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Wm is the kind of person who appears to enjoy rituals, as he has a number of them. In those days some irritated me but for the most part they were tolerable. So that night, true to custom, Wm had not yet made his choice of gear and tackle. He always said he needed to get to our fishing spot and size things up before he rigged. Then he would switch on his L.L. Bean xerostrobic headlamp, complete with red lens to preserve night vision, take out his genuine Orvis calibrated fishing thermometer, and with great ceremony measure the surface water temperature. He would let out a satisfied grunt and commence to tying up his gear. I noticed that no matter what the water temperature was he always chose the same setup.
From the rower’s position, my back was to General Washington which made it difficult for me to see or hear what he was doing. It was clear to me that he was fumbling around with one thing or another but I assumed he was just readying his observation and measurement devices in preparation for arrival at our spot. So you can imagine my surprise when he momentarily deviated from his standard practices. I heard Wm clear his throat.
“Uh, I just realized that I have a little bobber.” He spoke in a voice I could barely hear over the gurgle of the water beneath the hull.
I found this to be a peculiar declaration and really wasn’t sure how to respond to his revelation, so I said,
“Well, I’m sure it works as well as anybody's.”
“It is kind of difficult to see, though. I’m hoping it will stand out anyway.” Wm’s voice sounded a bit unsure to me.
It seemed that this conversation was heading in an odd direction, but Wm was a friend, and good friends are willing to listen to one another. “Well, nobody’s looking anyway,” I replied.
Wm went quiet and resumed his fumbling. “It’s kind of red down near the bottom,” he sounded very thoughtful now.
“Maybe you should have it looked at,” I suggested.
“That’s ridiculous. Who would want to bother looking at it my bobber anyway?” More fumbling.
At this point I was becoming confused. I mean, this is the kind of conversation that has limitations, even between friends. I was thinking about how to reply when Wm continued.
“The other end is chartreuse, but it glows in the dark.”
My confusion changed to nervousness faster than it takes to say “Fish on.” Wm clearly was dealing with a problem but I wasn't sure why he thought I would be able to help him with it.
“I’m having trouble deciding which end to tie onto.” He wasn’t going to let this drop.
“Look, Wm, it’s really none of my business, but maybe you shouldn’t tie it up right now. On account of the odd colors and all.” The thought of a two-toned bobber worried me less than the fact that it apparently was luminescent as well, but I didn’t say anything about that.
I kept rowing, although a bit faster. Suddenly Wm appeared to hit upon a solution.
“I know what I’ll do. I’ll just pick one end and tie it up. Think I’ll start with the red end. I’ll toss it overboard and tug on it. If I can see it move in the dark I’ll leave it alone. Otherwise I’ll pull it in and retie it on the other end.”
This discussion was now officially weird. A minute ago Wm was complaining about his little bobber. Now he was talking about dragging it through the water along side of the boat. I tried one more time to get things moving in a different direction.
“Well Wm, maybe you shouldn’t worry about using your bobber tonight.”
“You know, John, you’re probably right. I’ll just cut it off and deal with it later.”
I could take no more of this. I dropped the oars, stood up, and went over the side of the boat into the lake faster than Jeff Bridges’ Dad Lloyd in an old “Sea Hunt” episode. I swam as fast as I could to the shore. My brother-in-law Charley heard the splash when I went in. He came down to the dock and gave me a hand out of the water. “What the hell is going on?” he asked me.
“Quick, call 911. I think Wm has cut off his bobber,” I gasped.
“Damn it, I told him just last night to stopped fooling around with his bobber and get on with fishing.”
I’d had enough. I went up the steps and into the camp, grabbed a bottle of scotch, and poured myself a stiff one. I mean a strong one. God, fishing with Wm could turn a man into a nervous wreck.
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