As one advances in years (gets old), one loses the flexibility of youth. This is particularly true if one has a protrusion on his stomach (a gut) that interferes with things like bending down to pick up a newspaper in the driveway. The once easy task of putting on socks in the morning becomes the equivalent of a Richard Simmons cardio workout. It seems that as we advance in age (get old) either our arms grow shorter or our legs grow longer, making it nearly impossible to slip on a sock without huge difficulty. I keep a lock on my socks drawer so as not to be tempted to even try.
There is another thing that taxes the aged among us and that’s the ability to move into and around an ordinary jon boat.
Jon boats are, one, unstable, and, two, not meant to be used by those over, say, 65. The seats in a jon boat are about 3-inches from the bottom of the boat, meaning if you sit in one, your ass is practically on the ground with legs and knees extending an all directions, which is not a comfortable position even for those much younger.
Last weekend, despite multiple warnings from my brain, I rented a jon boat at Lake Orange in order to take my college-age grandson, James, fishing.
“Don’t do it!” the brain said.
“It’ll be fine,’ said Satan.
Satan won. I rented the boat and we were going fishing.
I had decided beforehand to be the captain, to steer our vessel so James could make multiple casts from the bow and more easily catch and land fish.
I took my position at the stern, then had to make a critical decision – do I sit facing forward so I can see where we are going, or do I face to the rear so I can manage the trolling motor, the speed controls and the steering rod. It was one or the other. Once I sat, there would be no switching positions. I decided to sit facing the rear. That way, I could peek over my shoulder every now and then as we made our way to the upper end of the lake – about a 20-minute boat ride at top speed.
James shoved us off and we began our up-lake journey. I was able to watch the bank, so as not to run aground on the shore when James said, “Big Daddy, there is an island just ahead.”
“How big is it?” I asked.
“Not very big, but we’re about to hit it.”
“Give me some coordinates, son.”
“Fifty feet ahead. If you turn hard right, we might miss it.”
I did, and we missed.
After I went around the bend, it would be smooth sailing up lake as there were no more pesky islands to contend with. I was about 100 feet offshore and was going full throttle with an unobstructed view of where we had been. James seemed mildly concerned that I was not really looking ahead to where we were going.
“Big Daddy, I’ll be glad to drive the boat,” James said on several occasions.
“No, I want you to fish”, I said. “And don’t worry, like the mariners from long ago, I’ll getting my bearings from the stars.”
Five minutes passed and we were well up the lake when James sounded another warning.
“Big Daddy, there is a boat ahead and two men on it with eyes as big as saucers. They think we’re going to ram them,” James called out.
“How far?” I asked.
“About 80 feet and closing,” he advised.
I banked hard to the starboard side, and we missed the 22-foot Bass Ranger with room to spare.”
“Any more boats ahead?
“No, we’re clear.”
I navigated the boat to the end of the lake, then made an admiral-like decision.
“James, if you can pull me up and get me to the front seat, you can steer the boat.”
“Thank you, Big Daddy, thank you!” he said.
It sounded like he really wanted to captain the boat all along and I made it happen.
We fished for a couple hours and caught a few, then headed back to port. James easily missed all the other boats on the way in and both small islands.
It was a fun trip, but I think maybe my jon boat days are over.
