Back to Beaufort, SC-Let's go Fishing!
We pulled in at 8:30. It's 6.5 hours from Beaufort, NC to Beaufort , SC no matter what. We actually started from farther out than usual-from Lady's Island after paying a short visit to see Jeff and Amy Purdy, their kids, Macy and Thomas and dog, Alex. Alex is the dog that demands a game of catch and also like to lick the fish that we lay on the driveway so we can clean out the boat.
We also got on the ramp to I-95 North, gunned the car and got ready to set the cruise at 79 mph when I noticed there was a logjam at the top of the ramp. A small wreck about 3 miles up the road had caused the traffic to clog with rubberneckers-we got past it, made a couple of pit stops and again, 6.5 hours, again, like magic.
We got in Friday about 7:00-Scott was there and Cristina had just arrived from a week in Orangeburg. Jeff and Amy and the kids pulled up about 7:30 and we drank beer till nine when the Purdy's went home, then Scott, Christina, Jane and me went out to forage for some supper. Plum's is the usual suspect spot for late dining and the meal was damn fine. Jane and Cristina shared a bottle of some wine called "Evolution," a blend of 9 white grapes and Scott and me swilled some Shiner Bocks. Afterwards, a short stroll toward Hemingway's for live music then back home to Scott's. Saturday was "early fishing" and all were in bed by 1:00. I was given "alarm duty"- we were supposed to be at Jeff's house by 7:30 and actually were on time until we arrived without any lunch stuff-just a couple of cases of beer. We backtracked for some biscuits to eat for lunch, loaded the boat and hit the new Sam's Point Ramp. The wind was blowing a little but nothing like what was to come shortly. We rounded out of the no-wake zone, gunned the motor and in about 5 minutes we all were soaked. I took the brunt of the first one-a hard splash to the right cheekbone and the next one went over my head and onto Jeff and Scott who were ducking behind the console. We were headed southeast down the Coosaw River and the wind and waves came from due south. The boat would plow into a wave, the water would be sprayed up in the air and then blast into us like grapeshot. I had no more than an hour before turned down Scott's offer of an extra sweatshirt because when we left the house is was about 70 degrees, windless and about 90 % humidity. I would have paid a king's ransom for any piece of dry clothing all that day. We went to our usual cobia hole-just off the Combahee Light about 8 miles down the Coosaw. Anchoring the boat just created a new way of getting wet. The anchor set and oriented the boat not quite in the optimal place-facing not directly into the chop but at the same angle with which we had taken a beating while under power. These waves were most unpredictable-the biggest looking ones usually just caused the bow to dip and then rise up, setting us up for a major wave slap if the bow descended onto another angry crest. We put the lines out-all five-while staggering around like drunks in the back of the rocking boat. We put out the chum bag and four rods baited with whole frozen menhaden and one baited with a lively and elusive eel. The first eel was so elusive he slipped over the side of the boat into the suds. Rods in the water, we sat quietly for a few minutes staring at the bobbing lines and anticipating the next soaking. As is my usual custom, I broke the ice on the beer drinking-about 9 A.M. Scott and Jeff were drinking soft drinks and dipping snuff, which is not my game so I reached into the ice bath, pulled out a Bud Light and found a suitable koozy. By the time I was reaching for my second they were ready and joined in-we toasted the day-shitty weather and all-just grateful to be back together in the boat again with full cooler of beer and lines in the water. As always, the beer "jump-started" the conversation-no topic in particular and not really conversational-just a melange of random thoughts, comments, jokes, put downs and shit just thrown out to keep it going. Men's conversations are not meant to convey information or feelings-it's just a linear monologue that each person is responsible for continuing, enhancing, embellishing or steering carefully into another related topic. I would like just one time to hire a court reporter to transcribe a day of guy's fishing and boating conversation. I don't think it would read well in print. It would read like a story written in a disoriented, Joycean style where the subject is fish, not the human condition and would contain the "F" word used as every part of speech.
