I spent the weekend cruising the Tombigbee river, fishing, shooting guns, eating meat, and drinking beer. Since when did I become a walking, talking, gun-toting, tackle box full of testosterone? Truth is, I'm not. And those of you that know me will agree. However, it is great once in a while for a man to get back in touch with his inner hunter-gatherer. And so, TB's bachelor party began.
A summary of the weekend's events follows:
We arrived to men sitting around a fire pit. At any given time throughout the weekend there would be... men sitting around a fire pit. We gaze into the flame as if some hidden truth awaits us amidst the burning embers. That truth never comes, only more staring.
Soon, the largest steaks I've ever seen come off the grill and the "dinner bell" rings. We head upstairs, gird our loins, and dig in. We were like old salty pirates, starving from months at sea, finally filling our bellies with the food of land lubbers.
After the meal, we went jug fishing. Jug fishing is my kind of fishing. It involves nary a jug and is conducted in a manner quite in contrast with what you might think of as "fishing". You see, earlier that day, two of the men that were with us took 85 "jugs" (foot-long sections of pool noodles with a yard of fishing line on them, baited with pieces of bream) and dropped them in the water to float idly downstream. Hours later, we reap the benefits. We took two boats and embarked on a home-made episode of "Deadliest Catch" (if you've never seen this show on Discovery, you aren't alive!). I man the spotlight, constantly scanning the river for fluorescent pool noodles bobbing rapidly with the weight of their captors. I spot one, keep it in my sights, we slow down and our ship's captain reaches over and grabs the noodle.
"Yes SIRRRRRR!" he cries into the night, announcing our catch to the competing vessel.
"Woooooooo!" we'd hear from the other boat, trying to keep up with our numbers.
This went on for about an hour. All totaled, we caught thirty four river catfish. I've never seen so many catfish in one place in my life. Jugfishing: my kind of fishing.
The next day, after a huge breakfast, we went "real" fishing. I suck at real fishing. We went to a large pond owned by a friend of the family. Ask me how many I caught. None. Isn't this supposed to be a "stocked" pond? Why am I so bad at this? Maybe it's one of those mental things. The fish can sense my discontent and thus neglect to bend to my will. Perhaps I've been watching too much Dog Whisperer. Needless to say, real fishing didn't turn out nearly as well as jug fishing.
That night we boiled 90 pounds of crawfish! That's a seventh grader's body weight in crawfish! Incredible. I improved my crawfish eating form, and stuffed myself silly in the process. Then, we shot guns. What were we shooting at? Nothing. Did that matter? No. The sense of empowerment one gets from discharging a firearm is quite... well... empowering. I am Man, hear me roar! What's that, you can't hear me roar? POW! Can you hear me now? good.
All in all, it was a great, manly man's weekend. But I can't help but wonder, what would an outsider think looking on our weekend from afar? Perhaps someone from another planet. They quietly watch as we engage in each activity and see something like this:
We sit and gaze into a fire
Steak and twice baked potatos appear
We sit and gaze into a fire
Armloads of catfish are harvested from the river
We sit and gaze into a fire
Hooks are thrown into the water, harvesting nothing.
We sit and gaze into a fire
90 pounds of crawfish appear
We sit and gaze into a fire
Chunks of lead are hurled into the night air at blazing speeds accompanied by a loud boom.
What is this mystery, this... fire? It brings forth such strange things.
Perhaps we had good cause to be drawn to its warmth and glow.
No comments:
Post a Comment