Less Talk, More Fishing!
It’s approaching the end of May, and I’m starting to feel like a kid about to go on his first-ever trip away from home. Yes, it’s time for the second annual fishing trip to the coast, at a location which I’ll give a great big free plug IF we catch all the reds and trout that we can stuff into the cooler. Expectations are running high, as this year’s trout population will have regenerated and their numbers are predicted to be equal to what they were before the Great Hurricane and Fish Kill.
I’ve been taking lessons on casting, with a special side course in setting the hook. Last year I lost several keepers because of my old fresh-water habit of whipping the rod sideways instead of straight back. It was mortifying to watch my partner out-landing me three-to-one, and my competitive nature won’t allow for that to happen again. He also out-beered me by about two-to-one, but I’ll give him that one on account of his weight advantage, This year I’ve bulked up considerably, so I expect to be fully competitive in that category as well. And light beer will be outlawed on our boat, as its only function is converting expensive grain into urine.
But as much as I look forward to the shrimp-drowning, I also hope to enjoy one phase of such a dream trip which that is often overlooked. It’s the the trip there and back. I’m blessed with some of the finest friends a guy could have, and my fishing companion ranks right up there with the best of them. We’ve each had some parallel adventures during our respective lives, and even though most of his have unfortunately been with the Navy, we’ve reached an accommodation whereby a truce has been declared between blue water and blue sky. Gyrenes and Grunts, however are fair game in the never-ending battle of the services. It’s been amazing to discover along the way, that we’ve each practically singlehandedly won most of the combat engagements of the Forgotten War. And at the same time, we’ve each experienced the disrespect of a civilian population that blamed the patriot/serviceman for the miserable leadership that consistently fumbled the ball and gave away the lives of 58,000 of us, while calling our humiliating loss a “peace with honor.” But we try to keep our resentment to ourselves, and with that, back to fishing.
This year, with any luck, we’ll bring back enough fillets for a fish fry, date and location TBA to be determined after we count the catch and see whether or not our dozen our so fishes will really feed the multitudes. Price of admission is likely to amount to keeping the attendees locked in the patio while we, the chef and entertainment combo, regale (both of) you, our remaining friends, with a guitar/vocal medley of your favorite tunes. “Music to folk by,” I’m thinking to call it.
Deepest sympathy to all who are stuck in the Plains during our adventure. We’ll be thinking of you every time we haul in another mullet.
George Thatcher
May the Endth, 2023
Editors Note: Got questions for George? He’d love to hear from you. Column ideas? Fire away. BTW, watch out, he just bought a new silver convertible !!!!
George is an American Bad Ass. He grew up in Jersey, flew B-52s in Vietnam, taught English, Spanish and other languages to children around the world, makes his own salsa, has been known to enjoy a beer or two and has called Lubbock home for a few years, just to entertain the locals. Welcome to Raiderland, Major. We are going to feature some of his writings going forward. Some new, some old. Some rhyme, some don’t. When it comes to George, there’s no box. So… enjoy our friend and enjoy his writings! – Hyatt
