maybe it's the odd nautical theme of the last couple pieces, or an outside influences more charming than my writing, either way, I was on a lazy river drifting slowly in a boat, and it reminded me of a recently departed gentleman(wow that's a loose description). My family has this thing for 1st borns. My grandfather was the 1st born of his family. My father was his 1st born son, and me, well I wasn't the 1st born. Right or wrong, both men put special value on their 1st born sons. So this should be a tale of me being left out, and while that tale certainly exists, it does not exists with my grandfather. I was his everything buddy. One half of the father/son stuffs I got to do with my dad were at grandpa's insistence that I come along. So let me take you drifting with my grandpa. Don't worry, he is a cranky cuss who hates many people, but they are all related to him. He will enjoy your company, and don't mind his ribbing. This old man has the second sharpest wit I have ever encountered, behind me of course.
The first you have to understand, the primary reason for drifting is to spend the day together. It consists of several different stages. Happily pesky old man starting the day. A rather non fishing sort of river adventure accompanied by same said pesky old man. A wonderfully relaxing time with sated pesky old man spinning yarns, and the rebirth of the pesky old man.
It starts at an ungodly early hour before the fish wake up. We were clever we packed all the gear into the boat the night before, so it will be a get up and go sort of affair, or at least it should be. A certain wicked old man gets a twisted thrill out of finding just the piece to bring with him that will turn the entire rig upside down before we can depart. Oh! almost forgot, bring swimwear. My grandpa is many things, cheap, however, he is three or four times over. So we will be diving for bait.
The journey to the river is oddly longer than the five minute walk it takes me. One would think with a car and trailer we would have the boat there more quickly, but we must stop for 'dranks' before we get to the river. Most sane people bring bait fishing, my grandpa brings us. It is actually a pretty enjoyable process. By this point the morning sun is up and the waters have warmed. Our objective? Harvest fresh water muscles. He and I have been doing this for years. Well, I have been doing this while he sits in the boat. I have been the rudder man while the old captain maps the course for the best muscle beds. For the record, I know them all by heart at this point, but we will let him point and fuss, when I 'accidently' miss one or two. Muscles live in clay bottoms four to six feet under water. Smaller ones can be found closer to shore, but those are no good for fishing. So pop off your shoes and hop in. The muscles are hiding under a layer of silt. So, shuffle your feet back and forth to brush aside the silt. When you feel the clay bottom and what appears to be a smooth stone under your feet, simply pop under the water can pick the muscle from the bottom. We have a little bucket that floats on the surface you can deposit the muscles in. Keep an eye on the bucket. A certain pesky old man, safe and dry in the boat, is fond of complaining about it's lack of contents and 'accidently' sinking it. We can accomplish this feat in just a few minutes, but it's a beautiful morning and the water is glorious, so we take our time. Once we have collected enough bait, it's time to climb back into the boat a certain captain has let drift out into the river and I have to swim it back in.
Now we get to the easy part of the day. Don't worry about bait prep that is my job. I have been shucking muscles for longer than I was trusted with a pocket knife. The secret of drifting is knowing the river. Dad mapped it out with a depth finder. Grandpa and I mapped it out over the years, down to when to pick up lines to avoid debris on the bottom. You putter slowly up river, just past the next city up. If you try to get in to soon, the current will push you off, and you will have to pilot back into the channel. If you start in our spot, you will never have to start the engine again until we head home. It's about 30 minutes of lovely scenery, as he and I mildly bicker over where 'our' spot was. We both know. We have had this grumble hundreds of times. It is just part of the ritual.
Drifting is simple, when you are in the right hands. The channel is about sixty feet deep. We need two anchors that will be hanging about thirty feet down. They will provide the drag that keeps the boat sideways in the current. Baited hooks are dropped until they hit the bottom, and then lifted about a foot. That is it. We will drift for hours. Pulling up the fish brazen enough to try to take our hard earned muscles. The great thing about drifting is we are so far above the hooks that we can talk and banter. An old man can tell his tales of his foolish younger brother (why does the younger one have to be foolish?). How he went to work at a government camp when there was no work at home. How he had to walk back across several states, and how glorious the pone bread and pintos were that a woman was kind enough to give him on his walk. Drifting along we can discuss anything or nothing at all. The breeze is always blowing down the channel. The air is never hot. It is just a perfect leisurely day with a pesky old man who swears I'm baiting his hooks wrong. Our morning swim had us cool and wet for the heat of the day. The sun begins relenting just as we are completely dried. So, even the cool afternoon air is a blessing.
The ride back is peaceful and short, since a pesky old man is still sated from the river. The arrival home, however, is not so peaceful, the pesky old man regained his strength. Now the lies start. Oh, the tales he tells of how not only did he out fish me 'again,' but you did as well. Despite my cheating the baits, I didn't catch anything at all. Lying rascal! It is the same every outing. I am always the best fisherman in the boat. I have been since I was six! You have to forgive him. This is his moment. The entire day always has been about me. There are better baits than muscles, but how else is a sixty-five year old man going to take me swimming? There are more productive ways to fish than drifting, but then how can he tell me his stories, and listen to mine, if we are running the motor to and fro? This is his moment, when he gets to believe that he is a pesky old man, who has gotten under my skin and ruffled my feathers. The same thing he has been doing all day. Tipping over the bucket, arguing over places we both have been hundreds of times, and lying about his superiority as a fisherman. How else is he suppose to teach his famous sharp wit to his favorite grandson?
