What’s under the water isn’t half as interesting as what’s on the dock

We spent this past weekend with my parents. On Saturday, dad decided that it was high time that CJ learn how to fish. And, with the help of a new reel and fishing pole (not the kiddy type, puhlease!), we ran a few trial runs and then loaded into my dad’s Expedition and made for the nearest lake.

The lake was pretty. Trees, water, the occasional eagle… And there were fish. Sure, they were really, really tiny, but they were dumb enough to bite a worm on a hook. And so, to all of our delight and amazement, CJ reeled in one after another unsuspecting Blue Gill (ALL BY HIMSELF; the boy is BRILLIANT!), and filled up the cooler with baby fishies while we munched on brownies, sipped Diet Coke, swatted mosquitoes and cheered him on.

It was a glorious evening.

Well, except for one thing. Mosquitoes are annoying, definitely. But the good thing is, they make bug spray that quite effectively keeps them at bay. This evening we were bothered by a pest of a different sort.

Like, for example, the guy who slowly pedaled onto our dock on a bicycle, wearing various backpacks and rag-torn fishing gear strewn around his neck and shoulders. He was wearing cut-off jeans and thick bottle-cap glasses in front of eerily staring eyes, and he spoke in a strange muddled way as if his mouth was full of mash. I don’t know what mash IS exactly, but if you had a mouth full of it I’m sure you’d sound like this guy.

We had just set up and were eagerly watching as CJ stood by the water, fishing pole in place when our freaky friend bicycled over. At first he seemed rather harmless, offering us some bread dough to use as bait (Maybe that’s what he was chewing? Nah, I’m pretty sure it was mash.) No thanks, we told him, we have worms.

“It’s his first time fishing,” my mom commented, referring to CJ. She was making polite conversation, but I’m not sure why. It’s never good to engage these sorts in conversation, polite or otherwise… far better to pretend to have a hearing disorder and avert your eyes. I should know, I live in Seattle.

“Well!” said the mash-chewer, barely able to contain his excitement, “I could talk to him a bit, if you like, and stay and watch and give him some pointers.”

At this point, several responses came to my mind, including:

Thanks but definitely no thanks. Now scurry along.

I’d say yes, but I don’t want to.

I can see that you’re all of 22 and crazy as a loon, but my dad here has been fishing for over 50 years and just last week caught a 50 pound halibut in Alaska as well as several dozen salmon. So I think we’re all set. Now take your bread dough down the street, sailor.

Unfortunately, mom’s mouth was quicker than my brain. “Sure!” she exclaimed, in a slightly gushy way. Mom is waaaaay too nice.

My eyes widened in horror and I shared a glance with dad. I could tell we were on the same page. NOT IN THIS LIFETIME, MISTER with a little bit of OVER MY DEAD BODY.

“Actually,” dad interjected, “thanks for the offer but we’ve got it covered. Why don’t you take your dough down to the next people– maybe they’ll want it.”

The miserable soul stayed to watch us for several minutes more, making for a nice mix of uncomfortableness and tension. I grabbed a brownie and headed down to the water. Maybe if I pretend he’s not there, he’ll go away. That doesn’t often work, but then again, sometimes it does.

Finally he left. Whew! Big sigh of relief.

Mom says, “it was almost like he was on something.”

My sister responds with, “he was definitely on something.” She’s the family expert on such things, so we all just nodded sadly. Our nods showed our dismay at the fact that people would go bicycling around on something when some of us are just trying to fish.

I haven’t quite decided what it was. Perhaps the nearby town was overpopulated with freaky sorts. Or maybe it was belated impacts of Friday the 13th. My favorite theory is that the combination of my mother, sister, and I creates a strong, almost magnetic pulse, that lures the wackos and scaries from miles away. Alone, we definitely seem to be attractive to these sorts. Together, it’s just too much to resist.

At any rate, our mushy-mouthed friend was not the last of the evening encounters. Next onto the dock wandered a 60′ish man. He looked fairly normal, and at first I thought he might just be a friendly sort, wandering by and saying hey.

Not so much.

“I drive by here every day and wonder what you folks are fishing for.” he says.

Interesting. Drives by here every day? It’s a dead end road leading to this lake. This very small lake with nothing to do except fish. Wacko radar begins to buzz.

But again, I keep my mouth shut. My old habit of feigning deafness and averting my eyes kicks in automatically, it seems.

Mom, poor mom, is compelled to answer out of politeness. Again with the politeness! We must cure her of the politeness!

And so begins another long drawn-out fiasco in which I think this man will never leave.

“If I get a boat, will you row it?” he asks mom.

If I get a paddle, can I whack you with it?

“If I get a boat, will you start the motor?” he asks mom.

If I get out the fists of rage, will you finally LEAVE US ALONE? I see this in dad’s eyes.

Yes indeed. The lake was teeming with mini-fish, and the dock was teeming with a different sort of animal.

Needless to say, next time we’ll take our brownies and fishing poles elsewhere, that is until someone shows me the place where you can buy CRAZY REPELLENT!

Oh, and if you’re worried about the teeny-tiny fishes, don’t. They’re happily frolicking in my parents’ pond. We’d eat them, but really why bother?

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