There was a plan, and a dam good one. Viz. Go fishing on Lake Whitney this morning. So what happened, you ask in questioning wonder. I'll tell you, the plan went all to hell and there was no fishing, I wasn't even able to break free of the Compound except to check the PO Box and Walmart, and that was on a schedule. Huh. Total FAIL So here's some earlier action to virtually make up the miserable deficit.
Surprise striper, caught on a baby bluegill. Huh, far out, wasn't expecting that one.
Well... dam... big fish, light rod. What a lot of fun.
Never underestimate the fun of a plate sized bluegill, tasty too. Kid's a Sergeant now, remarkably. Ahem, commission please, but that's up to him. Whatev. Dads, don't take your kids to degenerate drag queen story hours, take them fishing instead.
Just some bass on the mighty, mighty Brazos.
Message to market? Get back on the water.
Tight Lines,
LSP
8 comments:
Safe travels.
Thanks, WSF, I appreciate that.
Well, it's called fishing for a reason. It's not catching. And not getting out because things does suck.
Best fishing trip with my father was a nice offshore trip out of Sebatian Inlet. Wherein we discovered we didn't pack the rigged ballyhoo. So we caught some really nice kingfish on lures.
Including my largest king, which really was just the head because of the hammerhead that was longer than our 20' center console. Just the head of the king was at least 50% longer than all the other kings we had on board.
Man, I miss my dad. And his soy sauce glaze for grilling fish. Sigh. So sad we can't go back in time and just friggin ask all the questions we have now for them when they were alive. To just ask him how he cooked his wonderful meals... Sigh.
Fail sounds ominous. Good luck.
It is well that bluegill don't grow to 50 pounds, lest nothing be safe in the water, including humans.
Beans, my dad was very, very deep into theology and all about our Holy Mother the Church. This meant he never fished or shot or rode, much less took me on those things.
He was, of course, most brilliant, his synapses worked faster than the average bears but getting out with a rod or gun would've added, I think.
Anyway, we miss and love our fathers.
Oh yes, Wild, just imagine.
Man they're fierce. Good to eat to boot.
My dad grew up Cajun in SW Louisiana, Vermillion Parrish to be exact, so fishing and hunting, even by the clergy, was a thing. Even to the point that the local priest would have the exit doors blocked by non-hunting deacons so he could sneak out firstly on the opening of hunting or shooting seasons. Blessings of the tools of fishing and hunting being a common thing there, along with getting one's nets blessed, one's boat and motor blessed, one's bubbafied swamp-vehicle blessed, one's duck calls blessed (yes, duck calls, serious business there in Louisiana, still is apparently.)
Yeah, dads. Sigh
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