This was posted on the fly fishing newsgroup I read. Funniest story I have
read in quite some while.
Mike
Spangle, WA
"A few years back, I got my first tube. It was a "surprise" birthday present
from my loving wife (I suspect she had a boyfriend and wanted me out of the
house or she had gotten my signature down well enough for the insurance
papers). I say surprise because it truly was. I had filled out the Cabela's
order form and used one of my daughter's alphabet magnets to secure it
firmly to the fridge. This had been a standard, if useless tactic of mine
for years. A very subtle hint on my birthday wishes.
My lovely bride of course always knew me better than that. Saw right through
this clever charade. Normally got me things she knew I really needed and
wanted. Like that bathroom cozy set that can turn a toilette seat cover into
a bear trap.
When she trotted it out for my birthday, well actually, she came in to the
living room, dropped the form in my lapped and told me to "order the damn
thing," I boldly informed her of the extra costs associated with a tube,
i.e. breathable waders, vest, flippers. She immediately agreed that these
items had to go with the tube. Well, not immediately. I first explained the
purpose of the different items and she gradually built up a mental picture
of her masterful husband in waders, flippers with brand new Caddis float
tube firmly ensconced on his hips. I did have to get the less expensive
waders though. Had to pay for that emergency room visit for her right about
then. She had this terrible episode characterized by hysteria. Almost
couldn't breath, it hit her so hard. Kept saying something like "donut
hole."
When the whole package arrived, I immediately took the whole kit and
kaboodle down to the lake. On the way, I stopped off at the gas station and
gave my tube its first breath of air. Just left it in the trunk, didn't even
bother to take it out and inspect it. Filled and off to the lake! Fish
beware!
When I got to the lake, I pulled my waders out of the back seat and quickly
donned them. Put my rod together, hooked up a crawdad fly and finally, the
last step, I put on my flippers. I then went to the trunk and got the tube
out. Well, not exactly just then. See, I'd filled it while it sat in the
trunk of the car. It was now too large to get out of the trunk. All's I
wanted to do was a bit of fishing, but my spatial cognitive skills had been
less than perfect. That's something else my bride always told me.
I found that if I deflated the float tube about 1/3 of the way down, I could
get it back out of the trunk. Didn't really have to deflate it that far, but
it took that much air out of the thing before I figured that one of the "D"
rings was caught on the trunk spring. I could go back up the road to the gas
station and fill it back up, but it still looked pretty full so I decided to
go for it.
It was about 200 yards from the parking area to the lake. About 150 yards
across the field, I discovered that you can walk much better if you carry
the tube over your shoulder and take off the flippers. You can understand my
need to get at the fish had slightly clouded my judgement. No more hanging
out on shore with those other slobs, I had a boat.
I finally got down an area that looked like a good place to launch. I had
talked to a friend with a float tube and had heard of the problems with mud
at a launch site. Not this bubba, no sir. Found a good rock ledge to launch
from. There was a rock in calf deep water that dropped off to about 12 feet.
You couldn't see the bottom but I figured it was the same distance swimming
to the bottom as at my high school swimming pool.
I stood on the ledge, had my tube around me, my rods in my right hands and I
launched. I needed a bottle of champagne to drink or break on my tube. It
was a joyous feeling. Right up until I found out what that little crotch
strap is for. See, when I stepped out off that rock, my butt hit the saddle
of the tube, the tube folded up like a chocolate taco and I shot through the
bottom, right past that dangly little strap. Didn't even have to worry
about a life vest to slow my hi-speed passage through that torus from hell.
Had to let go of the rods as I felt them flex in my hand and was afraid to
break them.
Came up struggling for air. Be amazed at the water temp in Omaha, Nebraska
in the third week of April. I now know how Jesus walked on water. The
water was cold as ice and as soon as he hit it, he was on his feet moving.
Felt like I was in one of those "polar bear clubs." I reached out and
quickly grabbed my tube and dragged it back with me to the rock ledge. One
of my two rods had caught on the right side handle by the reel and I was
able to quickly retrieve it. Unfortunately, it was the cheep rod. The good
rod was at the bottom of this rock ledge somewhere.
This is how I learned how deep the water was. I stripped off my boots and
waders and dove in before I realized how cold, cold could get. Water was a
bit chill to say the least. On my fourth dive, I found a rod and brought
it to the surface. It was a wonderful three-dollar Zebco. Went back down
and finally found my rod after about two or three more tries.
Now I had a bit of a problem. Hypothermia was setting in. An inability to
stop shaking was my first clue. But ever the fisherman, I thought, "wonder
what other rods are down there?" I shook off that thought put my wading
boots back on, piled my stuff in the tube, SECURED IT WITH THE CROTCH STRAP,
and headed back up to the car. The air temp was a brisk 40 degrees with a
good wind. I did have to stop after about ten feet and drain the water out
of the float tube cover. That area not filled with inner tube from the
deflation was now filled with water. Added about 60 lbs to the whole
package.
When I got to the car, I dumped my stuff in the trunk but didn't have
anything to dry off with. My jeans were soaked and the only thing dry was
my sneakers that I'd left in the car. I knew there were three opportunities
to die on this day. I'd just lived through one, a drowning. I was in the
middle of another, hypothermia. I got my clothes off and covered my self
with a small rucksack. I then found a rag t-shirt under the seat that I
used to check the oil. I turned the engine on and luckily, the car hadn't
had much of a chance to cool down and the heater was soon up to full speed.
There would be one other way to die on this day, the most horrible of the
three. Not the panic of the drowning, not the slow loss of consciousness of
hypothermia, but the death of a thousand I-told-you-so's. If the mother of
my children found out about the fact I couldn't get more than three feet
from shore without killing myself, what chance would I ever get to go out on
a quiet morning and go fishing by myself? She had already insisted that I
wear an international orange hat to keep me from turning into the marine
version of the lane turtles on the interstate, on a no-wake lake no less!
Couldn't go home. Explain my new oily-t-shirt-and-wet-underpants outfit to
the wiff. Not on your life. Couldn't go to a laundry mat. The mid-west
populace does not look kindly on some shirtless blue Pict in chest waders
wandering into the laundry mat and scaring hell out of old aunt Sally. But,
as a fisherman, I had the answer, duct tape.
I had to get my pants and shirt dry. I duct taped my Levi's to the inside
of the hood of my car. This was rather fun as I was now wearing the t-shirt
as a toga wrap-around. I then duct taped my flannel shirt to the heater
underneath the passenger seat dash. I closed the shirt up with tape so all
of the hot air would have to go through the shirt. Hopped on the highway
and took an eighty mile drive to Lincoln and back. Got back to the lake and
in a secluded area checked out my handy work. All, except for the seams of
the shirt collar, was dry.
I went home and strolled in, bold as brass (and smelling of gas). My
wonderful wife queried me about my fishing. I answered quite honestly that
I'd not gotten a bite all day (except frostbite). The poor woman will never
really understand me as a fisherman. Her next comment was "I don't know why
you just don't fish from the bank. That outfit looks like more problems
than its worth." Ah, but I got a tube!"
Frank Reid
