My last two fishing trips have not gone exactly how I had hoped. After an intense weekend wind storm (and subsequent exploding meteor), I planned to take advantage of a calm forecast to hit one of my new favorite kayak spots for large stripers. I arrived to find flat-calm conditions and the kind of solitude only a Sunday night can provide. There was just one other person in the parking area and she immediately asked me what I was fishing for, which I replied – of course – that I hoped to catch a few stripers. She looked out over the water and shrugged, then questioned out loud, “I don’t know, I don’t see much bait jumping around.” And then walked away to usher her dog into her truck.
Undaunted, I confidently wheeled my kayak to the water and shoved off. The lady stayed, bathing my path in the high beams of her truck, and even when I was a mile away, I could still see those lights like persistently observing eyeballs that felt like they were silently telling me, “you should have listened”. The tide wasn’t even into the prime stage yet, but it was worrisome, that I was marking pretty much nothing. Ninety minutes later, I still had barely seen any fish at all and had one small bass make a lunge at the boat for my swimmer, but it missed. I found myself repeatedly crisscrossing this spot that I have caught so many fish, and lap after lap, there was nothing! And then, off to the northwest, I saw lightning. As the flashes grew brighter, I made the call to pedal back and load up before the storms hit. A heavy rain started to fall as soon as I was driving out of the lot and continued for my whole ride home. Back in my driveway, I grabbed my kayak seat out of the bed and put it in the garage to dry. Off to sleep I went.
The very next night, my wife went to bed early and I looked out to see a clear sky and nearly zero wind. My daughter came down to say goodnight and I told her that I was thinking about heading out, she said with a laugh, “Well, mom is already asleep, so I don’t think she’s gonna mind!”
Everything was in the truck, I had an alternate destination in mind; it was a perfect plan. I slipped into my bibs and boots and off I went. After the 45-minute drive I was there right on time, high water was at 11:31 and it was 11:01…15 minutes to unload and pack the yak and 15 minutes to pedal out to the spot. I backed down to the shoreline, unstrapped the kayak, pulled it off the truck, pushed it into the water and started grabbing gear. Suddenly I realized that I was missing something. I surveyed the bed of the truck and then prayed as I opened the rear door…my seat! Yep, I left it in the garage to dry and foolishly assumed that everything was already in the truck.
I stood and stared at the kayak. I swore. I closed my eyes and tried to think of a solution. I pictured pedaling while sitting on the slick plastic surface. I imagined the lower back pain of pedaling and fishing with no back support. For a split second, I got fuming mad and then I snuffed the flame. “There’s nothing I can do,” I said out loud to the chorus of evening insects and the rising moon. They did nothing to console me.
The worst part was loading the kayak back on the truck. And then realizing that going home and coming back would eat up the first two hours of the tide, and those were the best two hours. I went home and went to bed.
Knowing when to go is only slightly more important than knowing when to quit, and I’ve struggled with the latter my whole life. Propping up a couple days of hard luck as a sign of gaining some maturity is a hard sell, so I’ll just have to let to be what it is…twice, making the hard decision to quit, because it made more sense than doubling down.
Back on ‘em tonight!
