A Fishing Adventure

Many years ago when I was trying to participate in the REAL world, I was dating a cute red head with the CB handle, Red Beaver. What's a CB handle? Google it, child !

She was a typical small hometown southern baptist girl facing all the pressures and temptations of an 18 year old daddy's girl.

Even for the love of Jesus, Mother Natures hormones are powerful stuff. Despite the "moral" coaching, nature bests nurturing especially at that tender age.

We actually started dating right before she turned 18 and I was 19 going on 20. Naturally there was a curfew and her older brother was supposed to "keep an eye" on things.

We would have our date, go to the movies or whatever and I would drop her off for her curfew and then go out drinking and otherwise partying with my friends.

This was the "just say no" era and pot smoking was heavily frowned upon by "polite" society. She was indoctrinated into the whole "Just Say NO" bullshit. Mainstream conservatives (including our current president) back then thought all pot heads should be put to death or locked away forever. Sheesh! Now they're the assholes "dealing" drugs.

I was really into fishing back then. Not having a boat, I knew hundreds of "fishing' spots" out in the "sticks", remote spots perfect for drinking beer, smoking pot and doing some relaxing "bank" fishing without the fear of "THE MAN" oppressing my freedoms.

The Red Beaver was upset because I spent more time in the woods than I did with her. What she didn't understand, I was just patiently waiting to get laid. I didn't want to play fucking cards and hangout with her parents discussing a future I wasn't interested in.

In those days, having a beard or a tattoo was a deal breaker. The old hens at my mom's church would cackle," You would be such a handsome young man if we could see your face." Never did get a tattoo but I'm just one of those faces designed to be adorned with a long, flowing beard. In short, my options were limited as far as potential mates in good ol' "Tight-Ass-Ville" (Titusville).

At any rate...She was on and on about her brother and I taking her fishing. I said she was a southern girl but I failed to mention she was more prissy than redneck. She wouldn't have known a hook from a sinker and damn sure wasn't going to dig, touch or otherwise have anything to do with worms.

And I couldn't show her my "worm" with her brother around so I just couldn't see it happening.

Yet somehow fate arranged a fishing trip with the Red Beaver. Her brother had a chick he was chasing now and he wasn't really interested in hanging out with his little sister who was always "telling" on him for something anyways...

In southern baptist land drinking and carousing is something most of them do but the ones that don't make the ones that do sneak around to do it. Most often than not the ones that preach the loudest sin the most. Just like politicians.

When you are a young man with a perpetual hard-on you live in high hopes of "gettin' some" which makes him a gullible fool. I agree to take the Red Beaver fishing which, for her, meant a shopping trip with her mother to get her fishing' fashion on. A nice, pastel color to really show off the fish guts and blood if she were to actually fish.

Of course her mother wanted "the gang" to have matching outfits as all the parents involved still thought it was a "double date" fishing trip. We had to conspire to avoid the "picture" all moms take just in case this is the "one". My eyes still roll back in my head so far I can see my colon when I think about that.

The only good thing about taking a prissy girl fishing is the cooler full of food. She was a snacker. I had my "stash" cooler with beers in it hidden out of sight like a good southern baptist. Had things gone the way I had hoped we would be sharing a post coitus beer. And it was Michelob Light, the prissy girls beer of choice in 1984.

Now I figured to take her to a place with very little fishin' action hopin' to get "my pole" into some kind of action. Fairly private place where the fishing is lousy but the view inspires panties to moisten and drop.

The roller coaster that is life found the Red Beaver being in the mood to discuss my church attendance (or lack thereof) and "rumors" of my late night partyin' and drinkin' after dropping her off at her assigned curfew time.

After round after round of questions and denials, maintaining my bullshit position so well it would make a politician proud, I realized I wasn't gettin' lucky that day so I continued to fish... for nothing... for hours, on purpose to make the point...

Not going to get laid? Going to be bitched at instead? Might as well fish and catch nothing...for hour after hour until the Red Beaver was convinced I sucked at fishing and would never ask to invade my "me" time again- my drink some beer and smoke some weed and enjoy some freedom time- away from bible thumpers and cops.

"Please? Can we go now!?" "Nah, they're going start biting any time now.", I lie with aplomb. The Red Beaver is starting to look a little disheveled with her big 80's hairspray loosing its "body" to the heat, humidity and wind not to mention her soft pastel colors were gripping the dust of the day especially in all the sweaty spots.

With the nefarious intentions on my mind, I had completely forgot about the old folks thinking we were bringing home dinner. It was starting to get dark, the Red Beaver was now an angry beaver, out of snacks, out of sorts and now explaining to her mother how it was that we were fishing all day and caught nothing.

It was obvious to her mother that we had been fornicatin' not fishin'. This was a pleasant surprise because the Red Beaver' disappointment in me quickly turned to anger at her mother which would be her motivation for "giving it up" to me on her 18th birthday. Thanks Mom! Got to love rebellious 18 year olds.

Meanwhile her father and I calmly discussed the art of "fishing" and "that's why they don't call it catching". That and a man knows when another man didn't get the pussy he needed to clear his head just by the tenseness on his face...

Plus the fact that I would rather be enjoying one of my prissy beers and smoking a joint than talking about a wasted day of no fish, no lovin', and no buzz.

That was the last time I took a girlfriend fishing as well as the last time I would have a "girl" friend- from then on it was "lady" friends with the status of "lady" being inferred not applied.

Here's to fishin' and wishin'! Peace and Love!