A comedy of fishing in four acts ~ June 8, 2000

Act one: “Wake up Noah, it’s time to go fishing.” I half expected my son to roll over and say no thanks. It’s happened before from 16-year-old boys at 5 a.m.

But Noah, always a light sleeper, had rolled out of bed before I was downstairs.

Fishing dreams always abound, 
but do not always materialize.

We had plotted our strategy the night before. I bought minnows and dug worms. I called two fishermen friends to see what was biting, and where.

I pulled the boat out, put on the motor, checked the gas. I had rigged up four rods, one for crappies, one for sunnies, one for bass, and one with a plain hook.

I filled a pack with water bottle, muffins, apples, oranges, and binoculars. What was I for-getting? The kitchen sink, maybe.

Noah barely raised an eyebrow at all this. “I’m just going to cast for bass,” he had said in a voice that wondered what all the fuss was about.

All the fuss?!? This was the first time out with the fishing boat. The first time on a local lake. The first time for a stringer of panfish. The first crack at a five pound largemouth. Hope springs eternal, right?

So on Saturday we headed out early. What a time to be alive, heading for the lake on a gorgeous June morning.

And then...

Act two: I pulled into the boat landing at Echo Lake, and started backing the boat up to the landing. Noah was looking out his window. “Dad, the wheel came off the trailer.”

I stopped and got out. Sure enough, the tire had come clear off the rim, and was lying on the ground like a dead animal. The one thing I forgot to do had cost me big time—check the trailer tires for air pressure.

I scratched my head for a few minutes. I didn’t want to drive the trailer on the rim. I had to take the tire and rim into the gas station and get it fixed.

Did I mention that I don^’t have a spare tire for the trailer?

I took the tire wrench out of the truck and said a little prayer. It went unanswered. The socket was 7/8-inch. The trailer lugs were 3/4-inch.

I parked the trailer in the grass and headed back home 12 miles for my socket wrenches. Noah decided that he’d go back to bed. Maybe he knew what was coming.

Act three: Back at the landing, I discovered that the rim had last been put on by someone’s pet gorilla. The lug nuts were on tight! After putting a pipe extension on the ratchet, I managed to get off four of the lug nuts. But the fifth one wouldn’t budge. I tried every muscle and jiggle and angle and wiggle. No go.

I figured some heat would help, so I drove two miles into town. I stopped at a gas station and persuaded the attendant to loan me a butane torch and some penetrating oil.

Back at the trailer, I put the flame on the lug nut. No go. More heat, more oil. Nothing. My hand slipped and the rim took a bite out of the tip of my thumb. My hands wore gloves of blood and grease.

I resorted to a Vise Grips. I didn’t care if I stripped the nut. I just wanted it off. I wore the nut down to the size of my wife’s wedding ring. But it wouldn’t budge.

So I swallowed my pride and drove the trailer to town on the rim. Luckily it was still early, 9 a.m. Not many people were around to see who the idiot was driving on a rim.

The gas station attendant popped the nut off in about two seconds with a pneumatic tool. He looked at the rim and said it wasn’t bad. He brushed it off with a wire brush, then tried to put the tire back on. He couldn’t get it on. It slipped over the rim like a Hula Hoop on Dutch Jones. It had shrunk, caved in, changed sizes over the winter.

And they didn’t sell trailer tires.

These weren't caught on this trip. 

So it was off to the next gas station. Yes, they had a trailer tire that size, and it only cost $36! I was in luck. The attendant put it on for me. I went back to the first gas station. He put the rim on the trailer for me.

I asked him how much I owed him. He just waved a hand in my direction. “You’ve had enough trouble already, buddy. Forget it.”

Finally, my first break of the day. I thanked him and said, “Guess I should just go home.” It was 10 a.m.

“After all you’ve been through, you might as well go fishing,” he said.

Act four: He had read my mind. I stopped at a convenience store, bought a big cup of coffee, then headed back to Echo. Now things were going my way.

I put the boat in the water and after about 50 pulls on the old Mercury, including one that spilled my beautiful cup of coffee, the engine belched a cloud of exhaust and roared to life.

Now here the story should have a happy ending. I should catch my limit of walleyes and laugh about the day that started wrong but had a such a happy ending.

Forget it. Not a fish did I catch. Not even a lousy perch. Not even a bite.

The first fishing trip of the year was good for one thing: a laugh. If you can’t chuckle about a comedy of errors like that, then it’s time to quit fishing. And that’s not funny!