to find a vintage Mitchell from 1972 or so. I found a Match.
I never bothered to search for the brand on the Internet; 35 years later, it hardly matters. I still have that reel, and it means the world to me, even though it doesn't work anymore.
The box in which it sits is an old wooden box, a bit bigger than a shoe box, with a picture of a tall ship shellacked onto it. Inside are several old reels; Shakespeares, Speed-Kings, Pfluegers and the old Match. Each reel has a story, and none every worked for me except the Match, which, of course, no longer works either.
The Shakespeare is the one my dad used for years and years as we plunked from stream to river to pond to lake all over the wilderness of Central New York. The Speed-Kings are baitcasters, and I never recall my dad ever fishing with those. They make great paperweights, though. The Pflueger "was retired," my dad used to say. It was a wedding present from Mom. That one's very special to me.
The one reel that's not in the box, however, is the Johnson. Why did I memorize that model? Why can I close my eyes and feel it in my hand? Why do I feel very close to my dad when I think about it? He's been gone from this good earth for more than a decade, and I hadn't fished with it since I was maybe six or seven.
I do remember the day that picture was taken, although, for the life of me, I can't remember who took the picture. Girls weren't allowed, so it wasn't one of my four sisters and definitely not my mom. It could have been my Uncle Fritz. In fact, I'd bet my life that it was. Or it could have been my dad's best friend, Lenny Sasso. He had a daughter, so, naturally, she never came.
Man, that photo — my dad's grin was ear to ear. It's the way I most remember him: A smile as though it started somewhere far down deep in his soul, gained steam in his heart, and like a full-body exhale of pride and satisfaction, lit up his face. Even the bushy mustache couldn't hide it.
A little boy's memory of such an occasion shouldn't be messed with. So if anyone reads this and remembers something from that day, don't bother telling me; I don't want to know. Because today, it's as close to a perfect memory — one of millions — that I have. It's a close a reflection as heaven as I can imagine.
The love for the outdoors and fishing had been instilled in me by Saturday mornings such as these. And even walking into the garage to look at my fishing tackle hanging from the wall on any given day sparks feelings of pride — a connection to my father that is so strong, it's profound to even discuss, let alone write about.
A social psychologist may link it to the ritual of hunting and gathering, a skill and art passed down from father to son, instilled young as we watch and learn to survive. Maybe that's bunk. Maybe it's just the enormous and swollen pride that my father felt as we hopped in the car on a Saturday morning to adventure off to uncharted territory, free to eat cheeseburgers at greasy diners, listen to the radio loud and bang on the dashboard, trespass on property and fish in rivers that only the Mohawk Indians every fished in, so he'd tell me as he kicked the shale underfoot to uncover a genuine Mohawk arrowhead, as if on cue.
I can honestly say that I couldn't have written this memoir a year ago. While the reel has been on my mind since the day it was presented to me, I didn't know the feeling of pride and heritage that it was packaged with. That is until I had a boy of my own nearly 11 months ago.
Kostyn Orrie shares the middle name of my dad's first name by no mistake. I have plans for us two. And they involve retelling the tales my own father told me when I was just a boy. They involve us ramrodding the unpaved roads of this world until they end at a trout stream or a bass hole, where we will fish, eat wild berries and catch fish.
So today, out of these fond memories and the promises of days fishing together, I searched and searched and found what I was looking for.
A Johnson Skipper 125. There it was, sitting behind the glass of an Internet shopping store. It was listed under the vintage items, and I would have paid $300 for it.
It was, however, not quite five bucks. The postage is four bucks. Funny thing is that it's only barely used, still with the box. And it's the same exact model that I had back in 1969 or 1970.
Despite that my son is too young to use the reel, and even when he is old enough, he might not understand the significance of an old green reel when all his friends have bright gold Penns, my heart will glow.
He may not cry when it breaks, and someday he'll probably forget he even held it in his hands.
But maybe he will.
Either way, I'll make it a point to keep it running, just like my dad did, and when he retires it, I'll put it in that old box and maybe someday, he'll pick it up, spin it in his hands a few times and smile.

