Ahem.

I have been remiss. My poor, neglected blog. It seems to take a back seat to anything.

A quick recap:

I haven't been fishing much, due to work, family, and the fact that my fishing club has turned into a knitting circle. Aye, caramba, what a bunch of bickering Bessies. This coming Sunday, I'm headed up to Kiptopeke to fish the concrete ships for mega-stripers. Last year we had the place to ourselves--there's a boat launch 500 feet away, but they sped past to where they 'knew' the big fish were--but, because of a few loose lips, we'll have to fight the boaters for space. I love a crowd. ::rollseyes::

Jenn is with child, due in late May or early June. We're convinced it's a girl, but won't know for a while. We've spent a couple of nights playing around with names...Irish names.

I've decide that you can't change a tiger's stripes in respect to work. I'll probably begin training for MSCE certification after the New Year. "Will this make you happy?" Time will tell, darling, but at least I won't be living on broken promises any longer. It is more than likely going to take a year, so I can't burn my bridges just yet.

I took Dylan to Chapel Hill to see the 'Heels beat Duke. He demanded we leave at the end of the 3rd. Watched the (surprising) end from our hotel's sports bar, where he spilled a butt-ton of chocolate milk on me. Met up with my friends Beeks and Lori at the Bob Evans beforehand...shoulda called TriDaddy as well. Two nights with Dylan...I slept for 3 hours as soon as we got home. The kid is a whirlwind...

Adios!

Bobby A. Gatling Sr. , Chesapeake

Bobby A. "Andy" Gatling Sr., 41, of the 2600 block of Elkhart St., died Sept. 26, 2007. Born in Portsmouth, he was employed by Tidewater Landworks. Bobby was a member of Mount Lebanon Baptist Church, Chesapeake and was a coach for the Chesapeake Recreation Department. He is survived by his wife, Donya M. Gatling; two daughters, Ashley N. Gatling and Brittney E. Gatling; son, Bobby A. Gatling Jr.; parents, Dianne E. and Leslie Gatling Sr.; two brothers, Leslie Gatling Jr. (Janette) and Jamaal Gatling (Tawanda); grandmothers, Josephine Gatling and Edna Dailey; granddaughter, Jade Gatling; three aunts, Valnetta Edwards, Kim McLean and Brenda Brinkley; four uncles, Craig Avents (Karen), Bobby Daniels (Cassandra), Johnnie Avents and Walter Gatling (Barbara); mother-in-law, Vicky Porter; father-in-law, Lawrence Gibson (Dorothy); brother-in-law, Shawn Porter (Keisha); and a host of nieces, nephews, cousins, in-laws and friends. A funeral will be held at noon Monday by Dr. Kim Brown in Mount Lebanon Baptist Church, Chesapeake. Burial will be in Albert G. Horton Jr. Memorial Veterans Cemetery, Suffolk. Viewing will begin Sunday at 2 p.m. The family will be at the residence to receive friends and will also be at Fisher Funeral Home, 1520 Effingham St., Portsmouth, from 6 to 7 p.m. Sunday. The body will be in church Monday at 11 a.m. www.fisherfuneral.com.

The story of how I procured those fish...

Cam and I had been fishing for hours. We got at Crab Creek at slack high and had fished all of the outgoing with one snagged croaker to show for our efforts. Other than that just some Gulps with the tails bitten off.

Cam was playing on an exposed sandbar when I decided to try the gut where I had been with Forrest. Maybe that had some fish now that the water was moving in. Cam was not amused. He was ready to go home, but I wanted to catch more than a sunburn before heading in. Getting to the gut was proving difficult at dead low. There wasn't much water, but there was plenty of mud. Cam hates mud. There was some crying, but after various and cursory threats to his health if he didn't keep moving forward, we made through to the oyster beds and the gut itself. Thankfully, there was another sandbar for him to play on. He was over fishing. I made a few casts with the expected results.

