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.