hoping for obx, already

After 42 years, here's what I learned about the difference between men and women:
Men hope and women plan.
I hope I can go fishing this fall. A woman would plan on it and make it happen.
Back when I was younger, I noticed that my girlfriends paid all their bills on time, made it through college (or hadn't dropped behind...) in four years (or less), drove solid cars and maintained friendships from birth, you know, they were born on the same day in the same hospital and they've been best friends for life...
Me? I came out of my $200 no-heat apartment one frigid Catskill day to find the repo man towing my Jeep, it took me six years at three colleges to rack up enough credits, I drove cars that afforded me the chance to hitch hike more than offer rides and I can't remember a soul from high school whom I've kept in touch with.
I hoped I'd have money to pay the next month's rent or that Jeep payment, and I had hoped to graduate from college before I turned 22, I hoped that CV joint would last just another six miles instead of braving some desolate old logging trail in the middle of the Adirondacks at sundown after a long, hard day of fly fishing and I hoped that when I went to my 25-year high school reunion (it's next year), that folks would remember me.
I probably won't go.
But I hope to.
So as I was carving up my three weeks' vacation from my job at the newspaper, I began figuring out which days I'd drag some friends back to the Outer Banks. I think I landed on October 16 weekend.
I e-mailed Jerry and Jim. Jerry's definitely in (I could tell him it's tomorrow, and he'd start driving today), and Jim is planning it. Even though it's only April.
This might be an odd year simply because none from the original contingent will be there. That is, Bob or BJ. Bob would probably go, but that's another story. BJ, well, he is choosing fishing in Belize for OBX. Can't say as I blame him. Then there's the second-generation folks, and Jerry definitely qualifies. Ian's out (another baby on the way). Thing about Jerry and Jim is that they'll be coming in from the North, and me, the South. So that means me driving alone.
Which is OK. I have enough Led Zeppelin to get me there. And, honestly, I like driving alone. A lot. I drove to New York by myself before, and down to Florida. I drove to Tennessee, too. It gives me a lot of time to think, pray, sing at the top of my lungs and just generally miss people.
And that's a good thing.
It's an eight-hour ride to the banks, and maybe I'll take the ferry. I'll go over my fishing gear head to toe and any other supplies I'm bringing. I'll wish that we were roughing it to make it more adventurous (then again, some of the roach motels we stay in are an adventure of their own. Pirates would call it them dives).
I'll leave butt-early. Butt-early is generally before 4 a.m. That way, the moon will be high, and although it will be maybe 55 degrees, I'll watch the moon through my open moon roof in the Blazer. I'll drink tankards of coffee. I'll get excited when the silvery dawn slices up on the horizon and the giant sun makes the Carolina morning golden.
I'll think that in just a few hours I'll have my line in the water, hoping to have landed a couple of nice striped sea bass or spotted sea trout or maybe a red drum or bluefish and a buzz before Jerry and Jim make it in.
"Where the hell you been?" I'll ask, telling them that there's beer in the red cooler, even though that's the fish cooler, so when they open it, they'll see they should have been here four hours ago.
"Where'd you buy these?" they'll ask.
Surf casting is an amazing time, except when there's a hurricane and the wind is blowing 50-plus knots in your face, sand notwithstanding. That was last year. It has to be better this year.
And there's nothing like landing some big red drum or bluefish, fighting the fish in the surf. Except for maybe the trout on a seven-foot light rig, 10 pound test. You're definitely going to eat the trout, so the 10 minutes it takes to land him isn't going to fight him to death.
After a solid day of fishing and more on the horizon, the first supper, consisting of fried trout, bluefish, red drum, whatever, is always the best.
Early to bed and early to rise, fish, fish, fish till the sun sets.
That's living.
When we've run out of time and/or money, we'll shake hands and hit the trail. That will be a very lonely eight hours back, playing the scenes from four days of fishing on the banks over and over in my mind, yet anticipating seeing my bride and baby boy back home.
And wishing I had four vacation days more just to spend with them.
And we'll talk about next year, where we'll stay, who will meet there, where we'll be.
And that right there is hope, and hope will turn into some sort of loose plan, and we'll make it there and back somehow, and, hopefully, for years to come.

