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Anyway, one
weekend when Buddy’s old boat was down at Earl's Fix-it shop for
a new lower unit, I
surprised him by payin' our entries to the local 'bring your own
partner' tournament. When I sprung it on
him, he couldn't hardly hold back his excitement. He acted like
he didn't want to go at all, but I could tell
different. Buddy wanted to hug my neck so bad, but I managed to
fight him off.
Once I got
Buddy settled down and he quit mumblin' under her breath, I told
him that I didn't expect
him to catch no fish, but to treat it like one of them therapy sessions
his cousin had gone to last Fall and
try to overcome that lack of self-confidence. He frothed at the
mouth a bit over that and tried to hug my
neck again, but I wasn't expecting no miracles too soon anyway.
Tell you one thing for sure, that boy
needs to change that deodorant. Smell like Power Worms.
The big morning
came and me and Buddy got checked in smooth as silk. We got a flight
number and
launched my boat with hardly a hitch. Confidence really makes things
go right. We DID have to dredge his
lunch up after I kicked it off the dock, but that was easy. I didn’t
know Spam floated until then!
I tell you
what, if you ain't never seen the blast-off in a big time tournament,
you have missed a most
exciting event. Looks a lot like store opening time at 50 per cent-off
day, with a mad dash for the sale
tables. 150 horsepower motors blast out and there ain't nuthin'
to see but spray and prop blades. My old
14 foot boat handles that rough water in the blast-off area pretty
good, though. I put the vintage 18 horse
Scott Attwater motor in 'go' and climbed up on top of the biggest
wave. It made the rig sort of slip and
slide around, but it was a lot like surfin', too. Fun!! I check
Buddy between swells and really felt bad for
him. His confidence hadn't improved much and I know them hands was
hurtin' the way those white
knuckles was grippin' the sides of that boat. Well, after he got
to bailing, I'm sure that took his mind off
maybe not catchin' no bass.
We finally
got down the lake to my favorite Hawg Hole and, believe it or not,
there wasn't another boat
in sight. We had it all to ourselves. Well, we spinner baited it,
and we crank baited it, and we wormed it,
and we jigged it, and even tried a little topwater. Nothing seemed
to work. We were so snake-bit we
couldn't have caught them bass on a DuPont spinner. (That's big
time Pro talk for 'hand grenade', in
case you're not up on them sayings).
About the
time we'd hauled up the trolling motor and zipped on our Maidenform
Everfloats, this little
kid comes walking down the bank. He took a big gob of red worms
(yech!!), hooked 'em on a cane pole
and tossed them right out where me and Buddy had just finished flailing
the water to a foamy froth for an
hour. Needless to say, we was surprised as hell when he didn't catch
nuthin', either.
I fired up
the old outboard and hollered, "Comin' hot!", which is
more of that bass Pro slang meaning
"we's fixing to hit the big motor and make it on down the duck
pond." That is supposed to warn the
back-of-the-boat partner to latch onto his Mac Diesel Power hat
and hold tight. That dang Buddy was
holdin' tight, all right. His South end was facing North and he
had his head in the cooler after a beer. By
the time I managed to back off the motor, he and that cooler was
both up under the rear deck and all I
could see was legs flailin' and tennis shoes bouncing. By the time
I managed to get that guy out from
under there, I'd swear his right leg was two inches longer than
his left. He hollered like it was comin' off,
but if you'd ever seen Buddy drink beer, you'd know why I didn't
want him under there too long by himself.
Heck, half them brews was mine, even if Buddy did buy 'em.
Betcha didn't
know one of them fancy Sears ice-maker ice cubes outa that cooler
would fit up a guy's
nose. Couldn't get the thing out either. I tried my Super Cricket
lighter to heat it a bit and speed the
melting, but Buddy got to screaming and wiggling around and it caught
his genuine Sonny Bono-style
mustache on fire. He started hollering louder and jumping up and
down and I tried to beat out the flames
with the paddle. Knocked him right over the side of the boat, too.
He sure was happy about me gettin' that
flame out and tried to hug my neck again. I fought the scoundrel
off, trying to tell him to look at the bright side.
His morning shaving was cut in half and that was a real time-saver,
you betcha. (Not much sense of humor
sometimes, that Buddy. You try
and help and look what thanks you get. Dang!!)
We worked
our way around what other bassin' spots we knew and only managed
to pick up two little
bank runners. Buddy wormed most of the time so he could shake the
lure a little with one hand and hold
an ice cube on that upper lip with the other. About the time even
I was getting discouraged, Buddy
whispered that he had a good hit. Dropping the ice cube, he reached
out towards the bass and gave one
of them 'yank him over the boat' hook sets.
That ding-dong
had been so intent on that 'ice cube on the lip' bit that he'd clean
forgot to engage the
reel gears after the cast. What a 'professional overrun' bird nest
he came up with! Hit himself on the
mouth with the rod as it came back, too, and busted the big old
blister that was forming. Somehow,
though, he had managed to get enough pressure to hook that old sow
bass and she came dancing and
prancing up on top of the water. Looked like a good 11 or 12 pounds.
Buddy retained enough smarts to
hang on and finally engage them gears, but it didn't do much good.
Mama Bass made her big run for the
deep, a loop of the backlash settled nicely over the free spool
button, the drag slipped a bit and 'bing'
went the old line. I had reacted in my usual efficient manner and
was right there with the net. As the line
broke, Buddy fell backwards, got his foot tangled up in the net,
and went over the side again.
He climbed
back in the boat, sans one Loomis rod and very expensive reel, and
proceeded to heave
over two of my rods, an Umco Possum Belly and the beer cooler before
I could get a grip around his old
neck and stop him. About that time, two other contestants came fishin'
around the near point, saw us in
what looked obviously like a tight embrace and sorta smiled and
started whispering to one another. I
swallowed my Red Man and Buddy passed gas.
We wound up
back at the weigh-in standing with the other also-rans, watching
bag after bag of lunkers
goin' across the scales. I suppose the other contestants knew we
hadn't done so good 'cause they was
whisperin' and lookin' at us kinda funny and keepin' their distance.
I started to tell Buddy not to worry and
that we'd get 'em next time, but he had slipped off to get more
ice, I guess.
Now, I know I parked
that old truck up here in the parking lot somewhere. It was right
here by this big tree,
but now I can't find it. What's worse, Buddy's done wandered off
and got lost 'cause I can't find him, either.
Well, I'll look for them some more in a minute. Right now there's
a ruckus down at the dock about
some feller's boat being on fire and I want to get mine out of the
way!
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