This article is a fictional humorous piece describing the possible
pitfalls of going to the extreme. The author is a dedicated "normal" fisherman,
just like all the rest of us "normal" fishermen.|
funny how time catches up with you. One day you're sitting in you're
first grade class dreaming of the opening day of trout season and the next
you're at work studiously perusing the latest bass reports on StriperSurf.com.
Yeah, time does go by quickly.
As the years have passed I've graduated from farm pond, morning sunfish,
to brutish, night stalking linesiders off of a dangerous jetty.
I don't really understand my fascination
with these beasts. It's almost as if they hold some sort of mystical
power over my personae. I've been known to forego work, food, sleep
and love for these slimy little monsters.
As of late the attraction has grown
even stronger. What used to be fishing marathons, have now turned
into triathlons. I've begun to fish in a series of days. I'll
start on a Friday night and fish clean through until sunset on Sunday.
My only breaks are for food and maybe a little water. I'm starting to scare
myself! It’s like those people you hear of compulsively banging their
heads against the wall only I'm banging mine against the jetty.
Sleep, however, is good when I allow
it. Even though it's often full of dark, damp nightmares. You
know those kind that consist of a howling Nor’easter, a slippery jetty
and monster bass inhaling plugs on every cast. Sounds good right.
Only problem is that just as I hook and lose the first beast the alarm
on my watch goes off warning me that I've only got five minutes before
the whistle blows and the work day starts.
As far as my love life goes forget
it! I'm no good in anymore. Then there's the food thing. I
used to enjoy eating but now my taste buds are stuck. I could be
eating filet mignon or the like. But somehow or other it tastes like
bass. Everything tastes like bass. Cheese steaks, pizza, stromboli,
all the things I used to enjoy now taste like bass. Don't get me
wrong I enjoy striper, but for heavens sake I would like to taste the greasy
cheese steaks I've been eating before I die of a heart attack fighting
a p.o.'d rockfish.
Life sure was easier before I started
"working." I think that’s what they call it anyway. I think a better
term would be dreaming. I've tried to be a good employee. At
first I would show up on time, complete my projects in an orderly and timely
fashion. But those days have fallen by the wayside. I was recently
written up for absenteeism and they are talking about taking the "net"
off my computer. God forbid! I might jump out the window if I can't
at least glance at the reports 10 or 15 times a day.
Yeah, life sure is turning into one
giant conflict. I gotta work to fish and if I gotta work to fish
then how the hell am I gonna fish if I'm at work?
It’s as if I've become a drug addict,
80% of the money I make goes towards my compulsion. I can't pass
by a tackle store without stopping and when I go in I have to spend some
bucks, invariably more then I can afford. I mean, I got so many Bombers
I don't know what to do with them. Sometimes I wish I'd lose a couple
so that I might open some of the fresh ones. As far as rods go you
don't want to know, there are quite a few that haven’t even seen the water.
The other day my friend and fellow
angler asked me what the deal was. He said, "You're girlfriend left
you, you lost twenty pounds, you haven’t slept in almost three months,
work is looking to get rid of you and you're rent is almost two months
I smiled and said. "I don't know, I guess I'll go fishing tonight and try to work it all out."