The Fish Out Of Water—Goes Fishing?

Opposites do attract. It’s a fact. I know it to be true. My husband and I are living proof.

We met on a blind date while I was studying for my master’s degree and he was serving on an army base in the South. He was a small town boy from the Midwest. I was a big city girl from the East. My family lived in a duplex apartment with six different locks on the door. His family lived in a house with a front porch and a back yard, and they never locked their doors. His back yard was filled with grass and flowers and a strawberry patch. My backyard was a concrete slab. He saw countless brilliant stars in the clear night sky. I saw—actually, I never did see the night sky, but I did see lots of smog. He drank clear, crisp, fresh country well water. I drank chemically treated hard city water that one could almost chew, and somehow I survived without mutating into a Marvel Comics super hero.

Hmmm. I think there’s a romance novel in there somewhere, but I digress.

We were definitely polar opposites, and it was never more evident than on my first fishing trip with my in-laws—my very first fishing trip ever—on the river not far from the small town in which they lived. By coincidence, it also happened to be the largest river in North America—the Mississippi. The Mighty Mississippi. Mark Twain’s Mississippi. They took the city girl who had never been west of New Jersey out onto the legendary Mississippi for her first taste of the sporting life. As if that weren’t intimidating enough, the plan included teaching the fish out of water to catch fish. I did my best to convince myself I was up to the task. If I could catch a cab in Manhattan during rush hour, surely I could catch a fish.

I remembered seeing a demonstration of how to operate a fishing rod and how to cast a line in a film I saw with my dad. It came back to me as I watched my husband and father-in-law demonstrate casting for me. I actually knew what they were talking about, but their verbal instructions left out an important step I remembered—the reel release at twelve o’clock high. I didn’t say a word. My husband baited my hook and indicated it was my turn.

I said a silent prayer and cast my line, and the cast was—perfect!  My father-in-law almost fell out of the boat. When I told my new hubby what a great teacher he was, he looked as if he had been smacked across the forehead with a two by four. My mother-in-law cheered. My young brother-in-law said, “Okay, but can she catch a fish?”

Yes, she could, and she did. The score was three fish for me to zero fish for my new hubby when I asked him to bait my hook for me again. Wounded male pride reared its ugly head. He glowered at me, and with a scowl on his face and a growl in his voice, he said, “If you want to be a fisherman, bait your own damn hook.” Whoa. Where did that come from? I found his attitude difficult to comprehend. I was making a terrific impression on his family. I thought he would be proud of me. Another glance at his stony expression assured me that was not the case and also made it clear he wasn’t about to bait my hook again. I suspected the honeymoon might finally be over.

The previous evening, the family spared me the late-night flashlight hunt for their favorite bait—night crawlers. Thanks to my hubby’s dented ego, I would no longer be spared the equally nauseating task of baiting my own hook. The word slimy does not begin to describe the sensation one experiences when hand encounters worm. I awarded myself points for not hurling. Reaching into that can of night crawlers and baiting my own hook with one of those bloody, squirming creatures was an act of matchless courage for a city girl. Undaunted, I did it again and again and caught more fish. My grumpy hubby only caught one teeny-tiny fish all day. Served the envious stinker right.

The day would have been perfect but for one minor detail. On second thought, it wasn’t a minor detail. It was a major detail. Actually, it was a critical detail. There were no powder rooms on the section of the river where we were fishing. The men didn’t need one. They just landed on a sand bar and ran behind the trees to answer the call of nature. My hubby tried to convince me to follow their example, but I was just too citified to do it. I was sure some creature lurked in the bushes and was just waiting for me to drop my drawers so it could take a bite out of my a—um—hind end.

Eventually, we found what is known in the vernacular as an outhouse. It was out, all right—out on the very end of an extremely long pier. When I opened the door to this so-called privy, I knew in an instant that this would prove to be an experience I could laugh about in my old age. I couldn’t laugh about it right then, of course, but I knew that one day I could entertain my grandchildren with this little horror story.

Naturally, there was no porcelain facility. The privy’s designers had eliminated all that complex equipment in favor of far less intricate and eminently practical plumbing.  I’m certain it was installed to appeal to tourists because in had a spectacular view of the river below—through the large round hole cut into the bench seat within. The view actually moved me to tears.

I can laugh about it now. In fact, it gets funnier every year, but there’s one thing I’m serious about. On a day when I go fishing, I don’t drink anything at all from the moment I awake until the moment the boat returns to shore—and that’s no laughing matter.