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Not long ago I worked for a prominent electrical connector manufacturing company and my boss, like myself was an avid fisher person. After spending an hour or so swapping fish stories one day, I felt like I really should share this one with some of our fellow enthusiasts out there……
One fine late spring day (I'll call him Kevin, to protect the innocent), Kevin, my boss, loaded his boat with all his new fangled fishing equipment (rod, reel, and tackle box) and his ice chest, of course-for what die-hard fisherman ever graced the riverbanks or lake waters without his trusty ice chest? He hooked the boat trailer to the back of his truck, connected the lights, and (being the safety-first enthusiast that he was) checked to make sure all turn signals and brake lights were working properly. Tossing his favorite beat up fishing hat (his lucky hat) onto the truck seat, he climbed in behind the steering wheel.
This was going to be one great day for the angler and one sad day for the fishes-he felt it in his bones!
Rubbing his hands together then gripping the steering wheel, he grinned lasciviously from ear to ear. "Look out little fishees, here I come," he whispered through clinched teeth.
With all the macho he could muster, he slammed the truck into drive and squealed out of the driveway leaving black marks all the way to the street-secretly hoping his wife was watching from the kitchen window; or even the neighbors. This was one day he wanted everyone to know that he was not going to work!
Wasp Lake was about an hour's drive (counting one quick stop at the package store) from his house. After making his stop to fill his ice chest with ice and cold beverages to combat the blazing sun that would beat down on him unmercifully before noon, he relaxed in his air-conditioned ‘Eddie Bauer' Ford and continued on to the lake.
He dropped the boat into the water and pulled the trailer out. Engaging the handbrake he got out of the truck and untied the line mooring the boat to the trailer. He pulled the boat to the bank and tied it securely to a scrubby little bush at the water's edge. Then he climbed back into the truck and parked it away from the boat ramp. He whistled a lively tune as he climbed into his boat and kicked himself off with his foot.
This was going to be a better day than a good day at work-no doubt about it! Firing up the motor he zoomed across the lake and looked for a nice tree-lined cove that promised some nice large-mouth bass lurking in the shadowy overhangs. Eighteen-inch mounted trophies danced through his head as he cut the engine and quietly glided into a cove and dropped the trolling motor. Rummaging through his tackle box, he came up with a comely little rattletrap minnow and clipped it onto the end of his line.
With the precision of a brain surgeon, he expertly placed the lure in the dappled water beneath the willows at the first whip of his thin Shakespeare rod. The swoosh of air that tickled his ear as the lure flew past made his spine tingle with delight. What a day!
Heaven must be a fishing hole.
By late afternoon he had three nice keepers but nothing with mounting possibilities. But, he was happy. The three bass he had in his live well had put up heroic fights and he would be proud to have them join him for dinner that night. Making a few last casts he trolled closer and closer to the boat ramp in preparation of calling it a day. He was tired and euphoric all at the same time. Time for one last cast and he was back at the ramp. It had been a glorious day and he was completely satisfied with himself.
Tying the boat to the small bush again, he stretched and patted himself on the belly. Smiling to himself he pulled the ice chest out of the boat and removed the one lone can floating in the ice-laden water. He dumped the ice from the chest and tossed the empty chest back into the boat. Then he walked up the hill to the truck and backed the trailer down into the water.
Being a man of large stature he always manhandled his boat onto the trailer without having to drive it on. Tugging the rope he maneuvered the boat into position between the rails and by standing on the trailer tongue, he managed to pull the boat toward the front of the trailer.
It would have to happen that at just that moment God saw fit to blow a puff of wind in Kevin's direction and cause the boat to drift off to one side. Ok. No problem. Kevin was a husky fellow and undaunted he grabbed the boat and with both hands he picked the front of the boat up and centered it on the trailer. Just as he felt confident that it was well placed, his foot slipped and he dropped off the trailer tongue with the boat still in his hands.
As luck would have it, the tip of one finger (his pinkie) was still under the boat when it came crashing down on the trailer. "Oh, that's gonna hurt!" The numbing pain in the tip of his finger ran up his arm to his elbow. He was sure to lose a fingernail over that one. There was still enough light that he could see that the tip of his finger was gone when he had at first thought to suck the pain away. Looking around he found it lying on the trailer tongue.
He looked around for something to wrap around his finger as it was beginning to bleed heavily but could find nothing suitable. Then he kicked off his shoe-he was wearing white socks. With his good hand he pulled off his sock and wrapped it snuggly around the injured finger. For lack of a better receptacle, he placed his fingertip in his shirt pocket. He finished fastening down the boat and plugged up the lights. When he climbed into the truck, he suddenly felt light-headed. Hoping he wasn't going to faint before he got there, he decided to drive straight to the nearest hospital.
With his pinkie finger stuck straight up above the steering wheel, he managed to get the truck in gear and pull out onto the highway. He knew it was a good fifteen minutes to the nearest hospital. He eyed the single can of beer lying on the seat beside him, still sweating from the cold ice and water in the ice chest. Well, he was injured, so he felt he deserved to drink and drive this one time. He picked up the can and single-handedly popped the top. Taking a great gulp, he had worked up a huge thirst!
Suddenly he remembered the fingertip in his pocket. Something came to mind-if he could put it on ice, they could sew it back on. But he didn't have any ice-he had dumped it all in the lake. He looked at the can of beer still cold and sweating in his hot hand. Setting the can on the seat beside him, he pulled the fingertip from his pocket and dropped it into the ice-cold can. He smiled. He was brilliant. Not only would it be kept cold, it would be pre-sterilized as well!
God must love old fishermen-Kevin made it to the hospital in record time and still had the strength to walk in on his own. Needless to say he was confused when the hospital guard tackled him at the door. "You can't come into my hospital drinking beer and staggering like a drunken nutcase!" The guard tried to wrest the can from Kevin's fingers.
"No wait! You don't understand. My finger is in that can!" Kevin watched in horror as the guard prepared to dump the can into a large trash receptacle beside the door.
To end this story on a happier note, Kevin was allowed to keep his can and fingertip. However, the doctor was unable to attach such a tiny piece of skin. Kevin is forced to go through life with one slightly shorter finger. More good news, though, is that it did in no way adversely affect his casting abilities. He does want to encourage all you fellow anglers-save your ice until you get back home. You never know when you might need it!
Sandra E. Graham, author, AMOS JAKEY and NICOLINA published by American Book Publishing. I also write book reviews for Book Pleasures. Visit my website for more info: http://www.sandragraham-articles-books.com
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