fish and tell

I like talking with other fishermen. Some of them, anyway.
What I've found is that most fishermen around here don't fish and tell. Well, they tell you what kind of fish they caught, but when you ask them where they caught them, they'll pinch their mouth with their finger and say, "Right about here," simulating the hook in the mouth of the fish they just caught.
Fishermen can be really secretive to the point where you barely believe them. Then they show you the photo, or, worse, the fish.
Me, I like to share. And for a second, it pains me to reveal the fishing hole from which I plucked a very fine trout or redfish. Then I get over it. Quickly, too.
Why? Simple. Because anyone who thinks there is just one place on earth meant for him or her to fish, that one place where he or she just fits, connects, aligns, well, that's a pretty boring world, even if it is just a fishing hole.
I think what it comes down to is this: If I get out to a favorite spot and it's elbow to elbow, I've been sedentary too long. Just like in the workaday world, you snooze, you lose. If you do the same thing over and over, you're really not growing.
That may sound like psycho-babble, but I don't think it is. Fact is, someone took pity on me as I stood on the bank of a river void of life a few weeks back and told me of a place where the trout were hitting.
The following week, I caught a 16-inch spotted sea trout on a fly rod, and I was happy.
So I paid it forward, so to speak, and when a fishing buddy I only know from the Internet told me his family had a place on a nearby island, I let him know where that fish was taken and how to get to it.
I don't expect that he'll reciprocate — that's the whole point of karma, or at least giving selflessly, right? But if he does, well, I'd listen. Which got me to thinking. Each Saturday when I cruise out to that said fishing spot, I cross over another that's at least 10 miles closer to home and think, "Well, there are bound to be trout in there."
In fact, I know damn well that there are — I've seen them myself. I was kayaking with a buddy last summer and the trout were tailing in less than a foot of water. Our hulls were starting to get hung up, and when we looked ahead, we saw the fish going nuts on a school of shrimp that were flitting by, even landing in our kayaks.
A former boss of mine also told me he used to strike the motherlode on that very creek. So why haven't I fished there? You got it: I was too comfortable in the old spots. Maybe I'll get the kayak out next weekend...

So, last weekend, I brought my father-in-law, Tom, out to a place I hadn't fished yet, but was told there was some action. We went right at dead low tide — couldn't have timed it better — marched through a half-mile of plough mud, spartina and oysters, and we reached the bank.
The wind was blowing solid at about 20 knots, and out flies were being spat back in our faces. At one point, Tom hooked himself. Me, I lost two to brittle wind knots. And one was my favorite shrimp pattern.
Needless to say, we got skunked. Worse, we were sore as could be. Tom did almost hook a curious snapping turtle, but we're both glad that didn't happen. Not sure how we would have unhooked that without losing a digit or two.
After an hour and a half, we gave up, and went back to the fishing hole that I did all right in the week before.
The wind was still too big a factor, and after hiking nearly a mile, we were ready to pack it in. (Note: This story doesn't have a happy fish-catching ending, so if you want to skip to the next blog, I wouldn't blame you. There is, what I imagine, some intrinsic value coming up, but I wouldn't count on a life-changing experience.) The morning's coffee was cold. Tom drank his; I nearly gagged on mine.
We studied the landscape on the half-hour ride back to the house — the spartina was that early spring kelly green, the blue sky reflected in the water and the sun danced playfully on the wet plough mud, looking like billions of diamonds glistening. The windows were down, it was 80 degrees by 10:30 a.m.
And as we crossed the Chowan Creek, I said barely loud enough, "There's supposed to be some good fish in there, too."
Tom glanced off to his right and remarked that we could stop the truck and walk just a few yards down the bank and probably do all right.
Why push it, I thought. Maybe next weekend.

