My dad was really growing a passion for deep sea fishing. Every year around the time my buddies and I would disappear behind fifths for spring break, he’d be in the East Cape, going for Marlin and BIG Yellowtail. For 3 consecutive years he’s come back with ice chests full of filets and each year he gloats over his exploits with a beer, which admittedly, usually fell upon deaf ears.
“You take a Mackerel; slit it from its anus to its chest cavity. That way they can smell it when you troll. Next, you’ll have to run a steel leader with a few C-Clamps down its throat, leaving the hook trailing behind where the fish’s anus used to be. This will make for an easy set once the predator strikes it. Tuna will strike it whole. Of course this technique should only be used under two conditions:
A)You plan on keeping what you catch.
B)You aren’t concerned about the length of the fight (with this method, the hook will lodge so deep in the predators throat that it will exhaust itself very quickly.
In Season; anywhere in the South Pacific, you can expect a high success rate if you follow these instructions. But there are still plenty variables, and every tried fisherman has their own special tactic that they haven’t told anyone, except you. I’m not arrogant enough to think that I’d know how to bait fish all over the world. My lake fishing experience is limited. That’s redneck sport. The fish are dumber and smaller (like the fisherman). Deep sea angling is the divinity of fishing, it has nostalgia and romanticism that’s lost while sitting on a dirty, mosquito plagued shore with a container of earth worms. Out at sea, we’re after the ‘big one’ and we use the elements to guide us. It’s still luck, but some of the more spiritual captains will say otherwise. I believe that you might as well do everything right so that you can allow yourself to get lucky. Sometimes we’ve fished for Yellows and hooked Pargo. I’ve even had a Mako strike when we were pulling in the boom line at a dead stand still. You simply never know what you’ll catch as long as your bait is in the water.”
He was loading up the freezer one fillet at the time. His skin was parched and magenta from the sun and salty sea winds. I don’t think parents realize when their children learn valuable lessons from them. It happens unexpectedly. Parenting isn’t deliberate; neither is a child’s comprehension. Whether my dad intended to or not, from his quixotic ramblings; years later I realized the importance of what he warned me about from his days at sea.
As many have learned through your own tribulations, the consequences of drinking and surrounding yourself with alcohol consumption are unpredictable, at best. Especially amongst the amateurs in the dorms. There’s been wild group sex, bloody fisted brawls, and just about everything in between. To illustrate my point, I’d simply ask you to walk through the floor 13 common areas on any given Sunday morning. There you’d find puddles of stomach fluid and unconscious dormants, passed out less than 30 meters from their own beds. I ended up on those couches a few times as well. On that plaid upholstery, I witnessed a friend puppy humping a girl from the 3rd floor. In the very same place, seven days later, my roommate shat himself in his sleep.
The dorms were uninhibited. Kegs, girls, music, drugs, sex, violence, booze: We nicknamed our floor Beirut-Vegas. It was great, breasts were almost always visible, and my penis dangled freely when I walked the halls at night.
‘Much of my ‘real’ college education was not ‘real world’ applicable’ I’d explain at the time when my grades where made available. My mother failed to see the humor of walking around near nude with my only bit of clothing being a long-john donut encasing my Wadsworth Longfellow.
On one particular day the pool felt awkward when others noticed my ‘brains’ bobbing in and out of my dolphin shorts. From that experience, I started to gain a bit more cognizance of public decency. A slow ween from nudity was transitioned into cold turkey Quakerism on one warm September evening.
The group of us guys were getting fucking hammered. There was no new pie on the floor to tantalize our interest, and water ballooning of Frat dorms was getting old. We took a walk with our 40 ouncers so that some of the guys could blow rails down by the stadium. The boosters had been good little bitches and raised enough money to commence the building of a state of the art tailgating facility for the alumni. In the south they BBQ from the back of RV’s. Our boosters wanted a snack bar and A/C. We walked past the Sports Arena and through the main parking lot and reached the base of our football stadium stronghold. On the south end was the construction zone where the lavish alumni area was to be erected in the off-season. I needed a piss like manure needs feces. The guys crossed under the yellow caution tape as I planted equidistant between two saguaro cacti. Themses some big cacti. Rumor has it that you can slice them open to drink their inner fluids if you are stranded in the desert. I wondered if someone were to be stranded without water at this very point and needed to slice these ones open; the sheer disappointment of the inner fluids tasting like urine. Nomads.
As I emancipated my waste, I felt eyes. Is that our sixth sense? I think most people at some point or another, will have the sensation of someone watching them. I was exercising this infrequently used sense while peeing. I glanced left and saw a man standing no more than 15 feet off of my shoulder. He said nothing, nor did I. He peered, and stood there…peering. I felt like my arm guards from the men’s urinal were taken away. I turned my shoulders even more square to the tall prickly friends in front of me.
Even with my sanctity in question I continued peeing. By no means could I ever stop in mid-stream. Pain and discomfort, followed by potential penis explosion is certainly not worth the risk. By the time I had finished, shook, and zipped, I was again alone outside the construction zone. Rather than go rummaging through the dirty construction site, I chose to sit beneath the yellow tape and make my mouth happy with malt liquor. About the time I finished I was rejoined by the guys. We headed afoot in the direction of the dorms. It wasn’t very long before a police car appeared from beneath a rock and drove directly for us, entirely too fast, and slammed it’s brakes, bringing it to a halt at our feet. The officer stepped out of the drivers seat, relieving his asshole from his custom baton-fitted seat which clearly shoved a lead pipe into his rectum whenever he sat on it. He was a ‘military guy’, pecker-head haircut and all. Out of the passenger seat was the mystery peerer in standard issue reflective yellow vest.
“You guys are ding dang dong darn tootin trespassing, aint chyaz?”, or so I think the officer said.
We waited for his next move, in order to conceal our intoxication by keeping quite.
“I could surely betcha reckon to take yaz in y’know.”, we nodded in response to his frightful command of the English language.
“Whicha one a y’alls was a swingin his cock n’ balls about?”, the guys looked around confused at each other shrugging their shoulders. With my head down, I took a step forward to claim the offense.
“Well, well, well, if it aint not our cock n’ balls swinger.” I was thoroughly embarrassed and hoped to not get raped in prison, or in the back seat of a cop car.
“Tell me Mr. security guard, did you see this young man’s penis?”, The cop glared at the guard then back at me…