Barnacle Bill, UN-PLUGGED

Ahoy there all my little buoys and gulls. This is Barnacle Bill the Sailor reporting from a PETA  protest in the marshes  of Houma where hundreds-nay, thousands, of redfish and speckled trout are currently in danger of extinction. For as you peruse this very article, my faithful readers, the annual Ascension Parish Thanksgiving Fishing Rodeo and Alice’s Restaurant Massacre is taking place.
 
You see, each year 20 some odd local celebrities launch their vessels in search of bringing home a limit of those elusive members of that finny tribe that reside in the lakes and canals of South Louisiana. You know those honey holes, the laces where folks say clever things like, “Wind from the East, fishing’s the least,” and, “You should have been here last week.”

 But lest you think this is just a chance for a group of men to get away to the camp to play cards, watch football, and tell the same stories every year around the campfire before someone falls into the flames, let me set your rudder straight. Set the Way-Back machine back ten years to 1997 and I’ll tell you a tale of some castaways aboard a tiny ship that started out on a three day cruise…

Could it really have been a decade ago when I was just a fuzzy- cheeked cabin boy without a Hula Popper to my name when I was welcomed aboard the prestigious Predator II manned by our able skipper Captain Curtis and  his first mate Catman- the powerful Social Director? What more could  a rookie angler ask for as we set sail that Sunday afternoon? We were winging our way out over the bounding main with the wind and the salt in our hair when the social Director astutely noticed water lapping at the soles of his Converse All Stars.

“Captian Curtis,” he announced in a military manner, “I get a sinking feeling we may not have put the plug in the boat.”

The Captain looked down at the school of mullet swimming around  his feet and readily agreed. Now for all you Little League fishermen listening in out there I repeat, do not try this next stunt at home.  Remember, we are trained professionals. With Catman manning the helm, Captain Cutis grabbed the plug and flung himself astern with yours truly holding his ankles to keep him from a visit to Davey Jones’s Locker. After a few blind pokes, he miraculously got the plug back in saving us from a watery grave. Having witnessed the event first hand, I am now convinced that, in his prime, Captain Curtis could have stolen hub caps from moving cars. I don’t want to say we took in a fair amount of water before the daring plug replacing but the high tide scheduled for the Gulf that evening somehow never occurred. Anyway, everyone had a good laugh at our expense at the camp that night, but apparently Poseidon, god of the sea, had only just begun to toy with us.

On Monday, while many people returned to the everyday grind of making a living, we adventurously headed for Wanda Lake, cutting through the aptly named Touchdown Pass- the one with six points. Who says fishermen have no sense of humor?

Once we arrived in the lake, a small fleet of boats tried to follow the highly, successful Team Starcraft, the only vessel with a handicapped parking permit. Despite their assortment of afflictions, Limping Lee-Bear (bad back), 
Cartilageless Chris (Bad Knees) and his heir apparent Wyatt (sugar overdoes from Little Debby snack cakes) do bring home the fish.

So drifting along in this fishy formation was Predator II along with our sister ship Predator I sporting the highly ranked crew of Mayor Johnny, Sheriff Jeff and Major Tony. Also along for the ride was Councilman Kent’s “Gathering of Old Men” boat featuring Coach Coon, Dr. Smith and Dr. Brown (not aliases, although some members of the trip have requested anonymity.) Before long, that was the only “Pair o’ does” on the water. Or should I say land as all three boats suddenly ran aground.

Now how people react in a time of crisis is always interesting. Councilman Kent simply broke out his trusty long pole and pushed his ancient mariners into deeper water, I’m not sure his crew ever believed they were in serious danger because they broke into a passable version of “O Solo Mio” thinking they were being gondoliered through the canals of Venice.

The pecking order on Predator I became painfully obvious when Major Tony was ordered out of the boat (Sheriff Jeff claims the Major volunteered) to push the two dignitaries to safety. Having no genie to assist him, Major Tony didn’t even blink as he went overboard and began to maneuver the star-studded boat to safety.

And what was going on in our craft, you ask? With lightning- like quickness, all three of us sprang into action at the same time. We immediately checked the ice chest to see if we had enough beer to wait for the tide to come in. Once that fact was established, we each opened a can of Miller Lite, sat down and waited for a miracle.

Meanwhile, Major Tony had been in the icy water for a long time, too long if you ask me, for when the sheriff offered him a snack cake, he replied, “No thanks, I’m not hungry. The wind’s blowing from the east.”

That’s when I was convinced he was starting to fishify. But the happy ending was that the Major did get the boat into deeper water and the Mayor did get back to his council meeting. I don’t want to say Mayor Johnny was happy to get back to the launch but eyewitnesses said the Neil Armstrong’s “One great leap for mankind” on a gravity- less moon was far short of the jump the Mayor made to shore never to return to the fishing trip again.

As for us, our courageous Captain once again saved the day, pushing us to safety after Catman and I threw, I mean, helped him into the lake. Being a classic scholar, I realized our voyage was cursed when Captain Curtis came out of the water bearing a striking resemblance to the seaweed covered Neptune.  Thinking things couldn’t possibly get worse, we decided to follow Mackerel Macky and his trusty sidekick Donnie who seemed bonded with fish on the trip’s final day, but the gods were not done with us yet.

With some shaky directions from another obviously jealous team, our boat landed on an oyster reef where we promptly broke the trolling motor. Moved with sympathy, the classiest duo of the Watts clan, Honest Abe and Pudgy, offered us a spot in their favorite honey hole and we anchored away.

Before long, Catman was hauling in some trout on a bait bigger than any fish I’ve ever caught and with more hooks than a Rocky Balboa sequel. I was quickly reduced to his net man, no easy task when you have to undo treble hooks from the fish’s mouth as well as the net’s webbing. But after the third fish popped harmlessly out, we  thought we’d become pretty good at it, even cocky some would say.

Well, the gods may like confident but they obviously don’t care for cocky.  The largest trout of the day was safely in the net and I was removing the hooks when the slimy scumbag threw his head sinking a barb deep into my thumb. 

Now Old Barnacle Bill’s been at sea a long time, me ladies, so he knew exactly what to do. I screamed. Captain Curtis cut the hook from the bait ( I think it was Rattling Rouge I had hit on) to give me some relief. Then Pudgy tried to pull the hook out with some pliers. This is where things get a little foggy. Either, I screamed and Pudgy passed out, or Pudgy screamed and I passed out. Or, a Hookman rose out of the marsh and we all passed out.

At any rate, a nice doctor at the Houma Hospital cut the hook out of my thumb and put it on the wall next to all the other idiots who had suffered a similar fate. In fact, the female surgeon was so cute that Catman tried to put a hook in his thumb.

Back at the camp, everyone was very sympathetic to our plight. “Hey Coach Bill, what was the game plan- plug the obvious holes, try to run on the ground, maybe try a hook-in pattern, and run the trolling motor down and out.”

Captain Curtis remarked he couldn’t remember having so much bad luck.

“That’s because you’re not old enough to have been on the Titanic,” came a comment from the sarcastic crowd.

The next morning we left for home with a pack of filets and three days of common-robbery to reflect on. Unfortunately, I had to agree with Donnie’s parting comments.

“That was fun,” he dead-panned, “But another couple days out here and there would have been a shooting.”

That’s the way it was ten years ago, gang. And remember what Barnacle Bill always says, “Set the boy hard, and take a hooker fishing with you.”