Very few things in life are irreversible. Very few. Some things, maybe most things, seem as though they are. They seem that once they’re completed or secured or cut, that’s just the way things are going to be from then until forever. Many things that seem to be forever, that seem to be permanent, are not. I have a small house on my lot that when it was built was likely built to last. There was a foundation poured of concrete and then cut wood boards were secured to it and nailed to one another. Lastly, a roof was nailed down, and the building was there, and it was built to last. By tomorrow evening, that permanent thing will be gone, the last few bucket loads dumped into a waiting dumpster and dirt pushed over where that strong foundation once served. That thing, that permanent thing, will be gone.
Two weeks ago, I did what everyone with a boat does. I pulled it from the water. I drove it over to the boat launch and cranked it aboard a trailer and towed it to the backside of a barn where it was to spend the winter. I stopped at Dunn Lumber and bought some fogging spray and some antifreeze, and I ran the liquid through the engine and sprayed the spray into the holes behind the spark plugs. I took the fishing poles from the boat and stashed them, along with my many lure boxes, in the back room of my office. I sucked remaining water out of the bilge and the livewells and with that the boat was winterized. It felt permanent, a necessary hibernation that will last at least until 2013 warms and the ice that isn’t formed yet melts.
Then, two weeks later, this last Saturday, I climbed into the boat and ran the antifreeze out of the engine and burned the fogging spray out of the carburetors. I put the fishing poles back into their gunwale mounted holders and I packed the lure boxes into a gear bag. I pulled the boat from the backside of that barn and to the gas station. I pumped exactly one hundred dollars worth of gas into the tank and paid the man at the boat launch $12.50. I fired the engine, smoked out the northern half of Williams Bay, and drove. The boat that had been stored permanently was back on the water. And I, the captain, was back where I belonged.
It was 50 something degrees on Saturday. The winds were light, and probably variable, and the water as clear as clear ever was. It felt good to push through that water. It feels good to push over it and through it in July, but in July just about everyone that can find something floating will be on that lake. On November 17th, it was just me and a few fisherman, the sorts that wake up early while it is still dark and drive their trailered boats to Geneva and launch them for the day. With my son and some friends aboard, we trolled for big fish in deep water on Saturday. We hooked one fish and promptly lost it, but the sunset made up for it and we were still happy.
Again on Sunday, after a day of rest that I worked on, I met with friends again, and late in the afternoon we trolled from the Blackest Point towards the Lake Geneva Yacht Club, and we trolled just long enough in that dying light to hook into that fish you see up there. It’s a big fish, in case you looked at first and thought that it wasn’t. In fact, it might just be the biggest smallmouth that I’ve ever caught, in my entire life. A few photographs and some boasting later, we returned that fish to the 46 degree water, and it swam as fast as it could away from the late afternoon light and into the darkest depths.
Later today, if the winds are light and the temperatures moderate, I’ll crank that cold engine again. I’ll back away from the neighbors pier and I’ll swing around Conference Point, aiming West. If I can find the right depth I’ll drop some lines and work to hold that depth, which, if you’ve ever trolled Geneva seeking to hold one depth you know to be an impossible task. The bottom of Geneva is nothing if not varied.
Sometime after this warm week, I’ll pull the boat again. I’ll reverse what I did last Saturday and embrace what I did the three Saturday’s before that. I’ll pull the boat to the backside of a barn and I’ll push antifreeze through it and I’ll disconnect the batteries and spray some fogging spray. Then, the boat will be permanently stored for what I hope to be a short winter. Permanently, that is, unless December offers temperatures in the 50s.