Published on 5/26/1995 NAS Lemoore Golden Eagle
Okay
guys, I kind of need some help here. About a year ago, while I was stationed
on the ship, my wife's niece and nephew came to live with us. He's a somewhat
hyperactive five-year-old. Most of the past year I've been stationed away
from home, and a good part of that time I was at sea. Matt has been living
in a household that consisted of his mom, my wife, my teenaged step-daughter
and his sister. Now, while living in this nearly exclusive female household
(did I mention the dog is female?) he's learned a lot of good things about
manners, picking up after himself, and things like that. Everyone agreed,
though, when I got back that I needed to take him in hand and teach him
the "guy" things he can only get from another male.
We have all the basics down pat. We've covered drinking straight from
the jug or pitcher, spitting for distance (his aim needs work), sitting
around in the living room in our underwear watching football, leaving the
toilets seats up, and how to torment his sister when she gets out of line
and only when he's sure he can get away with it. Now comes the part I need
the help with. He wants to go fishing.
I know how to fish, and I've fished all over the country with fair success,
from Michigan to Florida to Oregon. It's been eight years since I've attempted
to fish in the Central Valley, but this is the one place where I've been
skunked. Repeatedly. With only one notable exception.
I had a fishing partner back in those days who shall remain nameless.
Not that I want to spare him any embarrassment, but I just can't remember
his name. We went several places, all which were "sure-fire." I think eventually
it became a point of honor with him to make me catch a fish. I also think
he viewed me as a sort of jinx, for when we went, not only did I get skunked,
but he got skunked also. He claimed to have great luck when I wasn't with
him. I personally never saw him catch a fish. Except that one particular
time.
I especially remember that last time we went fishing. We went to another
of his "sure-fire, never fail to catch a fish" spots. It was up at Pine
Flats. We fished awhile up above the reservoir, and took three snags and
an old shoe. Honest to goodness, just like out of a cartoon, one of us
(again, don't remember who) reeled in an old shoe. A tennis shoe, I think.
Figuring we'd already caught our limit of shoes, we moved down below the
dam to the river. We got skunked. Not a bite or a nibble. Not even the
mate to the shoe we'd already caught. We tried marshmallows, salmon eggs,
worms and minnows. We pulled out some of the most incredible lures, the
kind you can only get out of the tiny ads in the back of fishing magazines
and are guaranteed to attract any fish within fifty miles. Nothing, nada,
zilch, zippo.
Enough was enough. He was determined to prove I could catch a fish.
I'm about to reveal a secret here that for eight years has been more closely
guarded than the original formula for Coca-Cola. We went to a pay lake.
Not just any pay lake. It cost us a few bucks each to get in, and when
we went over to one of the lakes, it turned out to be about the size of
a good-sized swimming pool. The water was crystal clear, and it was teeming
with fish. Tame, trained fish, it turned out. We got hits and caught fish
as fast as we could throw our lines in. I think they would have hit on
a bare hook. At one point they may have. We caught a couple of dozen nice
trout, and had to pay for them on the way out. By the pound, no less. We,
of course, told his wife and my girlfriend what great luck we'd had and
bragged of our skills as anglers. For the skill required, the guys at the
lake may as well have dipped the trout out with a net and handed them to
us.
Which brings me to my current dilemma. I have to take the little guy
fishing, no way around it. Neither one of us needs to come back to this
house full of women empty handed. Our reputations, our very manhood is
at stake here. I can find Pine Flat Dam again, no problem. I can't remember
the name of that pay lake, though. I'm hoping someone can steer me in the
right direction. Just in case, of course.
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