The pier looked lonely to me. Prematurely lonely. I pulled up, the old Evinrude choking on fumes, squinting to make out the sign that hung over the end of the gas pier. As the sign came into view, I had a bad feeling that I knew what it would say. Sure enough, 4 pm was my cut off, and a quick, resigned glance at my watch told me something else that I already knew. It was 4:20. I scanned the piers in vain, as not a single Gage pier worker could be found. The 4 pm bell had to have blown a mere 20 minutes before I pulled up to the pier, and I was flat out of luck. Before I could turn the 14′ aluminum boat around to head south back to my parent’s pier, the engine that had previously been choking, gasped its last breath and went completely quiet. Alanis Morissette warned me that this would happen. There I sat. In a boat with an engine and a gas tank, within 30 feet of the marina’s gas pumps, with two oars when all I needed was one gallon of gas.
It was hot that afternoon. The sun beat on my already sweaty back as I assumed the rowing position. My mind flashed back to a book I had just read about the trials of the sailors Essex who spent 93 days in small 25′ whale ships, bobbing on the ocean as they ate the remains of their fellow crew members in a valiant attempt at survival. Their tongues turned into wooded mallets, seemingly capable of cracking their teeth as they numbly rattled around their parched mouths. I thought of them, and took inventory of my own plight. I had a 14′ boat, not a 25′ one. While they had provisions, I lacked any. Not an ounce of hard tack could be found in the bottom of that Alumacraft. Not a single sea turtle that I might kill and eat should the voyage prove too long. In my despair, I figured if they could survive their ordeal, well, survive like the ones who weren’t eaten anyway, then so could I. While they covered some 1500 miles in their small ships, I had to only row about 1500 feet. It wasn’t going to be easy, but I knew I had it in me.
When I rowed back to the pier, I decided it best to tie the boat up and bring the gas tank up to the house. I drove to the gas station, poured the designated amount of oil to create my 50:1 mix, and pumped three gallons of gas. Whenever I pump such a small amount of gasoline it always reminds me of being a kid when I’d drive an orange Simplicity tractor around town mowing lawns, fully aware that the cool kids were driving bikes and hanging out at Doc’s while I mowed lawns. I’d sometimes pump as little as 70 cents worth back then. My three gallons in tow, I was back to the pier in a snap, and once the life blood was restored to that untrustworthy engine, Thomas and I were off.
This was our fishing trip for the week. The trips I had planned and promised, but hadn’t completed nearly as often as I swore I would. We cruised at top speed, which I estimated to be around 12 miles per hour, until we reached our first fishing spot. I was going to say fishing “hole”, but this isn’t Tennessee and such terminology should be left to Alan Jackson songs and muddy rivers. In a 14′ fishing boat hosting two people, four fishing poles, a bait bucket, an anchor, and a depth finder, there is a very limited margin for error. Tangles, snags, and balance issues abound. When I finally found the depth I was looking for, I lowered the small anchor to the sandy bottom, the fraying nylon rope leaving behind thousands of soft rope splinters in my hands. One line was outfitted with a freshly caught perch. Another with a gas station sucker. A third with a night crawler, and the fourth laid along the seats off to the side, a hopeless tangle of back lash that only someone who has fished with a bait casting reel can appreciate.
We fished for an hour in that first spot, and caught nothing worth remembering. We must have arrived at about 5:30 to this spot just East of Cedar Point, and by 6:45, Thomas and I had come to the conclusion that in spite of the depth finder chirping and displaying images of fish, this spot was dead to us. I had remedied the tangled line by now, just as our sucker had given up the will to live. A few cranks of the engine later, and we were off, pushing eastward, cruising with the fading sun at our backs. I decided that we should troll with large lures, and since Thomas isn’t of an age where he can successfully argue with me, that’s exactly what we did.
The sound an old outboard makes when it’s barely above an idle is a unique one. Alternating between nearly dying and a spirited rev, it’s a very soothing sound. And, I must admit, the smell of a two stroke engine is a smell that I find almost intoxicating. As we trolled, methodically zigzagging to stay in our targeted depth, the troubles that I encountered when the trip started faded away. They faded entirely away. I had let go of my anger towards Gage for closing at 4 instead of 4:30, and I was no longer upset that my two dollar sucker had died shortly after I bought it. I wasn’t sweating anymore, and as the time slipped closer to 8 pm, and the light grew more pink and dim and the waters calmed, I had found a way, aboard a dirty old fishing boat and a tangled mess of fishing line and night crawlers, to completely, and thoroughly relax.
We caught two fish that night. Neither were worth verbose descriptions. A tell-tale sign that I’d been out too long occurred around 8 pm when my dad called to tell me that it was getting dark. I’m 32 years old I told him. I know when it’s getting dark. I laughed to think that even at my age, as I fish with my own son, my father thinks he needs to remind me that it’s getting dark. I would have fished for another hour or two that night had the boat been equipped with lights, but since we were lightless, It was time to go home. The steamers puffed past, every so often letting out an audible greeting to those on piers or boats passing by. Pleasure boats cruised past, sailboats slipped silently by, and fish jumped. It was a magnificent evening, and one that I felt honored to be part of.
I could have stayed in that night. When the boat ran out of gas, I could have simply pulled it onto the wooden ramp where it lives, and driven home. I would have avoided a significant amount of stress, and air conditioning would have been refreshing after that herculean row. Instead, I worked through those tribulations and enjoyed a night on the lake like I haven’t enjoyed in quite some time. Vacationing takes work. It’s not always easy to pack up the car and head to the lake for the weekend. There are plenty of reasons to stay home. I know your house is beautiful and I know your back yard has a fireplace, and I know it’s close to the train station. And I know the drive up here takes anywhere from an hour to two. I know that money in the bank is fun to look at and clutch at night as you drift off to sleep. I also know that an evening like the one that I spent on the lake two nights ago is worth any amount of stress or effort that getting here takes. The fish? They were forgettable. The evening on my cherished lake, was not.