Leave.Me.Alone.

Dear AARP;
 I will put this as succinctly and as clear as I can---

 Leave. Me. Alone.

 Turning 50 was traumatic enough without your constant dagger twisting mailings to me to remind me that I am not 19 anymore--I got that, honest I do. I am nifty 50, blah blah blah. I am reminded each morning at approximately 0230 that I am "old", thankyouverymuch-- however, I'd rather deal with peeing in the middle of the night than to receive one more piece of your terroristic threatening junk mail that you keep the Postal service in business with delivering to my mailbox.

 I do not need your rubbish. I didn’t request it, and I am not about to join your group. Not now, not ever, even if I live to be 100. You may think I have something against Senior Citizens.

 Nope. I love 'em.

 They are awesome and they should be running our nation. The only time I take issue with them is on Wednesdays at the grocery store--That is Senior Citizen discount day and they are hell on wheels and will leave you for dead on aisle 3 next to the high fiber cereal section.

Look, here's the deal.

 It's not about you political views, your stance on gun control, health care, or any of the other things I read about--I couldn’t care less about what AARP thinks. What I find most offensive about "you people" is the ads you have in your magazine--If we were to subscribe to your Goebellistic manifesto of doo-doo we would all be wearing shoes with those Velcro closures, over the calf support hose for our varicose veins, and "kicking it old school" in those rascal scooters while wearing the most comfortable catheter ever (that fits easily into your pocket). 

Deliver me.

You people give me serious butt ache and make my prostate hurt. You can take your AARP and stick three more letters to the end of it (use velcro)---KMA.

 I will decide when and on whose terms I become a Senior citizen, not you clowns. If you need to reach me I will be on my John Deere riding mower with 24 inch cut listening to "Boogie Chillun" so loud my ears bleed.

 You can sign me, Fifty and needing no Velcro--

 George L. Fisher

There I was......

There I was, no s--t-in the Gulf of Mexico with severe thunderstorms, lightning popping, socked in at zero visibility with a blackberry on half battery, little connectivity, a non mission capable bilge pump in a boat leaking like a spaghetti strainer--with a ‘hit and miss’ Johnson 70 hp outboard that wouldn't pull a greasy string out of a chickens ass. All we had left were 2 waters, a half pack of Gulp worms, a half pack of orange crackers, a pimento cheese sandwich, 1 juice box straw, and a curiosity about where all the sharks go during storms.

Was I scared?

 Yeah I was scared--I was scared those Redfish and Sea Trout were gonna get away---

But like I said, There I was…in the bass tracker, the SS Unsinkable II, aptly named because the SS Unsinkable I (the first one) was deep sixed a couple of years ago. There are two considerations about my brother Bubba and his acquisition of fishing vessels. FThe first, is that he always gets a heck of a deal. The second is that they take on water at an alarming rate. Now I’m no expert, but I believe that an important part of Boats, and boating in general, is to keep the majority of the water on the outside of your craft.

We were underway there at Econfina State park boat ramp about an hour behind the rest of the “Econfina River Rat Man Only don’t bring your estrogen infused ass in here Hee Man Fish on Bitches Women Haters Man Club”, with a darkening sky and limited visibility—perfect if your name was Noah—Noah built at least one boat in his lifetime, and I am sure he kept the animals on the inside and the water on the outside.

Let the official record show that one thunderstorm –a doozy--had already blown in and much like the D-Day Invasion; we had a break in the weather. It is of no significance that the folks at the Marina store looked at us like we were crazy.

Rockin’ Randall James J-Bob Hatcher, my good friend, who equates to a 250 pound Swiss army knife, was at the helm. It was my job to hold on to the fishing poles and the cooler of food. We took out as fast as we could, and in just a wile were about 6.5 nautical miles away from the rivers mouth and out by Rock Island. It was where the elusive redfish lie in wait, begging to be caught.

As we cast the first time, I noticed the ever darkening horizon and glanced toward the mainland, no more than a mile and a half away. “As long as we see terra firma, Hatch, we will be ok”, I said. In just about thirty minutes of casting with no catches, rather, fishing with no fishes, we decided to pull up stakes and move closer to terra firma, as it was now barely visible….

It is ten minutes later. I am on the bow of the boat, Blackberry in hand, Google maps application draining my battery like a sumbitch. Using hand and arm signals to Hatch, we are on a northerly azimuth trying to reestablish visibility with the mainland. 