"Cam", I said, "you stay here. I'm going to drift down this channel to the white house. If nothing bites, we'll go home. Do. Not. Get off this sandbar." "OK", said Cam. "look, a golf ball!" I drifted away, casting my line and shaking my head.

Halfway down I decided gulps weren't going to do it. I could see fish knuckling the water, but they weren't eating. At least not this. I put on something new called a Redfish Magic. It has a spinner bait attached. I got the color Cory had suggested.

I hate new lures. How fast? What depth? Do I jerk? I went with a quick straight retrieve. Nada. I varied it up, but still nothing. I was getting close to the white house. I did manage some see grass, though. Once more, I thought. I cast, aaaaaand....sea grass. Great. Then the grass started moving. Some thing had picked up the lure off the back of the grass. So after a minute, I had the fish Cam is holding.

I held it up to show Cam. He thought I was yelling for him to come to me, so he jumps in his kayak and paddles to me. Well, this'll work, I thought. "The fish are here", I told Cam, "but you have to be quiet. They'll spook easy. Just hang on to my yak and I'll hand you the rod once we hook one."

We circled back to a point halfway through my drift and let the wind and current take us toward the white house again. I was casting like a madman. I really wanted to get a fish f...THERE!!!!

"CAM, I GOT ONE!! C'MERE!!!" Cam tried to shoot himself along side my kayak but was only partially successful. Meanwhile, I discovered this fish was bigger than the first. He made two or three solid runs and peeled line off my rod. "C'MON, B'FORE HE GETS OFF!!!" Another run at 90 degrees to the first...this fish seemed determined to find a away out of the mess he'd gotten himself into. Cam was holding on to my side handle now. Just needed the right moment to hand it off. The fish was pulling us both around the flats, probably close to 350 lbs all told, and a fish was pulling us around. Another run, and the line goes slack. Crap. CRAP!! He's turned towards us!!! I reel line in for all I'm worth. The fish comes across the oyster flats, then goes under my kayak, then sees Cam and doubles back towards me. As I get the fish to the boat, the line wraps around and oyster and is cut. As the line goes slack, there's a splash as the fish falls in the water, and I see him dart under the boat with my new lure.

Cam and I look at each other with wide eyes, and like that kid from the Incredibles, scream to each other about how awesome that was, even though the fish got away. As were talking, I notice a white line in the water about four feet from the kayak. It was the fish I was fighting, wore out, sitting there. I reached over and picked him up, took my damn lure back and put him in the box with the other.

They were delicious...

The week(s) in pictures

I hate computers.

No, no. It's true. I fargin despise them, even though they are the medium that allows this little ray of sunshine, I still hate computers. Specifically, I hate the HP Pavilion. More specifically, I hate the HP DVD writer 300n contained therein, which is currently holding all of our pictures hostage. It is refusing to recognize most disks, and for the few it does, it offers up a cheery ACCESS DENIED! message.

I hate computers.

Our pictures are being wrongfully imprisoned, and the moment I figure how to post their bail, the Pavilion will inch that much closer to being used solely as a paperweight. For the 1998 Yellow Pages. Slowly rotting at the base of the local dump.


This message written on the Dell Inspiron 1501. Take THAT, HP!

Some updates...

Here's a quick "stream of consciousness" thing of all the little tidbits I've wanted to post but don't have time:

