And now (hopefully) the final chapter of this saga.
The next morning I woke up, cracked a beer, fired up a cigar, wandered aimlessly for a bit, destroyed the outhouse, and then heard a bunch of yelling on the beach.
The wind kept picking up as the morning progressed, and the water in front of our beach churned into a mixture of mud and moss. Eventually the boys dragged their ladders out of the surf and decided to look for greener pastures after the midday meal. That “meal” was laid out by The Fat Mooch and his crew, and it consisted of a box of Entenmann’s chocolate donuts, three bags of stale bagels, a tub of warm cream cheese, and some Slim Jims. The Fat Mooch works with my brother, and he manages to invite himself to this trip every year. He’s always the first in line whenever food is being served, but when it’s his turn to provide a meal he throws out some cheap shit he bought last minute at the local mini mart and calls it good. He makes good money, but apparently this is the best he can do. He’s also a snagger, and likes to drop a pair of heavily weighted flies in front of his ladder and then wait for a pod of fish to swim by. Once they’re in range, he gives those flies a “twitch,” and it’s “Fish on, brah!” He never pinches his barbs because that makes it harder to land something when it's stuck in the gut. I guess rocking a flat brim makes all of that OK.
Once we’d finished with our gas station breakfast, Cornholio took off and headed home. The rest of the boys then jumped in their trucks and went in search of cleaner water, while Jerry and I stayed back and guarded camp.
Jerry insists on getting the most out of his gear.
He complained about being all cut up from stripping streamers, so I gave him a finger condom.
At 2:30 I drained my last beer. Fortunately I still had plenty of Hobo Spice on hand.
The wind settled down, and by 4:00 our beach cleared of mud and moss, so Jerry and I decided to fish.
I waded out until I was waist-deep and started casting, and soon noticed schools of fish swimming behind me.
I backed up until I was knee deep, and watched them spook as they swam towards me.
After that I fished from shore.
Which is why I no longer fish from a ladder. Based upon my experience there’s really no need for it.
Plus standing on a ladder reminds me too much of painting. And I hate painting.
We both started off stripping streamers, but after half an hour or so Jerry decided that he'd rather stare at a bobber. That’s when this happened.
It was the closest I got to a fish all weekend.
Soon afterwards the boys returned and my elbow started complaining again, so I headed in.
I mentioned that I was out of beer, and one of the guys brought out a bunch of these.
They were OK, but I’d rather drink Budweiser.
My brother and his buddy Ed then made an additional contribution to the ethnic confusion of our group by preparing a spectacular Mexican feast.
After the feast I dragged my chair to the fire...
… and not long afterwards I dragged my ass to the front seat of my truck and went to sleep.
The next morning I woke up, couldn’t find a beer, couldn’t find a cigar, wandered aimlessly for a bit, destroyed the outhouse, and then packed up my truck and headed home.
Of the fifteen who attended, three didn’t catch anything.
If you only count fish caught in the mouth, then four didn’t catch anything.
And if you were to only count fish caught on streamers, then just about everyone in our group didn’t catch anything.
Maybe I’ll have better luck next year.
Like I give a shit.