I’m not a fisherman, nor do I wish to be one. That doesn’t mean I have not tried, y’all. I really have.
Case in point: Key West, circa 1985, on an eight-hour deep-sea fishing charter with eight extended family members.
First off, never stop at Denny’s for a full-on pancake and sausage breakfast with a side of biscuits, coffee, O.J. and half a quart of grape jelly before stepping onto a 35-foot piece of floating fiberglass about to hit 5-foot cascading waves.
Speaking of cascades, there is a psychological phenomenon known as the cascade effect. As in, when one person tosses their cookies in a cramped space, well…it’s like dominoes…or in this case, eight pale-looking members of the walking dead knocking into each other over the sides of the boat.
Seriously. Don’t do it. At least not the Denny’s part.
My husband is not much of a fisherman, either. He has to load up on Dramamine, so his friends usually roll down the window and leave him asleep in the car because they don’t have the stamina to unload him and the 1-ton cooler filled with Bud Light onto the boat. You know, tough choices.
I do have friends who love fishing, though. This eternally amazes me. My last big vacation to Costa Rica is a good example. The four fishing friends on the trip headed out to sea one day at 5 a.m. full of energy, courage, optimism and hope. They came back at 9 p.m., crimson, crispy, cranky and gnawing at anything that didn’t move. Apparently two hours out, the engine blew, and they spent the next 15 hours floating back in. It’s remarkable how 24, 12-ounce beers don’t last very long, but the remaining 1 1/2 bottles of water and two sticks of jerky get measured out and distributed with military precision. I guess no one wants a mutiny, after all. Even a mile off the coast of a Marriott marina surrounded by palm trees and tiki bars.
Another friend of mine, Dave Snyder, rises early and enthusiastically hits the high seas before the sun is even up, “to shop for groceries,” as he puts it. With great strength but gentle fortitude, he lovingly brings them back and puts them on a plate by sundown.
Y’all, where does he find the time? When I go grocery shopping, I come back hot, tired and fit-to-be tied because someone added five Snickers, two different shades of pink lip gloss, a wand of Maybelline Great Lash and a bottle of some fruity smelling shower gel to my cart. These items all cost more than the two bottles of K.J. Chardonnay I forgot on the conveyor belt thingy that were really the only reason I went grocery shopping in the first place. Now, don’t blame me, but when I finally get home, I am in no mood to lovingly cook dinner. And don’t even get me started on my friends, the “Fishin’ Chicks.”
They make all of these deep-sea fishing ventures look posh, vogue and simply fab while placing in the top of their tarpon tourneys without breaking a sweat. Captain Mark Nobel takes the gals out — Susan, Georgia, Dana and Beth — along with coolers of Veuve and Barefoot Contessa worthy snacks. Then, they haul in fish as big as they are while the sun twinkles off their bright eyes and their sun-kissed hair. When I get off the boat, my sea legs crumble, my tresses resemble a dozen double fisherman’s knots and my complexion can only be described as chartreuse with a hint of sea foam green.
Oh, well. I guess it’s not my thing, and I am okay with that. A Santiago, I am not meant to be. But that doesn’t mean I don’t fish.
I just asked one of my teenage daughters how school was today. She just glared at me like I asked for the precise coordinates the Hindenburg went down. Then stared down at her phone.
I guess I was destined to be a fisherman, after all.
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