• Andy came to work Saturday. He's got a clot on his liver, along with some non-malignant cysts that have been giving him extreme pain, hence his extended absence. They gave him something for the pain, but it made him too loopy to work. I think they're giving him blood thinners now.
• Dylan got a 'big-boy' bed. Two college graduates couldn't figure out all we had to do was separate Cam's bunk beds and we were set, so we went on craigslist and spent $200 for a kiddie captain's bed. The lady we bought it from lied to my face when I asked about the hardwear to put it together--it was the wrong stuff--so I had to rush over to Home Depot on a Sunday night. Thankfully, I found someone with a brain and together we figured a way to hold the dern thing up. C'est la vie...all's well that ends well. I can't believe he's three-and-a-half already, though, and getting bigger and brighter by the hour.
• The job search is not going well. Since my buddy Glen took his new job, he's been working until 7pm, so I've cooled off on that. I probably blew a project manager gig by not jumping on the stick like I should have--but on the other hand I still have no idea what the job actually entails, so I'm only sweating that but so much. Otherwise, I've got a list of job-related websites a mile long but I've only seen two jobs that are close to what I want. One is a hands-on manager, so it'd be a lateral move and I'll be pushing wheelbarrows until I'm seventy. The other is a sales position for a local nursery that starts with a $13K pay cut. Teaching is looking good again...or selling my bodily fluids. I read somewhere about niche sites that cater to specific careers, but damn if I know where they are. This could take a while. I had hoped to have this wrapped up by August 1st. Thankfully, I have a job to pay the bills for now and can afford to wait to make the right career move.
• Everybody wants to start a landscape company with me, but no one understands I have a mortgage to pay.

Drum Line

"Do you want me to cast that?", I asked. I always have visions from There's Something About Mary when Cam casts in the same county as me. Now, we've tethered our kayaks together--the wind is probably a touch strong for him to battle by himself all day. This way I can tow him if he gets tired and just might get to fish a little myself. Cory and Kevin were nearby and had landed more than a few fish already. Cam's got a half ounce jighead with a Moon Glow Gulp! attached to the ten pound line that was wound around his brand new reel, which in turn sat stoutly on his seven-foot light action rod. I sit no more than six feet away, facing him, and nervously hoped for a 'yes'.

"Yeah, go ahead. You do it", he says, and passes me his rod. Amen. There's only a small space between us to cast into, and I have to cast back into the wind (if I cast with the wind we'll run over the line as we drift). A flick of the wrists and the Gulp! arcs away, headed to a spot about twenty-five feet awBAM!!

Seemingly before the lure hits the water, the surface explodes and the fish is on it!!! "Here, Cam!!", I yell with excitement, "Take it! It's your rod!"

Cam shakes his head. "No! You do it!!" Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, says the reel as the fish burns off some line.

"Take. The. Rod.", I say, "and reel it in. It's your fish!" Cam reluctantly takes the rod and starts reeling hard. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz, says the reel as I realize I forgot to adjust the drag when I attached it to the rod this morning. After a few attempts, I get it set enough that Cam can feel the fish at the other end of the line as he reels. His eyes get big. Zzzzzzzzzz, says the reel and his eyes get bigger. This fish has shoulders. Cam takes a foot or two back, but the fish, still green, makes another run and the reel sings once again. "Watch him land a flipping 30 inch fish" I think to myself as I cheer him on. Back and forth it goes for another minute or two until Cam gets the fish close enough to the kayak for me to grab. I hoist it up for him to see and cry, "It's a drum!"

"A redfish?!?!", he asks. "That's my first one ever!! Is it big enough to keep?" Cam loves to take fish home, not so much for the eating but more for the cleaning. "I dunno, but he's FAT!" I lay a tape across Cam's fish and feel just a tinge of disappointment as it comes up a quarter-inch short. "Nope, sorry bud. He goes back. The rules don't get broken, even for your first red drum. Let's get some pictures, though."

Cancer Andy Update.

Yeah. Not so hot. He still makes it to work every now and agin, but I haven't seen him for a week or two. Last we spoke, he said his platelets were low, necessitating a shot of whatever into his bone marrow (ow!) to stimulate production. That in turn "made me look like a beaten slave". Some things made his face break out. His hair is starting to thin. And he's lost 20? 30? more? pounds. The Benadryl before the chemo makes him drunk.

On the bright side, he's still sucking air, but the outcome of this drama is becoming more dubious by the hour.

Talking helps.

Had a good talk with Beau-retard, one of my co-workers, today. Beau is, in all seriousness, a fine, upstanding, Christian man. He's the person at work whose family life is most similar to mine. And he's probably the guy at work whose opinion I value most.

