Going Fishing
Guy Territory
David raised the hatch and loaded Steven Paul’s rod and tackle box into the truck.
As he hustled in, Dad asked from the back seat, “Thought you couldn’t go out when your girlfriend was in town?”
“I go where I want! When I want! And with who I want!” Full blown finger pointing, veins popping, eyes blazing. The whole dramatic effect that didn’t phase any of us.
“She said you could go?” That was me.
“She said I could go,” he said and strapped on his seat belt.
Goin’ fishin!
…with the coolest guys in the world, the Robinson fishing clan: Dad, brothers David and Steven Paul, and cousins Mark, Carroll, and Justin. Well, not exactly fishing. Don’t plan on squishing any squid onto a little hook, or waiting the arrival of a gill-blower. But maybe I can be convinced to hold a pole for a little bit. Essentially, this evening is about getting off schizophrenic North Capitol Street, out of melting Chocolate City, and into the Bay breeze with the boys. Fishing? If it happens…
The “Andiamo”
We meet Carroll and Mark at the docks. I inhale a deep breath of salty Bay air, and the register the generator’s cranking roar. Such a loud, raucous noise. Pausing before the pier and the boat, David steps on ahead of me, and reaches out to take my hand. My younger brother, the gentleman.
Steven Paul and I settle up on the deck, occasionally consumed by the Bay view mansions. Wouldn’t it be nice…we dreamed. Didn’t say much, but all of us are accustomed to the sound of loud motors as conversation. Curious for a view from the upper deck, I climb up the ladder, knees awkwardly turned to the right to avoid slamming them into the steps. Awesome. Miles of waves ahead, huge steamers, and the horizon.
With minimal direction, Carroll invites me to steer the boat. Captain Rhonda! Something like driving, there’s a huge silver-slick steering wheel, but with a thousand more dials and widgets and flick this and that. But for all the machinery that suggested complexity and excitement, it really isn’t I had to keep a central dial on 190. That’s it. For some calculated reason that was the number that will eventually lead us to the middle of the Bay. With choppy waters, though, it takes a more than my neophyte skill can offer. “We’re never going to get there with you driving,” Carroll says to me, and he sets the cruise control.
Sitting in the captain’s chair is just as exciting, and so I do. But settled, I notice a little…feeling… in my stomach. Not a huge gnawing pain like a cramp or an ache, but a minor disturbance that I have known before.
“Um, Carroll, the water this far out is really choppy?”
He cuts to the chase. “You getting seasick?”
“Well, not exactly, but maybe.” Maybe I ought to go back down and sit…
Below, the guys are shooting the ish, spitting off the side of the boat and gnawing on cold KFC. Little by little my head begins to hurt, my stomach contracts, and something as simple as a wave of water in the sea inspires utter confusion. Despite my suffering, conversation continues: Who is the sexier sex symbol, Beyonce or Toni Braxton? I desperately want to set the record straight: Toni’s near nudity is simply a desperate plea for a career comeback. But, the simple turning of my head alters my entire state of being and understanding of gravity. Mute is a better way to go.
Every so often, Mark or Dad look at me sympathetically, seasoned fishermen with steel-lined stomachs feeling sympathy for the landlubber. “Rhonda, you doing alright? Do you need a pill?” I take one. Steven Paul helpfully points out a prime spot for me to vomit should I be so inclined.
Carroll, all the while, has steered us to the mythical “190” destination, and the gang efficiently sets about fishing. With optimism that his daughter will join the league, Dad baits a rod and sets it in front of me. Yeah, maybe, I can drop a line, reel in a big one, or at least one.
Well, no. After casting off exactly once, I hand over my rod and crawl below deck while I can still move my legs. The waves are rocking the boat at physically unsound angles, and threaten balanced life as I know it. Gratefully I fall into the couch. Horizontal is a position I occupy for the next two hours.
Once I emerge see the red moon dipping low in the water, but pay for it dearly in the currency of gastronomic harmony. No more of that. Zen-like, I lay on my side and mentally carry myself to terra firma.
Unfortunately for the crew, not a single croaker has made an appearance, and Carroll decides to sail farther north. Except the anchor is lodged deep into the bottom of the Bay. Apparently I’m not the only one struggling to gather bearings. “I’ll go on up the helm, see what I can do,” Mark yells. Carroll continues to push a button that creates a crazy gyrating screech, I imagine the thick wire cable of a stubbornly anchored anchor. Oh, my head.
Return to sanity
Finally, with not a single croaker between us, we decide to head back to port. The waves are more pleasant the closer we got to the creek, and my stomach grudgingly agrees to remain among my community of vital organs. Reinvigorated, I bound back to deck, rejoin Steven Paul and smile at the sky, specks of stars, and the glory of firm land ahead.
Can I call what I did fishing? Is it truthful to say I went fishing if, of the four hours on the boat, two were spent in the pine position negotiating with my digestive tract not to send my dinner straight up my throat like a trucker barreling up 95 north? Telling tales of adventure is a distinct and essential element of the Robinson fishing tradition. Yes, I went fishing with the boys, and got sick like a girl.