No fish bit that day save for a 3 foot sand shark and the ride home was wet and cold but the time and experience was priceless. Being on the water with two great friends, enough beer to loosen tongues and the knowledge that a trip to Harold's Country Club in Yemassee awaited us made the day magical, despite the wind and waves and lack of fish. Remember as Thoreau said, "it's not about the fish."
We also got on the ramp to I-95 North, gunned the car and got ready to set the cruise at 79 mph when I noticed there was a logjam at the top of the ramp. A small wreck about 3 miles up the road had caused the traffic to clog with rubberneckers-we got past it, made a couple of pit stops and again, 6.5 hours, again, like magic.
We got in Friday about 7:00-Scott was there and Cristina had just arrived from a week in Orangeburg. Jeff and Amy and the kids pulled up about 7:30 and we drank beer till nine when the Purdy's went home, then Scott, Christina, Jane and me went out to forage for some supper. Plum's is the usual suspect spot for late dining and the meal was damn fine. Jane and Cristina shared a bottle of some wine called "Evolution," a blend of 9 white grapes and Scott and me swilled some Shiner Bocks. Afterwards, a short stroll toward Hemingway's for live music then back home to Scott's. Saturday was "early fishing" and all were in bed by 1:00. I was given "alarm duty"- we were supposed to be at Jeff's house by 7:30 and actually were on time until we arrived without any lunch stuff-just a couple of cases of beer. We backtracked for some biscuits to eat for lunch, loaded the boat and hit the new Sam's Point Ramp. The wind was blowing a little but nothing like what was to come shortly. We rounded out of the no-wake zone, gunned the motor and in about 5 minutes we all were soaked. I took the brunt of the first one-a hard splash to the right cheekbone and the next one went over my head and onto Jeff and Scott who were ducking behind the console. We were headed southeast down the Coosaw River and the wind and waves came from due south. The boat would plow into a wave, the water would be sprayed up in the air and then blast into us like grapeshot. I had no more than an hour before turned down Scott's offer of an extra sweatshirt because when we left the house is was about 70 degrees, windless and about 90 % humidity. I would have paid a king's ransom for any piece of dry clothing all that day. We went to our usual cobia hole-just off the Combahee Light about 8 miles down the Coosaw. Anchoring the boat just created a new way of getting wet. The anchor set and oriented the boat not quite in the optimal place-facing not directly into the chop but at the same angle with which we had taken a beating while under power. These waves were most unpredictable-the biggest looking ones usually just caused the bow to dip and then rise up, setting us up for a major wave slap if the bow descended onto another angry crest. We put the lines out-all five-while staggering around like drunks in the back of the rocking boat. We put out the chum bag and four rods baited with whole frozen menhaden and one baited with a lively and elusive eel. The first eel was so elusive he slipped over the side of the boat into the suds. Rods in the water, we sat quietly for a few minutes staring at the bobbing lines and anticipating the next soaking. As is my usual custom, I broke the ice on the beer drinking-about 9 A.M. Scott and Jeff were drinking soft drinks and dipping snuff, which is not my game so I reached into the ice bath, pulled out a Bud Light and found a suitable koozy. By the time I was reaching for my second they were ready and joined in-we toasted the day-shitty weather and all-just grateful to be back together in the boat again with full cooler of beer and lines in the water. As always, the beer "jump-started" the conversation-no topic in particular and not really conversational-just a melange of random thoughts, comments, jokes, put downs and shit just thrown out to keep it going. Men's conversations are not meant to convey information or feelings-it's just a linear monologue that each person is responsible for continuing, enhancing, embellishing or steering carefully into another related topic. I would like just one time to hire a court reporter to transcribe a day of guy's fishing and boating conversation. I don't think it would read well in print. It would read like a story written in a disoriented, Joycean style where the subject is fish, not the human condition and would contain the "F" word used as every part of speech.
No fish bit that day save for a 3 foot sand shark and the ride home was wet and cold but the time and experience was priceless. Being on the water with two great friends, enough beer to loosen tongues and the knowledge that a trip to Harold's Country Club in Yemassee awaited us made the day magical, despite the wind and waves and lack of fish. Remember as Thoreau said, "it's not about the fish."
posted by david at 5/02/2005 12:30:00 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home