He'd been talking about leaving to work in a different field, and has an interview with the VP of a local outdoor advertising firm here sometime soon. A some point, he turns and tells me, "You oughta start putting out resumes, too. Don's never going to change. He needs to be in control. He doesn't want to grow his business. None of that bodes well for you." Basically, everything I've ever complained about to anyone regarding work, Beau verbalized inside 10 minutes and then told me I was selling myself and my family short.

I explained how I felt a bit trapped, having worked in landscaping for 14 years, yet having no degree, no quantitative CAD experience, yet being fairly highly paid (due to massive overtime) for what I do. He countered with, "You've managed construction projects. You've mediated costumer disputes. You've negotiated contracts. No one really cares what your degree is in, unless you're going to be a doctor or an engineer, which neither of us are, they just want to know you're bright enough to graduate. And if you don't tell them that 80% of your time is spent planting pansies, then you can use that other 20% to get the job."

And he's right. Getting out of this hellhole is just a matter of selling myself, and of conquering the fear of change. Jenn and the boys sure as heck deserve more, and after a decade-and-a-half of 50 to 60 hour weeks, I wouldn't mind something a little more family-friendly myself. So I guess it's time to give the ole resume a spit shine and see what's out there, landscaping or otherwise.

In the meantime, Cam and I are taking Friday off and going fishing. He's a good kid, and I promised him last week I'd take him if he could behave himself at school, He did, but Tropical Storm Barry interfered with our plans. So, depending on the tides, maybe the Eastern Shore...

I think I have a new motto:

Fish laugh at me. Women loathe me.

I'm not at all in my special place. However, it's entirely of my own doing. I went fishing with Glen, who's very much the albatross when it come to actually wanting to catch a fish. Shoulda been a good night: full moon, rising tides. 'Twas a touch breezy, but nothing out of the ordinary for the Year of the Wind. But I went fishing with Glen. A solitary bluefish frolicked gleefully in one hole, easily avoiding my expert casts. Flounder tied my lines to string algae and chuckled on their way. Glen got bored and frustrated and decided to go home a few minutes early, which was fine by me. He hadn't been gone 5 minutes when I heard a tremendous splash , and turn and cast immediately to the school of puppy drum I'd been searching for all night. By the time my line hit the water, the drum had transmogrified onto a pack of cow-nosed rays, one of whom was more than happy to swallow my bait. For his trouble, he got to pull 300 pounds around for a solid 5 minutes before my 12lb monofil snapped. Knowing the wife would be getting worried and that I was cursed because I went fishing with Glen, I decided to call it an evening myself, without ever boating a fish.

I think I'm going to see if I left my special place at the bottom of a Yuengling....

I'm not a Hokie.

Normally, I can't stand the Hokies. I can't stand the way they dominate the sports pages despite being five hours away, while my beloved 'Heels (closer by a solid hour) have to fight for page space with three-legged hamster races. I can't stand the Hokies in the same manner I can't stand the Cowboys and the Yankees. These are the teams people say they are "their" teams when, in fact, they have no team. I can't stand the Hokies from August until November, and now, most importantly, from November until March.

Last Monday changed that for me. Some of it anyway. When I heard of the days events, to say I was shocked would be an understatement. I stopped working to call my sister in PA, a stay-at-home mom, to get the latest. Thirty-two dead. Another eighteen wounded. That was me once. Different school, but still the same. Who the hell expects 9mm rounds to be flying at nine o'clock on a Monday morning? Intially, I had heard that Cho had lined them up in a lab and shot them one by one, execution-style. I felt only marginally better to find out this was false.

