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In the summer of '74, I learned my first and most important lesson in dealing with the joy and pain of sport fishing. My dad and I were scrunched in a 12-foot boat with a backwoods sort of guy named Sgt. Leisure. Dad met him through a fishing buddy who swore that Leisure was an absolute magician around the shallow waters of Flamingo at the southern tip of Florida.
Days before, dad got a hankering to make the trip and rang Leisure up. Would he be interested in joining us? "Why sure," said he, providing we use his boat and meet him at the ramp in Flamingo.
I'll never forget Sgt. Leisure, even though that would be the only time I ever fished with him. One could sense that he knew every nook and cranny of the Flamingo backcountry. He found the right places to go at the right times. He understood all the subtleties, such as how the tides, currents, sunlight and even moonlight wrapped the islands and shoreline, affecting every living thing.
Leisure knew fishing, and redfishing was his specialty. He exuded confidence, knowledge and skill. Quietly.
After launching his johnboat and putt-putting west, we stopped at a drainage ditch. It was a dead low tide on the full moon, and only the smallest of boats could enter. Even then, we had to slosh through the silty muck and carry the boat a short distance up the ditch to several deep holes.
The big mud holes housed large numbers of hungry redfish that were busy scarfing up trapped bait. This also isolated the reds for us, and there was nowhere for them to hide. Granted, it wasn't the most sporting way to catch fish, but it was downright simplistic in its perfection.
After releasing numerous reds up to 10 pounds, many of them caught on the same shrimp, I finally latched onto a massive bull that nearly pulled the rod from me. I hung on in mortal fear of losing both rod and fish.
I was later told the battle lasted 15 minutes, but I swear it seemed closer to 30. The giant red finally ended it all when he broke across the ditch and amazingly somersaulted into another hole. My line sliced like onion paper against a barnacle.
I was a feisty young man and this turn of events pleased me none. Sweat and grime covered my sunburned face and mingled with bug repellant, adding to the manic rage that consumed me. My head shook with rage, spittle spewed from my mouth and I cussed with abandon. This great fish could have been just the ticket to impress Sgt. Leisure and dad, but I'd blown it, big time.
Sgt. Leisure had heard enough of this tirade. "It's time to go," he said coolly.
Time to go? It wasn't even noon yet. But go we did, without another word from Leisure or even a noticeable change in his mood. Dad glared threateningly, hinting that the car ride home wouldn't be much fun.
We trailered the boat at Flamingo and Sgt. Leisure climbed into his truck. Embarrassed and ashamed out of my wits over the outburst at the ditch, I apologized and asked forgiveness.
"Could we go again sometime soon?" I asked meekly.
Sgt. Leisure smiled and mumbled something about getting together "in the future." But he made a remark about his own tempestuous youth, and how someone had once offered him advice after a similar eruption. He was now going to pass this bit of omniscience to me.
I awaited his words as if the meaning of life was about to be bestowed upon me, but finally he drawled, "Doug, one day beans and bacon, next day nothin' shakin'!"
Say what? I felt the crash of disappointment as his corny rhyme fizzled in my ears. But years later, the profoundness of those words suddenly shook my psyche. And to this day, I silently say it whenever a big fish gets away, or a buck moves from a clearing and disappears from sight, or if I miss out on something that at the time seems awfully important.
Thanks Sarge. Indeed, this wonderful world sometimes involves appropriately coping with the loss of big reds.
We've all experienced flights from hell -- you know the ones -- sitting next to the guy who hasn't held a bar of soap in what seems like three weeks (and Lord help you if he's stowing his bag in the overhead); a baby screaming in your ear; a toddler kick, kick, kicking the back of your seat until you want to turn around and do a little kicking yourself... well, ahem, you get the drift...
