The Fishing Trip

 

This is a fish story.

Normally a fish story means that you exaggerate everything by a factor of ten.  A two-pound fish becomes a twenty pounder.  If you catch nothing, you tell people that you caught an enormous fish, but it was stolen by a grizzly bear.  You’re lucky you weren’t killed.

But this isn’t that kind of fish story.  This is more about the trip than the fish.

The lovely Mrs. Borengasser and I are vacationing on a small, sparsely populated island.  Glancing through the yellow pages of the island phone book, I notice a listing for a charter fishing boat.  Only one.  Which should have tipped me off.

But I call anyway.  I’m told that the skipper has no customers that afternoon and we can set out immediately. Which should have tipped me off.

I figure, why not?  (The lovely Mrs. Borengasser, in her wisdom, figures why?  She decides not to go.)

Thirty minutes later, Captain Ian, a New Zealander, picks me up at our motel and drives me to the dock.  There are only three boats there.  His is the smallest, junkiest one.  Which should have tipped me off.

Captain Ian is a strange guy, given to mood swings.  He has such a thick New Zealand accent that he’s frequently difficult to understand.

“What are we fishing with?” I ask.  “Did you already get the bait?”

“No.  We’ll have to catch our bait first.”  Which should have tipped me off.

We boat over to another small island.  He takes out a seine, hands me one end, and we begin wading through the surf.  He stares intently down at the water, mumbling something that I can’t quite make out.  His voice becomes louder and more insistent.  He seems to be saying “Come to me, come to me.”  I think he’s talking to the fish, coaxing them to come closer.  Suddenly, he’s shouting, and I realize he’s actually been addressing me instead of the fish.

I quickly bring my end of the seine around to him, and we manage to catch a few bait fish, although not as many if I’d understood him sooner.  He’s obviously irritated.  With Captain Ian, the customer is not always right.  Which should have tipped me off.

“Sorry,” I tell him.  “I thought you were talking to the fish.  Where I come from, we sometimes talk to the fish, to encourage them to bite.”

“Actually, we do, too,” he admits, and his momentary foul mood fortunately does a 180-degree turn.

As we begin bottom fishing, it starts to sprinkle.  But we’re catching a few fish, so we really don’t mind a little rain.  The water’s fairly shallow, and sometimes a hook snags on a rock or seaweed.  Once, when this happens to him, he pulls on his line with such force that his rod snaps in two.  Which should have tipped me off.

He’s furious, of course, mostly at me for being the reason that he was fishing in the first place.

But soon he catches a fish, and he’s happy again.  We begin trolling.  He’s catching most of the fish, but I finally hook a large one, and begin reeling it in.  When I get it up to the side of the boat, he reaches over the side to pull it up.  As he grabs the fish, the hook comes out its mouth and springs upwards, snagging the first thing it hits.  Which is his ear.

Captain Ian screams.  The blood drains from my head.  If he goes ballistic over losing a few bait fish, what’s he going to do with a five-inch lure dangling from his ear?

He begs me to disengage the line from the lure, but each time I try, he flinches in pain.  Finally, he decides to do it himself when we get back.  So, we call it a day.

(He obviously has no idea how stylish this is.  In an age of tattoos and multiple body piercings, to have a fishing lure hanging from your ear could be ultra-chic.  If a punk rocker (or perhaps just a punk) were to see him at this moment, the punk rocker’s hair would turn even greener with envy.)

It’s raining heavily now, and the ocean is rough.  Each time the boat slaps down on the surface of the water, Captain Ian winces in pain.

But, ultimately, we make it back to shore, he drops me off at my motel, I pay him, and encourage him to get a tetanus shot.

That’s my fish story.

By the way, did I tell you that I also caught a 7000-pound marlin which got stolen and eaten by a bear?