My wife is a Hokie ('98). She's taking this hard. I can't imagine having all my college memories coated by all this. She called me at lunch the rest of the week in order to give me updates. We had continuous coverage at home until our oldest had nightmares. Thankfully, none of the casualties were folks she knew or she'd have been a right mess. She did ask me to go with her to the Memorial Service at Mt. Trashmore Friday night, and being the supportive husband I am, I agreed. I had a maroon t-shirt under my work shirt that day, but she thought I needed more. She ran to the closet, and returned with a Hokiebird hat which she nestled upon my thinning locks. My Carolina Blue blood rankled at the headgear, but no, I said, for tonight, to remember those killed and to support my wife, I'd wear the hat, and like it. We stood with some folks my wife knew and listened to the half-dozen or so speakers, and as the names of the deceased were read before a moment of silence. Afterwards,when the bagpipe started in with Amazing Grace, you could here people losing it all around you, my wife and her friends included. And there, in that crowd, with those people, I was a Hokie, too.

Jesus buys me a pizza

The implausible happened. I agreed to work on a Sunday. There's a garden tour in Alanton next week and naturally, we're behind schedule. The client is nice as can be. She waved as she left for church this morning. She returned just after I brought the second load of mulch, and called me over to the side. "We had a party after Church today," she whispered, "and we ordered too much food. I have five pizzas in my refrigerator. Would you or your guys like to take some home?"

Yes. Yes we would. Of course I couldn't figure out why this was a state secret and she needed to whisper, but what the hay. I sent four to the hacienda with my crew, and took one home for dinner for Jenn and the boys. This should rack up a few more brownie points.

Jesus knew I liked Italian sausage.

Occasionally, I do some good...

So I was talking to Andy last week. Cancer Andy. He's actually had some decently good news. The tumor is contained in his pancreas. The radiation seems to be having some effect. His new doc has told him the statistics don't apply, as he's young and strong. He still has his hair. We're talking about how he found out and how he felt--shocked, hopeless, etc...

Andy:"...until I talked to you."
Me: "Me? Why?"
Andy: "'Cause everyone else treated me like I'm already gone. Telling me they're sorry and that's rough and all that. You--you walk up and say, 'F-U-C-K, Andy. Someone told me you were a horse, a machine. Go kick this S-H-I-T in the A-S-S.' That made me think I had a chance. I nearly cried like a girl. But don't you tell anyone! "

Note: Andy doesn't curse, so he spells it out...?

Four percent

I found out today that one of the guys I work with is sick. He's been in the hospital two or three times over the past eighteen months or so with pains in the belly, severe constipation,etc. Initially he was diagnosed with pancreaitis. Yesterday he was told he had pancreatic cancer.

He's 40.

He called me tonight and asked me to get on the computer tonight and find him some good news, because the doctors hadn't given him much hope. And I found some. I found web sites with survival stories and passed them along to him.

Along with the survival stories I found out about this type of cancer. Because of it's nature, it's rarely diagnosed until it's in its advanced stages. Blacks have higher incidences than whites, and men higher than women. Andy is a black male. Most patients have a life expectancy of three to six months after initial diagnosis. The survival rate for pancreatic cancer is 4% overall, and maybe 1 to 3 % survive past 5 years.

Count your blessings, as I'll be counting mine tonight.

I should fix the header...

to note that there will be pro-Tarheels items in here. And by that I mean anti-Duke. Which brings us to the Big Dance.

I think there were few people on the Eastern Seaboard who enjoyed the disgusted look on Ratface's mug last night more than I. As much grief as I took from the assembled masses during UNC's 8-22 season, I can't say I'm displeased that Dook fell in the opening round. The Karma Police have come calling and...well, I guess DU's only getting a warning. They did make the field, after all.

AND I picked VCU in my brackets, so it's a double plus.

The UNC "hey, the wheels almost fell off the wagon again" Tarheels had an interesting game. I wish I could have seen more of it, but CBS in their wisdom, decided that the Xavier game was more interesting. Cox has it set up so I can see all four channels--one from each arena, but CBS changed the input so all four were showing the stewpid Xavier game. That is, until the Colonels of E. Kentucky (only some 20 miles from B.F. KY as I understand it) capitalized on the lackadaisical Heels and made a game of it for a while--then CBS was back in a flash! Thankfully, UNC regained their composure and had a few highlight reel moments before I fell alseep.