against all odds

I woke up at 6:55 on Saturday morning to slate-gray skies, tides higher than normal and 20-knot winds. I thought for a second of leaving the Blazer in the driveway, even if it was all ready to go, and sleeping in.
When I walked down the trail to a pretty easy-accessible fishing spot down on Hunting Island, I realized I was the first on the river trail, given that I was clearing all the spiderwebs with my face.
That's a dead-sure sign you're the first. And at 8 a.m. with a cup of coffee in one hand and my 9-foot, 8-weight in the other, I figured worse and better fishermen are getting coffee refills, painting the kitchen or rolling over in bed again, waiting for the weather to pass.
Me, well, I figured I might as well try.
It's the philosophy that drives pretty much everyone around me nuts, because when the weather's bad, the odds are horrible or no one's really into it, in some twisted way, that motivates me.
Every last time.
Motivate might be too strong a word for Saturday morning. My expectations were below low: No fish are going to bite, and I accepted that. But I also knew that there would be a great deal of frustration with casting into a hard wind, getting soaked, sinking into plough mud to get to the river bank (like I said, super-high tide) and probably being too cold or too warm.
Yeah, all of those things happened.
I lost a fly, about half of my leader, my shoulder — I believe — is swelling fro hurling a thread-bound wad of feathers into 30-knot gusts for three hours, my feet hurt from constantly balancing on the dead reeds of spartina that separated me from slipping into the river for a quiet death (who, after all, would ever find me way out here?) and I tripped upon a next of hornets (the kind in the ground) the size of kazoos. All 15 or so of them.
Luckily — no, amazingly — I didn't get stung (or bitten, I forget what hornets do). Of course, when they are 4-inch-long bees, they are bigger targets, and a fly rod can be a deadly weapon.
Trudging through the mud, I realized that I could get stuck on the way out if the tide came up another foot or so, which it was predicted to do.
But I made it to the bank, the wind picking up the salt off the water and whipping it in my face, and I had to let the line out on the back case, which I hate to do simply because there are obstacles behind me (shrubs, scrub, spartina and even a few craggy trees). For the next hour or so, I resolved that this was a practice run. I hadn't been down the bank this far before, and with my father-in-law coming up to visit next week, I figured I'd better scout a few new spots to fish with him, seeing as how we haven't been terribly successful at some of the scenic, yet fish-desolate places I've dragged him to over the years.
Again, if the odds are bad, my motivation increases. It's a sickness, I know this.
By 9 a.m., the tide had changed, the wind was still gusting, but gusts are sporadic, and fish gotta eat, right? I used just one fly all day (well, one fly pattern. As I said, I lost one), a No. 4 lime green and orange rattler minnow that I bought at the Orvis shop downtown. It's a noisy little bugger, and when you give it a good little yank, it becomes pretty spirited and trout are supposed to enjoy that.
And trout like to feed, this time of year, in the deeper troughs near the banks where the food comes to them.
And that's when it hit. I probably only had 10 yards of line out and was jigging the fly near the reeds when a gorgeous trout took it as he was rising. I set the hook like a pro (lucky, I guess), and wanted to take another step into the river, but with the tide spilling over the bank, again, it would have meant a very tough swim or a very easy death. (I wonder if I would have still been holding the fly rod, attached to the line, attached to the fish, when they found me. I'd have hoped so. I could see the coroner shaking his head, "Damned shame. That's a nice fish.")
I reached down with my net and scooped the fish out from the plough mud and reeds. He immediately spat out the fly and clamped down on the catch-and-release net, which got all caught up in his teeth until he started to run out of breath, or water, and finally began gasping.
For a minute there, I thought I was going to have to bring him home. But I picked him up by his gills out of the net, and he measured from the tip of my little finger just below my elbow. That's my unofficial 16-inch measurement, and he was good and plump. Would have made a nice dinner.
But, like I said, my father-in-law is coming up next weekend, and I better leave the fish in the hole for next Saturday.
###
I'm fairly certain that I was the only fisherman out that Saturday morning in Beaufort County. I mean, it looked like a hurricane was coming, and the breeze felt like it too. There were no boats on the horizon and none humming about the protective reeds. No shrimp boats, no crabbers. No one even sitting on a bucket, huddled under a bridge. The Saturday morning fishing shows had high ratings that day.
Me? I held a beautiful, fat trout in my right hand breathing the fresh salt air, looking over miles of marsh grass contrasting brightly against a wet gray sky. And released him.