On a flight not too long ago, I sat in the nether regions of Siberia (translation: wayyyy back in steerage) with my companion next to me in the window seat. During boarding, I worked on the in-flight crossword, all the while with one eyeball examining my fellow passengers as they made their way down the aisle to find their seats (hoping against hope that the seat next to me would remain vacant). Turning the corner from the boarding ramp walked the Colossus of Rhodes. I just knew it -- without a doubt -- that this ginormous behemoth was my seat mate. (My own personal Murphy's Law: the largest passenger will inevitably be my neighbor.) No longer making any pretext of perusing the puzzle, I watched the excruciatingly slow progress of the line thread its way toward me. Little droplets of sweat began to form on my brow. My fingers tapped on the armrest (for what indubitably would be my last contact with this armrest). You can guess what happened... of course he stopped at our row. Without so much as a smile or apology, he stowed his bag and sat down. I lost sight of the armrest forever and was confined to about half of my normal seat width. My companion was thereby also squished like a pancake into the window.
Air travel can be truly be stressful. Scores of people crammed into a tiny space for hours on end -- definitely not my idea of fun. Especially when people have differing views as to appropriate rules of behavior. Here are some helpful rules to make sure you and your fellow passengers can get through a flight without losing your sanity.
The Personal Bubble
Pretend there is a bubble extending from every plane passenger [at least!] six inches into space (sorta like a sci-fi force field). Respect that space!
Don't recline your seat the second you get on board -- wait until you are in the air and when you do, ease it back slowly so as not to knock the person behind you.
Families
It's difficult traveling with young children and I've certainly done my share. I'm surprised how many people don't know the main reason why so many babies cry on a plane. I had one kind (or overly aggravated) soul impart this nugget of helpful information to me 20 years ago: most of the time, it's because their poor, little ears are so painful from the air pressure. (Imagine not being able to pop your ears!) Yes, it can be dealt with. Utilizing a bottle of milk or a pacifier (especially during take-off and touch-down) can relieve that pain just like it does with an adult when they yawn.
Take control of your toddlers as well, that they don't kick the backs of the seats in front of them or run rampant in the aisles. Bring plenty of distractions (ie., books, crayons, or travel games) to keep them amused and occupied. Personal DVD players with their favorite movie can be a lifesaver!
Chatterboxes
If you're not one to carry on a three-hour chat with a stranger, here's an easy way to avoid unwanted conversation: "I'm sorry -- I've taken a sleep aid". This phrase, coupled with big sunglasses or an eye mask, usually does the trick.
And please don't be that person! If your conversation seems one-sided or you're getting one word answers -- take the hint! It's nice to meet interesting people on a plane, but not everyone is looking to make new friends -- they might want to sleep or work -- even if there's no tangible evidence. Some people use in-flight time to think about work problems and projects. Or they just might not be in the mood to talk. Not everyone is a social butterfly.
Similarly, be aware of the noise you're making -- if you're sitting next to a friend, whisper or use a hushed tone.
B.O.
It may seem obvious, but if you travel frequently, chances are you've encountered those charming individuals who have not had a recent bath. Please, shower before your flight! Take along a sample-sized deodorant for those interminable trips and do a little wash-up in the airport restroom between flights.
Don't take your shoes off if you know you have smelly feet. Also, use cologne or perfume sparingly that day -- fellow travelers may not share your appreciation of the scent and some may be allergic to the ingredients. Nothing's worse than sneezing for a prolonged length of time with no escape from the source of irritation.
Armrest War
This scenario is an infamous airplane debacle. For heaven's sakes, please don't hog the armrest! Can't we all just get along??? Don't steal the armrest the second your seat mate raises his or her arm and if you're the victim of a power struggle, politely ask the person next to you to give you a little extra room.
Gargantuans
If you're on the larger size like Colossus, here are some hints: Yes, it's more expensive to fly first-class or business, but try checking for availabilities of those seats on infrequently traveled days. Surprisingly, costs may be significantly lower. Also explain your situation when booking or checking in and you might get a free upgrade to those classes. Another trick: if you're booking yourself online, most airlines let you choose your seat assignment. Choose an exit row if you're unusually tall. Consider buying two coach seats if you're horizontally-challenged. A great site to find the best (and roomiest seats) is SeatGuru.com. Included are cabin diagrams with in-depth guides to that denote seats with limited recline, legroom ergonomics, entertainment options, power outlets and armrests.