MEMORANDUM

To: Self
From: Same

Subject: Future blog projects

Dude, you gotta quit working so much. Sixty-hour weeks combined with 6 hours of class time a week are killing you. However, them bills do need to get paid. As time permits, I have some ideas for blog posts I'd like you to pursue:

1. A stept-by-step photo essay on how you develop a plan.
2. We need another Overconfident Kayaker. How 'bout the time you went out with Burnley and nearly got blown to England?
3. Heels/ Big Dance. Nuff said.

OK, get some shut eye. 16 hour days are not kind to you. Next you'll be talking to yourself.

Jason

Tyler Hansbrough suffers cheap shot from Gerald Henderson

Discuss...

So I've been tweaking things...

as I try and figure out what I what to accomplish with the ole blog. It's gotta be more than an online fishing journal, because in actuality (and unfortunately) fishing takes up very little of my time. And on the other hand, there are some more personal things I'd prefer not to have posted on the open 'Net....fortunately I have a more secure environment for that kind of crap. However, if I manage to turn another REM song into a header, feel free to scramble my brains with an icepick.

Anyway. Since running across my high school bud Tri-Daddy, I've been a touch overly nostalgic for the past couple of weeks. The 20 year reunion is this fall. I've been thinking back to high school, hanging out with Tri-Daddy and Tex, going to a football...HA!...going to a football game with Randy and Doug and meeting up with Randy's girlfriend and some of her friends...and singing "Ramble On" by Led Zeppelin for some reason...Randy coming up to my locker that following Monday and announcing, like a character in a John Waters film, that I was "in demand at Holy Name"... and the mayhem that ensued from that point forward. Tri-Daddy and I going into the bar across from the Hope Rescue Mission (think the Dickinson bar in Animal House--"Can I dance wif yo dates?") and trying to get beer, me in a "Bill the Cat" t-shirt and he in plaid pastel Bermuda shorts. Shot down, needless to say.

'Twenty years' is relevant in a distant sort of way, but something hit home when I went in to the office today. The local station was having an Alternative Classic weekend--the bands that changed music from hair bands to grunge/heavier rock. Bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Bush, Soundgarden. And me being as into music as I was, I can remember where I was and what I was doing the first time I heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit". How can that be Classic???? And it hit me like a ton of bricks when I realised it's been 16 years since that came out:

Holy shit. I'm old.

Are those things real?

As it so happens, Cory put the video on the web on Sunday. You'll notice kayaks moving without anyone paddling. Those are fish puuling them. Commonly refered to as a "Sleigh Ride".

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GmEA9RFNy8w

Tupperware Navy

We've got the Kayak Fishing Symposium here in VB this weekend. My club, the Tidewater Kayak Angler's Assoc (TKAA) is sponsoring it. I'm presenting a seminar on Cold Weather Gear today. So needless to say I've got kayaking on the brain--my wife would tell you this is not uncommon.

I thought I'd try to post some pictures:

I mentioned a beehive in the last entry. This is what one looks like. The disturbance in the water are menhaden, a bait fish about the size of your hand. They're forced to the surface by striped bass ( aka striper or rockfish) who feed in schools from underneath. The birds take advantage of chunks of menhaden that float to the surface and any fish small enough to carry. This beehive extended about two miles and maybe 200 feet in the air--thousands upon thousands of birds.


This is me that same day. The fish I'm holding was about 34 1/2 inches. It had a sore from a bacterial infection on his tail and I wasn't wearing gloves, so it's in my lap instead of up in the air. This is the biggest fish I've ever landed.


This is Cory, the guy who got me into kayakfishing. He was my roommate for a while right out of college, and I stumbled back across him while reading some fishing webboards about two years ago. I bought a kayak six weeks later. This was taken off of Kiptopeke on the Eastern Shore of VA about a month ago. His fish is 43 inches, I believe.