wanted: boat that floats

The planets aligned last weekend: I'm finally buying a boat.
I've been a proponent of bank fishing, wading, fishing from a kayak or canoe and surf casting from some time now. And it's easier to be a proponent of such green and healthy measures when you don't have a boat nor can you buy one.
Screw that.
But let's back up a second.
I used to have a boat. In fact, I've had two now. Thing is, they were both sailboats.
And I love sailing. The last was a Marshall Sanderling — an 18-foot catboat. Picture a bathtub with a small cabin and a lot of cockpit with the mast at the very bow, gaff-rigged with one 256-square-foot sail.
It was gorgeous.
So gorgeous that some such-and-such stole it.
Now, I practice Christianity, but I will never for give the so-and-so who took my boat and left me to deal (for coming up on a year now) with the boat insurance company, which also is trying to rip me off.
But I'm trying to let it go.
You see, there's something so natural about sailing. To be able to hear the water as it laps at the waterline; to feel the wind as it fills the sails; to smell the old varnish, teak and mahogany, the bilge, the must from the cabin, the salt, the canvass (OK, Dacron).
Enough nostalgia.
Folks down here, well sailboats are called blowboats and aren't functional. I'd beg to differ. The catboat was the American pickup truck of the harbor. The wide and long cockpit was a work deck — for lobster and crab traps and fishing nets. A similar boat, the friendship sloop, was a bigger version, and it saw many a day towing fishing nets across the Chesapeake.
Have I fished from Desiderata? Yes. Often? No. Fact is, it was tough to swing a fly through the air and not get tangled on the mast, sheet or some other line. But I tried.
That was until the sonofabich swiped it from me.
###
But here I sit today with a different dilemma. See, I'm not getting a 17-foot center cockpit skiff (sure, I'd love one; I'm just not going to buy one and not be able to pay for food for my family). What I've decided to get is a jonboat. The pickup truck of motorboats. The 1974 pickup truck, that is.
And I want a small engine, not a large one. No more than 25 horse. I have an old 5 hp Tohatsu that used to push the sailboat right there in my garage. One five-gallon gas tank will probably push her around all summer.
My budget? $1,000 and not a penny more.
Oh, the dilemma? I can't find this boat.
A couple of months ago, I was scanning Craigslist, and there were at least 10 of them around.
Today, there are two: One that doesn't have a motor (but that's OK; like I said, I have one) which lists for $825; and the other, well, it's $1,500.
I'm planning on calling the guy with the $1,500 one and asking him if he'll take $1,000. He probably won't, so, assuming the lesser one is still available, I'll be the guy in the camouflaged fiberglass jonboat with the 5 hp longshaft plying the river banks in search for a trout.
Puff puff...
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There is beauty in utility. I discovered this back in college when I traded a slick Honda Prelude for a Subaru 4x4. It was a former pizza-delivery car, and it was ugly. About the size of a loveseat with 13-inch white wagon wheels.
And it bounded through the snow like a snowshoe hare. And I fell in love with it.
Since then, I've been back and forth with cars (see bossanova for my love affair with the Ford Town Squire station wagon). And in all practical senses, I've stuck with my '01 Blazer simply because it's OK if it smells like fish, it gets me to where I need to go, it can pull a boat and, well, it's got a sunroof.
I don't think of it in the same beautiful utilitarian way that I did the Subaru or my old pickups. Or even the Honda Element that's our "good" car. That's because it breaks down with some degree of regularity, and I can't work on cars with on-board computers.
Now all I need is the boat.
I'm determined, and that counts for something with me. Because when I set my jaw, I'm pretty sure there will be the outcome I want, or at least in the ballpark of that trajectory.
I'll probably be on the boat solo most of the time. So I think I'll cover the front third of the boat in plywood and astroturf, so as to make a nice fly-fishing platform. That way, i can get into the reeds, drop the hook and fish standing up.
I guess that means I'll have to purchase a fishing license.
Other thoughts? I'll probably get a hold of some more sand spikes and fashion a rod holder, for both fly and baitcasters rods. I don't need a fancy live well. A cooler will be fine. There will be no radio, but I will need a dry spot to keep my cell phone in case I need a Coast Guard rescue.
No electronics, no fish finders. I have a hand-held GPS and the sun if I get lost. And I don't plan on being out after the streetlights go on.
I might paint over the camo, though... Just because I'm not that much of a redneck and, well, like I said, the Coast Guard might have to locate me from time to time.
Yep, spring is on the way.