I recently endured that ritual where big strapping outdoors types get bashful as schoolgirls, or drink themselves into a self righteous fury over lost opportunity.
You call it a birthday.
There’s only two kinds of birthdays; the ones that get you closer to drinking legal, and the other kind – which aren’t near as pleasant, which get you further away.
Drinking to excess and wishing you hadn’t only takes about 15 celebrations – and they’re all legendary. After that it’s the long slow spiral downward where plastic soldiers and chemistry sets gives way to soap on a rope, drink coasters, and cologne – and you feign pleasure as it’s expected.
Now that retirements are gone, those 44 annual rituals become days of hedonistic pleasure, where you impose your will on innocents – while they feign pleasure as it’s expected.
Fishing voodoo is never tinkered with lightly, but the prospect of non-fisherfolk baking in the noon sun guarantees incredible fishing, but only if you summon the courage to park girlfriend on the bank watching you fling bright stuff at brighter stuff…
It’s the second most powerful fishing voodoo law; “if innocents are suffering under the hot sun, you’re virtually guaranteed a fish a cast.”
Neither “how many”, how big”, or “how often” tests your level of devotion – only the 2nd Law of Voodoo can determine your loyalties to sport versus family, instant pleasure versus intense long suffering pain – and as face’s flush red and skin starts to peel whether you’ll pantomime, “Just 5 more minutes, Sweetums.” – or wimp out.
Only a Jedi Master can hold their lie in the face of blistering retribution.
I get Dumpling parked on the bank provisioned with books, water, and chow – and stride purposefully into the water. She’s not seen a rational person wade in over their navel – so she’s watching with some concern as I plant feet and scrub a level spot – like a batter digging in at the plate.
I get the shooting head out of the guides and am yanking Frog Hair off the reel; 20 long pulls plus the head should be around a hundred feet, and I give it a half hearted toss so I can rethread the coils on the fingers of the left hand. The Shad Knit, keeping all the line in close, not downstream playing in the current.
The left hand’s threaded and I give it a couple of tugs and the rod buckles forward with a Shad on the other end. Sweetpea’s cheering on the bank and I’m alternately swearing and reeling trying to get some control.
I manage to land the fish and display it prominently. I recover my wading staff from underfoot and reel in the fly line and trudge out of the water, much to the amazement of the missus…
She’s looking at me expectantly, and I says, “remember how I mentioned once you were really uncomfortable how I was guaranteed the best fishing ever?”
She nods.
“That was the second most powerful fishing myth ever.” I pause for effect, ” the first most powerful voodoo law of Fishing is if you catch a fish on the first cast, you’ll not scratch another fish all day.”
“C’mon, I’ll take you to breakfast…”
Happy Birthday. I hope you had a good breakfast.
Fun article. I applied [and proved] rule number two about a week ago, fishing off the coast of Africa for Sailfish.
I think there may be more voodoo which I’ve experienced a few times… While teaching and innocent the basics of fly casting [rollcast, etc.] and you hook up during the demonstration, the voodoo gods bless you with an epic day [even if your apprentice doesn’t hook a thing].
@JB There’s at least a dozen voodoo fishing laws that most would instantly recognize, and nod knowingly.
Add all the variants (like those you cite) and only baseball players are more superstitious..
What was the line in Bull Durham, ” …never, ever, ^%$& with a streak ..”
Happy Birthday KB.
That purple shirt you’re sporting… was that a gift from your gal? If not it’s a sign that you’re spending way too much time in the craft stores.
You free this Thursday afternoon? My brother and I are thinking about heading up your way for a few hours of shad fishing.
At your advanced age you probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer, anyway.
BTW, Little Meathead says “thanks” for the party favor you left in his yard.
@SMJ:I can be free Thursday evening – that gives me four full days to heal…
@Travelwriter – you may want to be more specific of what I left in your yard, these are impressionable eyeballs that immediately leapt to the worst possible scenario …
The comment did make for a very funny image. Is legendary celebration #16 taking shape in retrospect?
Singlebarbed is a gentleman and loves animals; he is generous and kind. He brings us gifts. My kids love him. My dogs love him.
There, how’s that?
A. Wannabe Travelwriter: is this the same Singlebarbed who made you ride home in the back of his pickup after you soaked yourself in the American river?
I said that my kids and dogs like him…
Me, as a fellow–albeit wannabe–flyfishermen…hmmmm.
KB – great story and we trust that you and sweetums had a great breakfast.
Jake and I are a tad concerned about the purple shirt in the context of your upcoming Montana trip. There are certain watering holes where a purple shirt will invite undue attention from the locals. On the other hand, there are places where purple goes a long way, even in Montana.
Be advised.
I’m not sure I understand the reluctance of purple – for those that read only comicbooks – it’s the color of royalty …
While the only objections were from (cough) Montana and (worse) San Mateo, just remember that some folks follow fashion, and others set it.
I are most comfortable wearing a un-ironed shirt I handpicked off the floor – and can’t help it if the rest of the crowd is wearing bear skins.
I’ve no issue with the purple shirt in and of itself. What concerns me most is that it appears to be the same hue as your fly line. Were I to discover that you were fishing with an Able reel in the same god-awful color (can’t quite make it out in the photo), I wouldn’t know what to think.