This is Aaron, also a member of TKAA. I don't know him well at all, but that is just a hog of a fish. The structures behind him are the Concrete Ships at Kiptopeke. They were cargo vessels in World War One (I think), and after they outlived their usefulness they used them as breakwaters for a new pier and boat ramp they were building. As they deteriorate, the hulls break into huge chunks, creating passageways and protection that fish just love.



All these fish were released; mine because of the infection (I'm not eating a sick fish), the others because the season was closed. Cory took all the pictures except the one he's in, I guess.

Tales of an Overconfident Fisherman, Part I (redux)

Christmas Eve in Virginia Beach…a beautiful, sunny day. Far away, someone was dreaming of a White Christmas, but we were hoping for big striper. A bunch of us had gotten into a beehive of gannets, seagulls and pelicans the week before and pulled out dozens of 25 to 37” fish. The birds fish for dinner above big schools of menhaden while stripers chase them from below. We wanted to be right in the middle. We got to First Landing State Park around 8 am and patrolled the beach, looking for birds. Seeing none, Ray and I shoot the breeze, telling each other that the action would come with the tide. We take our time carting our kayaks and fishing gear to the beach, get suited up, and launch about 9.

I take the lead and paddle my 16-foot Tarpon 160 kayak through the surf. Ray’s right behind me with his all-but-brand-new 160i. The current and the wind make things a little dicey close to shore, so I head out maybe a quarter mile. Now Ray's maybe 25 yards behind. I hear him yell to me that something’s not right, but didn’t catch what, exactly. I turn so I’m parallel to the beach to ask what he said. Ray looks out to me, leans forward and goes headfirst into the water.

Oh, hell. Now what?

I stab at the water with my paddle and move that kayak at flank speed to reach him, and see him attempting to get back the Tarpon but no such luck. Every time he tries to remount the kayak keeps going vertical. I think to myself maybe that's because Ray's a big boy. I paddle to within ten yards and try to turn that long 160 to get in closer but I'm going too fast and end up circling him. Not once, but twice. Rudders are wonderful things—I make a mental note to have one installed. Finally, I maneuver my kayak next to Ray’s. Ray is still hanging on to the far side and yells that we’ve got to save his stuff from floating out to sea. I see Ray's paddle and leash 20 yards off, and his fish finder another 5 beyond that. I try stabilizing the 160i so Ray can climb up, but he's been trying to do that for probably for a full two minutes—a lifetime in 50* water. He’s too tired now to pull himself back on board. I see he's on the verge of being very concerned for his current situation (also known as “wigging out”) and reassure him that this isn't a big deal, piece of cake, no worries, just slow your breathing down, don't waste energy, just a quick swim. Things it's easy to say when you're the guy looking down, not the guy in the water. So now what? I tell Ray we're going to hook his kayak to mine and if he'll hang on to his, I'll paddle the whole shebang to the beach. I think back to some rescue swim class somewhere, "If they latch on to you and take you down, too, you're both as good as dead". Maybe a little distance is a good thing. I don't want Ray to panic and flip me out of my boat, because then it'll get real hard for both of us. Now I'm thinking back to the safety seminar at the dive pool the month before: use the paddle to make a pontoon boat and see if he can get in that way. The wind is picking up and kayaks are becoming difficult to maneuver, but after a little finagling we get them lined up. Ray (who's now in the water close to 5 minutes) doesn't have it in him. His waders are starting to fill with water and he’s getting cold. A bell goes off. To hell with the gear-- get to shore!! I tell Ray we’re leaving the boat, I'll come back for it later, to hold on to my stern and I'll tow him in. I start paddling. In my mind I'm paddling like the kid in The Incredibles who can run on top the water.

I'd like to interject here that, for those that have never met him, Ray isn’t petite. He’s a 300-pound Filipino. And he's got waders filling with water. So I'm paddling my ass off for a solid minute and thinking, “Whoa, I'm not moving at all…”, so I tell Ray. Actually, I tell Ray, “Hey man, piece of cake, couple of hundred yards now, we’ll be dry in a minute”. After another minute or two the current loosens its grip on him and the drift sock he's calling waders and we start to make a little headway. I keep talking to him and call out some distances. Ray responds by coughing up a lung full of seawater, I guess, and trying to tip me over from the stern. Eventually, we get in close enough that he can touch bottom. He lets go of the kayak and I take off like a speedboat, beach the kayak, and run back to help him out. I grab him by the upper arm and pull him out of the water like a disobedient child. And it was all I could do not to laugh, because coming out of that water with his waders filled with water, Ray looked like the Michelin Man.