Aisle Etiquette
Don't be aggressive when boarding or disembarking. It's not a cattle stampede or the Boston Marathon. There is no reason to push or shove people trying to stow or retrieve their luggage from overhead bins. Let the flight attendant know if you've have a tight schedule to catch another flight. A flight attendant has the ability to move your seat up to begin with or help you get off first.
Stuff It
Don't bring more than your allotted amount for carry-on luggage. We’ve all seen them -- those people that look like they by-passed the check-in counter altogether and have carried on every personal item they've ever owned.
Stow your bags in front of your seat if possible to avoid having to buck the flow upon disembarkation. Consolidate your stuff before you get on the plane and have everything you want to utilize on the flight already out so other people can get to their seats and you don't hold up traffic.
The Call Button
Don't be button happy -- flight attendants have more passengers to deal with than just you, not to mention their other duties on the flight besides having to cater to your every whim. It's usually a good idea not to irritate the people that have the ability to make your flight comfortable or miserable. Only push the button if you have a good reason.
W.C.
Book an aisle seat if you know you must go to the bathroom every hour. It's irritating for other people to have to wake up, move their stuff and be climbed over. Don't make the person next to you climb over you should they need to get up. It's rude. Get out of your seat and stand in the aisle so they can get out.
Attendants
And finally, have a little respect for those selfless martyrs who wait on travelers day in and day out. The two top things that irritate flight attendants: passengers that drink too much (which opens up a whole new set of problems) and those that hit on them. If you think you're God's gift to flight attendants, rein it in. A subtle smile goes much farther than overt obnoxiousness.
See you out there in the skies!
Kelly Kelly, Managing Editor
On a whim, I recently pulled into a marina to check out flats boats and immediately felt like a caged monkey. Eyes blanketed me through the showroom window as I shut the car door, and the decision to ignore the bad vibes turned out to be a foolhardy mistake. A salesman, coiled near the entrance like a starving python, sized me up and down before slithering toward me. His hand extended for a shake while still 20 feet away and he closed the distance in a nanosecond, the cheesy smile never fading.
"Good afternoon, sir, which boat can I help you select today," he asked, his lips pursed as if holding back a Jacobson's Organ. I refrained from admonishing his presumptuous tone and instead took the high road, answering that I'd like to see something in the 16- to 18-foot range.
"Excellent," said he, "I own an 18-footer myself and it's a great all-around boat."
Here I'm at the marina for literally minutes and already I hate this guy. So, I decided to bust his hump a little. "I hate small boats, I'm only looking to buy one for my son."
"Oh, I agree completely sir," came the reply, with a nod of pure sincerity. "I also have a 38-footer because I much prefer offshore fishing too. Who wants to spend all that time and money fighting small ones? I just keep the 18-foot skiff for the family, but usually I'm in the big boat."
Sickened by all this pandering, I mused at how revolting it must be to spend every workday kissing butt for commissions. But then I recalled an occasion in the early 80s when I sat in the office of a prospective customer for my security company and noticed a model of a motorcycle on his bookshelf. In a moment of total falsity I pointed at the picture and said, "I love bikes," hoping the common interest would spark camaraderie and help close the deal.
Only trouble is, I'd never even sat on a Harley. My new biker buddy became energized, his mouth shifting from first to fourth gear with chatter about all things motorized on two wheels. Bewildered and unable to shut him off, I resorted to dodges and parries (Q: What are you riding now? A: Well, I'm between bikes at the moment. Q: Can you take a spin on my Harley - it's parked right downstairs - and tell me what you think? A: I'd love to, but I've got to get back to my office pretty quickly - maybe some other time.).
