Fish have about as much reason to fear me as hair gel does. I enjoy fishing, but have never had much success at it. Apparently I suddenly have fishing mojo. Last week I merely threatened to go tuna fishing in Oregon and the whole group of ‘em literally swam, out of fear of course, a couple hundred miles south to get away from me. (the part about the fish leaving the area is factual, their motive for leaving may be a bit more questionable) So we (my dad, brother, and brother in law) decided on an ocean salmon adventure instead – because, well, that’s what there were. We were determined to pay a lot of money to feel like serious fisherdudes (good name for a rock band).
So we got up at 3:45AM and got our game faces on. By which I mean we all popped our Dramamine so that we could be insanely sleepy while we were catching the fishes, but not throw up on each other or the expensive boat. (We took similar drugs before a fishing trip in South Carolina a few years ago and I quickly began talking about bizarre things that made no sense to people who were, well, awake. This was the source of much chortling from my family.)
We had the chartered boat to ourselves, except for the two people who actually knew what they were doing – the captain and super-cool-teenage-deckhand. The fishing was marvelous and we had our limit of “keepable” fish quite quickly. The ride back into the dock took 2.5 hours and I remember none of it. My brother and I had a marvelous Dramamine-induced nap while sitting up vertically. This was of course a clear sign that we had given it our all and were so comfortable as ocean voyagers that we didn’t even need to be conscious to traverse the high seas. (or possibly the hum of the engine, the early wake-up call and the drugs had something to do with it) Despite me never actually touching a fish, there are now salmon fillets in the freezer, but I probably shouldn’t have my own show on the Outdoor Channel.