Thank goodness --and the US Governments contract with Verizon-- I had connectivity. By this time Mark, Mitch, and Rodney are calling every 5 minutes asking me “Is that your motor? I heard a motor!” I really didn’t know how to answer the question—it could have been, but we never saw the other boats when we went out to begin with—Navigating and inching our way, we decided our best course of action was to get back to the mouth of the Econfina, and, weather permitting, fish on (bitches).

Another half hour later. We have made it just about half way back. Another round of phone calls as we all searched for one another. Actually, it was Mark and Rodney Searching, Hatch and I were trying to keep from run aground. Mark Calls and said cut the motor and listen for his horn—we complied. Hatch did the listening, because everyone on this continent knows I cannot hear, and amongst the essentials, i.e., fishing poles, bait, those orange crackers, water, and one of Mitch’s moms homemade pimento cheese sandwiches, I didn’t bring hearing aids.

As it turns out, Mark just about T-bones us as he comes up in his boat, saying, “Here comes the Cavalry, MFers, follow me!”---the only way we could have followed any close is if we were sitting in the boat next to him. 

We went back out and in short order thru the magic of GPS, found the others, As it turned out, concurrent with our creeping back to the rivers mouth, we had been taken on considerable water--Hatch having checked the hatch once we had rejoined the others, and after some bailing and grateful assist for an emergency bilge Mark had stashed on his craft knowing THE UNSINKABLE would be plying the waters of the gulf this weekend. Had it not been for his foresight, we were about 5 salty gallons away from visiting Davy Jones Locker. In fact, the bilge was sucking more water than the propulsion of that damn Unsinkable II’s 70 hp Johnson.

Although we were still socked in with maybe 50 yards visibility, and a borrowed spare bilge pump that WORKED, we were all together and doing well. We fished for about another hour. The teenagers were reeling in fish on nearly every cast. I ate orange crackers and cussed the infernal bilge pump, which only worked on dry land.

Presently, the rainstorm resumed. Actually, it wasn’t a rainstorm. It was a thunderstorm accompanied by rain. To further clarify, it became a Lightning Storm accompanied by a heavy torrential downpour comparable to a monsoon which was also accompanied by a barrage of thunder that sounded exactly like the beginning of World War III or maybe God telling us in no uncertain terms to get off the water and do it now-- I can’t decide which.

We cranked the engines and aligned ourselves, Marks boat in the lead. That is to say, 3 of the 4 boats cranked. The 4th, the one I was in, just exercised the starter. For the eleventy hundredth time, Randy was on his knees messing with wires trying to get the motor to start. Finally it fired (insert Hallelujah Chorus here), and we again took our position of number 2 in the convoy. Number 2 was appropriate in that the boat had given us nothing but s-t the last 2 days.

But back to the downpour, thunder and lightning. It was incredible! There was no time to count one thousand, two thousand in between lightning strikes and the crash of thunder—it was kliccccccccccccctchhhhhhhh! KABOOM! All at once. My sphincter slammed shut. I think the other 3 boats respective sphincters did the same. Perhaps it was claps of thunder, I cannot decide which.

Full throttle, about 4 nautical miles back to the mouth of the river, and as we passed the channel marker at full throttle the storm only intensified. Despite the rain gear, the water found its way to my nether regions, nice and cold. My cup runneth over, my doo-lollys are nice and wet, and Randy has yelled out he has “monkey butt”.

It got so crazy all I could do is eat that pimento cheese sandwich. I wasn’t about to let it go to waste. Then I pulled it in half (it was soaking wet by this time) and shoved half of it in Randys mouth while he is still driving the boat at full tilt, barely able to see Marks boat in front of us. It was hysterical. The rain pelted us so bad I yelled out to Randy is that rain or hail?

We made it back to the boat ramp while the other boats motored to the condo. The SS Unsinkable II would be put on its trailer, as she was done for this trip.

Back in the condo, all of us stripped out of our wet clothes, drinks began to flow, cigars to be lit, and the talk of Fishing and the associated adventures from Men, both young and old, began, and lasted into the wee hours…

“THERE I WAS, NO S--T…………………”

It couldn’t have stormed any harder. We couldn’t have been any more socked in. We couldn’t have taken on any more water without sinking that damn rust bucket. 

We couldn’t have had a better time had we tried.

“FISH ON, BITCHES”