David raised the hatch and loaded Steven Paul’s rod and tackle box into the truck.
As he hustled in, Dad asked from the back seat, “Thought you couldn’t go out when your girlfriend was in town?”
“I go where I want! When I want! And with who I want!” Full blown finger pointing, veins popping, eyes blazing. The whole dramatic effect that didn’t phase any of us.
“She said you could go?” That was me.
“She said I could go,” he said and strapped on his seat belt.
Goin’ fishin!
…with the coolest guys in the world, the Robinson fishing clan: Dad, brothers David and Steven Paul, and cousins Mark, Carroll, and Justin. Well, not exactly fishing. Don’t plan on squishing any squid onto a little hook, or waiting the arrival of a gill-blower. But maybe I can be convinced to hold a pole for a little bit. Essentially, this evening is about getting off schizophrenic North Capitol Street, out of melting Chocolate City, and into the Bay breeze with the boys. Fishing? If it happens…
The “Andiamo”
We meet Carroll and Mark at the docks. I inhale a deep breath of salty Bay air, and the register the generator’s cranking roar. Such a loud, raucous noise. Pausing before the pier and the boat, David steps on ahead of me, and reaches out to take my hand. My younger brother, the gentleman.
Steven Paul and I settle up on the deck, occasionally consumed by the Bay view mansions. Wouldn’t it be nice…we dreamed. Didn’t say much, but all of us are accustomed to the sound of loud motors as conversation. Curious for a view from the upper deck, I climb up the ladder, knees awkwardly turned to the right to avoid slamming them into the steps. Awesome. Miles of waves ahead, huge steamers, and the horizon.
With minimal direction, Carroll invites me to steer the boat. Captain Rhonda! Something like driving, there’s a huge silver-slick steering wheel, but with a thousand more dials and widgets and flick this and that. But for all the machinery that suggested complexity and excitement, it really isn’t I had to keep a central dial on 190. That’s it. For some calculated reason that was the number that will eventually lead us to the middle of the Bay. With choppy waters, though, it takes a more than my neophyte skill can offer. “We’re never going to get there with you driving,” Carroll says to me, and he sets the cruise control.
Sitting in the captain’s chair is just as exciting, and so I do. But settled, I notice a little…feeling… in my stomach. Not a huge gnawing pain like a cramp or an ache, but a minor disturbance that I have known before.
“Um, Carroll, the water this far out is really choppy?”
He cuts to the chase. “You getting seasick?”
“Well, not exactly, but maybe.” Maybe I ought to go back down and sit…
Below, the guys are shooting the ish, spitting off the side of the boat and gnawing on cold KFC. Little by little my head begins to hurt, my stomach contracts, and something as simple as a wave of water in the sea inspires utter confusion. Despite my suffering, conversation continues: Who is the sexier sex symbol, Beyonce or Toni Braxton? I desperately want to set the record straight: Toni’s near nudity is simply a desperate plea for a career comeback. But, the simple turning of my head alters my entire state of being and understanding of gravity. Mute is a better way to go.
Every so often, Mark or Dad look at me sympathetically, seasoned fishermen with steel-lined stomachs feeling sympathy for the landlubber. “Rhonda, you doing alright? Do you need a pill?” I take one. Steven Paul helpfully points out a prime spot for me to vomit should I be so inclined.
Carroll, all the while, has steered us to the mythical “190” destination, and the gang efficiently sets about fishing. With optimism that his daughter will join the league, Dad baits a rod and sets it in front of me. Yeah, maybe, I can drop a line, reel in a big one, or at least one.
Well, no. After casting off exactly once, I hand over my rod and crawl below deck while I can still move my legs. The waves are rocking the boat at physically unsound angles, and threaten balanced life as I know it. Gratefully I fall into the couch. Horizontal is a position I occupy for the next two hours.
Once I emerge see the red moon dipping low in the water, but pay for it dearly in the currency of gastronomic harmony. No more of that. Zen-like, I lay on my side and mentally carry myself to terra firma.
Unfortunately for the crew, not a single croaker has made an appearance, and Carroll decides to sail farther north. Except the anchor is lodged deep into the bottom of the Bay. Apparently I’m not the only one struggling to gather bearings. “I’ll go on up the helm, see what I can do,” Mark yells. Carroll continues to push a button that creates a crazy gyrating screech, I imagine the thick wire cable of a stubbornly anchored anchor. Oh, my head.
Return to sanity
Finally, with not a single croaker between us, we decide to head back to port. The waves are more pleasant the closer we got to the creek, and my stomach grudgingly agrees to remain among my community of vital organs. Reinvigorated, I bound back to deck, rejoin Steven Paul and smile at the sky, specks of stars, and the glory of firm land ahead.
Can I call what I did fishing? Is it truthful to say I went fishing if, of the four hours on the boat, two were spent in the pine position negotiating with my digestive tract not to send my dinner straight up my throat like a trucker barreling up 95 north? Telling tales of adventure is a distinct and essential element of the Robinson fishing tradition. Yes, I went fishing with the boys, and got sick like a girl.
posted by Rhonda Henderson at 7:01 AM
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