And then I remember having clothes in the truck, stuff from work, so I tell him to work on getting that wet crap off. I'll run up to the parking lot and get dry clothes. I'll get his boat afterwards. And I take off, still in my dry top and neoprene waders, full throttle, up the flight of stairs, run down the boardwalk, down the stairs and see a concrete wash house. Why the hell is there a wash house?? There's no wash house here. Where's the visitor's center? Where's my truck? I hadn't noticed we'd drifted and I'd run down the wrong access. Where the hell am I? Rather than run back to the beach and try figure it out, I can hear the cars zipping by on Shore Drive so I run down the road towards there, still in my waders, drytop, and I think PFD, still full throttle. I probably ran close to half a mile in that get-up. I got that big bastard out of the water, I’ll be damned if he’s going to die of hypothermia now! I get my bearings, run past the Visitor’s Center to my truck, jump in and drive over a few lawns, curbs, and railroad ties to get back where I needed to be. I grab all the clothes I can carry and run back over the (wrong) access and back out to Ray, who promptly throws on my sweatshirt (backwards), a watch cap and my coat. His 160i has washed ashore by now. We head down the beach to see how much of a yard sale there would be, expecting to see his gear and lures strewn across the beach, but there isn't one. All that’s left is his paddle, his fish finder, and one lure. His new rods and rest was sent to Davey Jones' Locker.


And right then the birds started working off the pound nets, pulling fresh menhaden out of the water.

"Let's begin again...begin the begin"

So I get a call from my mom, who works in a doctor's office in Reading. She had a new patient come in, a girl I went to HS with. She mentioned a 20th Reunion scheduled for this fall and how the info was up on Classmates.com. Not that I particularly keep up with anyone, but I kind of want to see who's fatter and has less hair than me. I decide to go to Classmates, and there they have a roster of all the folks who're registered. I see a few names I recognize, and wonder what they're up to, and in a fit of nostalgia, I google Doug Didyoung's name. Note to self--next time, pick someone who's not a "Jr." Doug generated quite a few hits, and as I meander through them, trying to find a logical way to get in touch with him, I come across the blog of this guy in NC. Who the hell in NC would know Doug? As I read, I see this guy trains for marathons and triathalons. Who the hell in NC that's in shape would know Doug? I'm scrolling down, reading snippets, see a pic of a cute kid, read about how patient his wife is, when I find it: an entry about palying basketball with Doug, about Tom Texter and WXAC (Albright College's radio station where a bunch of us had shows when we were in HS). I look at this guys photo again...great balls of fire! It's Joe Nuss's blog! Joe, who I hadn't talked to eleventy-six years, who went on the ill-fated beer run with Keith Mooney and I on Prom Night, who as a deluded teenager insisted all the girls in the Berkshire Mall were looking at him (when in fact, they were looking at me, as any sane person could have told you). Naturally I left a message on the blog, and today I spent an hour catching up with Joe when I should have been doing important things like tape images of trees on vellum.

Why, I'm sure you're wondering, should I give a dingo's kidney? It's like this...there's a whole other group of folks on a place called the Sandbar who've been urging me to find an outlet for my writing (or rambling, depending on your point of view) and in reading Joe's blog I kind of decided taht this would be OK, that I could polish up the Tales of the Overconfident Kayaker, as Amy calls them, and vent a bit. At Others. We hate Others.

So generally, I'll make up the rules as I go. I have a family, occaisonally a life and a 60 hour a week job, so no promises on how much or how often, but much like a mint laxative, I'll try to make it sweet and be a bit regular.