I need a boat. No, really, I 'need' a boat. I'm not just saying that because I live near three major rivers and all my friends have boats, either. If I don't obtain a boat soon, my very life could be in danger. In fact, I have already risked my life once due to an attempt at fishing from an inferior craft. Let me explain.
One summer afternoon, as I stood on the bank of the Columbia River in Central Washington, trying to unsnag my last hook from a rock, a couple of anglers cruised by in a decked-out bass boat.
"Catch anything?" they asked.
"Not any keepers," was the reply I had practiced over the years. Then I would add, "But you should have seen the one that got away!" wishing that I had seen such a one myself.
"You mean like these?" the men taunted, hauling a pair of five pound Smallmouth from their live well.
My line snapped. "I've had it!" I grumbled. I had fished the banks of the Columbia one too many seasons without much luck. If only I had a boat, even a row boat, I could reach the numerous coves and marshes opposite me and my rocks, and take my own limit of trophy Smallmouth.
When I got home I related my dilemma to my wife, to which she replied sympathetically, "I'll be at the grocery store, we're out of milk."
"Pick up a bass boat while you're at it," I said.
"What about that old rubber raft you bought at the garage sale?" she said.
"Oh yeah!" I replied, mulling over the possibilities. "That might be just the ticket. Now where did I put it?"
"I think it's boxed up in that corner of the laundry room where you keep your hammer."
"Oh, in my shop?"
"Whatever."
I unboxed the yellow two-man raft and inflated it with an old canister vacuum turned on in reverse, which revealed several previously overlooked features; leaks. To my excitement, only two of the holes were even noticeable, so I would have plenty of time to fish before having to resuscitate the boat manually. Of course my biggest worry was that of hooking the raft during a cast or while pulling in one of those lunker bass, so I decided to pack along some rubber scraps and glue just in case.
I managed to stuff the craft fully inflated into my compact Honda Civic, with the front windshield only partially obstructed- -albeit turning corners was a bit difficult with my forehead pressed against the steering wheel.
By the time I arrived at my spot, the wind had picked up dramatically. Gusty wind, being no stranger to the Columbia Basin, could present a problem in casting, I thought, so I rigged a couple quarter ounce split-shot sinkers onto my leader to compensate.
Finally, I was ready. "Look out, bass," I scoffed, "here I come!" I carefully lifted the raft over the coarse reeds and jagged rocks that characterized the shoreline, and stepped one foot into the boat to anchor it against the increasing wind while I tossed in my oars, pole and tackle-bag. "Boy," I said to myself as a seagull sailed backward over my head, "I might have to add another split-shot at this rate."
The last thing I remembered was lifting my foot off the bank, then suddenly being whisked out to sea by a gale-force wind. "Okay, don't panic," I said to myself, with land quickly disappearing over the horizon. "Stay cool, paddle back to shore." I quickly grabbed up the oars, and immediately discovered another of the raft's overlooked features; no oar rings. "Okay," I said, envisioning myself walking thirty miles back home from the nearest dam, "now panic!" I frantically hacked at the waves with one oar, which not only failed to keep me from being whisked away, but made me dizzy from being whisked in circles.
Somehow, with the aid of adrenalin I managed to get close enough to the bank to grab ahold of a long reed, and proceeded to pull myself ashore, sweaty and gasping in relief. I rested there momentarily, hanging over the bow and clinging to the branch of a bush while whitecaps sloshed over the side. "Whew, at least that's over," I sighed. "Glad no one saw me, that would have been embarrassing. Come on, raft, lets go home and wait for calmer weather."
Then with a hearty heave-ho, and a decided lack of foresight, I winched the rubber boat directly onto a stout, pointed reed, thereby producing the effect of a giant yellow whoopie cushion.
"Nice goin', Charlie!" shouted a voice from a bass boat that had just trolled into view. "Looks like you need a boat."
"My name's not Ch--" I paused to try on the alias. "... er... yeah, tell me about it."
I quickly jumped onto the bank with my gear, while my boat continued to break wind, sinking limply into the water. I dragged it ashore and wadded it up, expelling the last of its breath. Then the two of us returned home, limp, wrinkled, and soggy.
"Catch anything?" my wife asked.
"Just a good wind," I said curtly. "I'm really getting sick of this. You can't catch anything from the shore, and you can't fish from a rubber raft. I haven't caught a decent fish since that time we got kicked out of Sea World. There's just no way around it," I determined. "I need a boat!"
After some silence, during which my wife's eyes began welling up with dollar signs, she finally said, "Don't you still have that little paddle boat with the broken pedal and the missing rudder?"
"Oh, yeah!" I replied, mulling over the possibilities...