A Lake Geneva Hospital

For most sun loving, snow eschewing vacationers, Marco Island is a quiet, tropical refuge. It’s a place where sandal loving tourists with blinding legs and pink shoulders walk in harmony with leather-skinned women who worship the sun to a degree that they have long since sacrificed their bodies on its unholy, carcinogenic altar. This is probably the Marco Island you know. The Marco Island I know is one where small bags of marijuana are traded straight up for just caught Snook. It’s a place where modern day boat-less pirates cuss and spit and smoke and drink, while the reddened tourists toss and turn in aloe vera soaked sheets at the Marriot. When regular folks drive over Jolly Bridge onto the small strip of mangrove lined sand, the underbelly of Marco hides in the bridge’s prodigious darkness, free to swap their fish for drugs and swill discount liquor into the wee hours. How do I know this? Because I’ve been there. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And I’ve barely lived to tell my story.

Marco Island is one of my very favorite places. While I would never, ever, consider living anywhere but Lake Geneva, I would gladly trade a few weeks in January or February for this pleasant paradise. Just as I love fishing in Geneva Lake, I too love fishing in the Gulf of Mexico. In my younger days before a fear of sharks dictated safer practices, I would wade chest high into the gulf and cast large mullet that I would first score with a knife to draw blood. I would stand up to my neck in blood tinged waters and foolishly fish as long as the dwindling light would allow. I love fishing in Geneva more than anything, but casting a slippery mullet into a calm gulf is a very close runner up.

My love of fishing has ruined several of my vacations, and it is also what led me to a dark walkway under the Jolly Bridge one fateful night in December. Today, I can fish with my son, and effectively indulge my love of fishing while still being a father. This hybrid bonding was not available to me when he was a baby, or a toddler. So when he was young, I would do much of my fishing at night, after my wife and son where asleep in the comforts of our 700 square foot Anglers Cove condominium. On the night in question, I made certain that my wife and son were asleep before tiptoeing out of the condo, down to the waiting car, and ultimately onto a gravel parking lot that was shielded from the bright lights of the passing traffic. It was midnight, and I was a kid from Wisconsin about to start fishing with all sorts of men, none of whom struck me as the type that might have lived in Lake Geneva and sold vacation homes to affluent Illinoisans for a living.

I grabbed my pole, tied on a shiny new, rather large, jig, and made my way from the car to the dark depths of the light-less underside of the Jolly Bridge. There was no greeting offered by my fellow fishermen that night. No salutation or annoyed acknowledgment. These were men who had little time for courtesy, and it dawned on me that I very well may be stabbed and thrown into the shark infested waters that the tide was now ripping out in front of me. I imagined when people would tell other people the story of my death, and in that mental rehearsal they’d always end the tale with “he should have known better”. But I didn’t. And it was midnight on a starless Florida night. I made my way over the barricades that attempted to keep fishermen, like myself, off of the hurricane damaged foot bridge that ran half the length of, but under the Jolly Bridge. I passed by the unsavory types silently, and found an open spot where I might fish in relative, but wary, peace.

There were fish of all sorts available for the catching that night, but my luck had me unable to catch anything but Ladyfish. For those of you who do not know, a Ladyfish is sort of like a giant minnow, and many times when you see silver fish jumping during a Florida winter, the jumpees are usually Mullet or Ladyfish. So while the swarthy men were busy smoking and catching, I was busy hooking Ladyfish. From a Midwestern perspective, it would be similar to a pier full of men catching bass, while you fish in the same location at the same time and catch only blue gills. It was a bit emasculating, but what happened next was worse. I had only been fishing for as many as ten, maybe fifteen minutes, when I hooked another Ladyfish. The nature of bridge fishing is that you have to either have a net (I hadn’t one), or perform a bit of a bent rod hoist in order to pull the fish over the side rail. While performing said hoist of this frolicking Ladyfish, with rod at full bend, the fish shook off. That wasn’t the problem. When the fish shook off, the shortened line snapped back and combined with the intense bow of the rod, sent the large hooked jig like a flesh seeking arrow directly into my arm. I supposed it hit my bicep. I was on a pier, with murderous men of all sorts, and I had just found a way to catch myself.

My first reaction was complete shock. I could see the head part of the jig, and the hairy tail section, but the entire hook was buried. It was buried in my arm. I tugged at it, but the barb was doing a fine job. I tugged harder, and it didn’t budge. I looked around, noticing that my fishing companions were paying me no attention, and yanked at it one more time. Nothing. So I did what any sun burned kid from Wisconsin would do, and I cut the line with my teeth, grabbed my fishing pole, and walked to the car, with a big jig stuck in my arm and a trail of fishing line blowing in the wind.

Once I was safely in the car, having avoided being stabbed by anything but my own stupidity and that vindictive Ladyfish, I realized quickly that I was not going to be able to get this hook out myself. I called my wife. No answer. No big deal, I’d just drive around a bit and find a hospital. I figured with Marco Island being a haven of white and blue haired people, there had to be an emergency room here somewhere. So I drove. Down Collier, and across Bald Eagle. I drove and I drove. I drove until I exhausted possible hospital locations, finding only clinics with banker’s hours. It was now approaching 1 am. I knew Naples would have a hospital, so in my sweaty, and rapidly increasingly painful haste, I drove up 41 to Naples. I drove around Naples. Down 41 and up Rattlesnake. Around and around. I scanned street signs and directional arrows, looking for that little blue H, but found none. I cursed Naples. I cursed Marco. I cursed that Ladyfish for being my Moby Dick.

Roughly 90 minutes after I had originally began looking for a Hospital to save me from my barbed predicament, I discovered my salvation. With great relief, I pulled into a clinic in Naples, and found my way to the emergency room. The room was littered with sick and sicker people. There were those coughing, those moaning, and those that may have already died. The waiting room was like that of a third world country MASH unit, and if I had seen a goat tied to a chair and free range chickens pecking at the crumbs by the vending machine I would not have been surprised. I checked in and I waited. And then I waited some more. The clock on the wall told me it was 2 am. More coughing and wheezing, and moaning. Then the clock struck 3. My name was called. I was saved. I drove home, and crawled into bed sometime after 4 am. My wife, in her ever caring manner, was oblivious that I had been missing, let alone near death.

I found myself wondering why it was so hard to find a hospital in southwestern Florida. I thought about Lake Geneva, and the Mercy Hospital located just outside of Williams Bay at the corner of Highways 50 and 67. I thought about Lakeland Hospital in Elkhorn, a mere ten minute drive from my Williams Bay office. I thought about all the wonderful access to health care that I’m blessed with in Lake Geneva, and my resentment for Florida grew. Fast forward to 2010 and the Mercy hospital is adding on, perhaps to include a wing dedicated to foul hooked anglers. With a $45MM renovation to an already wonderful hospital, the Lake Geneva vacation home market is truly lucky to have such a fine hospital within spitting distance of the lake. Just remember, if you ever need to visit the hospital while vacationing at Lake Geneva, we have two great options, both convenient and close. So while you take a short, easy, drive to the Lake Geneva hospital of your choice, day or night, remember that somewhere in south Florida, some tourist is driving around, searching for a hospital in vain, with or without a hook firmly embedded in his left arm.