When his conversation trailed off and he suddenly remembered an important meeting he had to attend, I left his office totally embarrassed. And I made a commitment right then and there to only lie to a prospective client about things of which I had some knowledge.
But I regress. After locating a boat that in fact I did like, ol' dimwit charged right for the throat with the world's clumsiest forced-choice question: "Do you want to take it now or have it delivered?"
"Look, let's discuss the price and go from there," I replied, the disgust oozing through my teeth.
Well, the dude leads me to a cubicle where we wrangled for nearly 20 minutes, reminding me of two wrestlers head-to-head with locked arms. Realizing he's getting nowhere fast and evidently noting my body language as I leaned closer and closer to the door, he excuses himself for a moment and returns with a guy they must call "Tony The Closer" and keep in a cage out back.
Standing tall, straight and sporting a completely bald noggin, he resembled a roll-on deodorant. Tony wasted no time in qualifying me. "Now Mr. Kelly, is there anything at all about the boat you don't like?"
I responded that the boat was fine. "Good," he answered, spittle already forming at the sides of his mouth. "Then all we have to do is work out a few payment details and the boat is yours. What would you like to pay for this boat?"
Compared to Tony, my salesman behaved like Shirley Temple. Tony took me through every emotion, making me laugh, cry, whimper and whine. He had a reply to every objection, even countering my concerns about spending so much money with, "Live today to the fullest, Mr. Kelly - just remember all those people on the Titanic who refused the dessert cart."
Whew, too slick for me. I finally got out of there with my wallet and sanity in place, but not until feeling like I'd been to the mat with The Rock.
Yes, not all marinas are quite so aggressive. But the chances of me returning to that place for any reason are about as good as winning the ring toss at a carnival.
Doug Kelly, Editor In Chief
Most seafood restaurants just don't measure up. I usually saunter into a joint with visions of scrumptious shrimp, delicate fish fillets or morsels of lobster dipped in lemon butter and leave wishing I'd gone to Pizza Hut instead.
Maybe that's why I should've known better when I ignored the missing letter on the marquee ("reshest Fish In Town") and parked in front of a seafood shanty near Columbus, Ohio. The very contradiction of seafood in a landlocked location should be enough of a red flag, but I always hold out hope that a refrigerated truck or plane delivers the "resh" seafood from a dock to my plate in only an hour or two.
My fiance went for stuffed shrimp, I opted for the tuna fillet, my daughter chose seafood pasta and my son ordered a steak (and had we been in a steak restaurant, he'd have undoubtedly ordered a chimichanga). It became apparent the moment our tooth-challenged waitress delivered the entrees that the truck must've been seriously delayed. The shrimp arrived with so much breading they looked like corndogs; the tuna -- obviously frozen before hitting the frying oil, produced a totally insipid flavor; the seafood pasta contained portions of seafood so tiny that even a plankton could eat them and still feel hunger pangs.
We stared at my son's steak, all of us perceiving his superior intelligence at that point in time.
Fortunately, we got out of there without a side trip to the emergency room, with only looks of dissatisfaction and a wounded credit card debit our fate. But don't worry, I'll again succumb to a weakness for seafood and pull into another dump in the not-too-distant future. I'll ignore the misspelled marquee or the sign on the door that says "Cook Wanted" or the fact I'm in Denver.
And evidently I'm not alone -- that Ohio seafood restaurant was packed when we arrived and the same when we left. It seems these days that even the most pedestrian restaurants overflow with customers hoping for morsels from the sea. Most often, however, high volume translates to a reduction in the attention each entree deserves, especially when it comes to "resh" fish.
I'm convinced that either most people don't care about the quality of seafood they eat or their standards remain low, because a truly great seafood house is a rarity.
Doug Kelly, Editor In Chief
P.S. - Written on a chalkboard at the entrance to a Dallas seafood restaurant: "Women dine at half price when accompanied by a man of equal or lesser value." (Yes, I ate there anyway.)
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