Lost and Found

We are so encumbered by possessions "things" that the loss of even the tiniest device or keepsake can render us into babblying psychopaths. My Memorial Day trip to Eagle Lake started off great until I did the poor man's tap in front of McDonald's near Willows. My wallet was missing and so Pattyo-not one to miss out on getting an early start on the EL festivities-jumped into Heyman's rig and I was cruising backwards to find my Wallet at the last Wal-Mart.
Preoccupied with the thought of Wal Mart employees (or patrons for that matter) going on a spending spree with my cash, I hit the gas with boat in tow. As I pulled into the fast lane, the car I had just passed began shrinking and then turned to flashing red and blue lights. I thought my anxiety over a miss-placed wallet was causing me to hallucinate until reality caught up. Those really are red and blue flashing lights in my rear view. I glanced at the speedometer. The needle was flirting with 80. My heart sank as I quickly decelerated and tried to find a place to pull over, suddenly realizing that there were orange cones every fifty feet. Further enlightened, I finally realized that I was in a construction zone. My heart rate doubled and I thought I could feel it palpitating. When I finally pulled to a stop, the lack of inertia created a silent vaccum in which my brain fast forwarded to showing the cop my wallet. In this tranquil zen-like state of consciousness a realization set in: My wallet's at Wal Mart! F(^*^%^^(&***!!!
I don't think i've ever said "Sir" more in a twenty second conversation than I did that day on the side of highway 5. I did remember that I had my fishing license. Another example of grace and clear thinking under pressure? I'll leave you, the reader to decide on that. All I can say is that I was cursing myself out like I was playing on a team that I coach and just did something stupid. The officer seemed to believe me as he took my license back to his squad car. My thoughts vacillated drastically. One moment I had visions of having my car impounded and having to call my wife to come get me because I knew the guys were already annoyed with my forgetfulness and Pattyo wouldn't mind not having his dog with him so long as he had a cold one and a fishing pole. The next second I would entertain delusions of being let off with a warning. "Sorry you're having such a bad day. Didn't want to further complicate things for you sir. Just watch your speed next time alright, especially in a construction zone and with towing a boat and all. Have a good day."
Boots crunching gravel snapped me back to reality and my popped the bubble that was my fantasmal daydream. Apparently I had to use up all of my fishing luck before I even got my line wet. The Highway Patrolman only wrote me up for doing 60 when, as all the signs say, I should've been doing 55. If it said anything about a construction zone, I haven't seen it. The ticket ended up costing about $250 with traffic school which definitely hurts but probably could've cost me a lot more.
I had to build up some speed on the shoulder before quickly merging between the orange cones and I was back on my way backwards to Wal Mart with new thoughts doing battle. Would my wallet be there? Would I have to bribe the employees to give me back my credit cards and such sans cash? I decided to give the store a call, checking every mirror twice before dialing information and trying not to swerve as I wrote the number on the back of my traffic ticket.
It's no wonder I only caught a few fish that trip. A trustworthy Wal Mart employee had given my wallet to his manager. When I got in touch with the guy, he handed me back my wallet and, lo and behold, everything was in it-even the cash! I have a new found respect for the integrity of Wally World employees. Either that or the pervasiveness of their surveillance cameras and the mind control of their Big Brother management. In any case, the gods shined on me that day. While I'm always quick to remind myself that material possesions come and go, losing my wallet that weekend would have definitely put a damper on things-Big Time. I probably had as much cash in my wallet as the ticket would end up costing me but I'm scared straght when it comes to speeding. I'm slowing down:)

Eagle Lake: The Alien from Blue Lake

I'm not sure if it's the tenth year anniversary yet, but Jake and I first headed up to Eagle Lake when we were a few years out of high school to meet his uncle Steve. Steve couldn't tell us enough about the size and fighting ability of these acrobatic rainbows. Some of the hardiest fish in the world due to the high alkalinity of the water, an Eagle Lake trout can survive in nearly any other suitable body of water, while other trout transplanted here inevitably perish. If you've caught a hatchery fish anywhere in California, chances are pretty good it came from this natural place.
Steve showed us the slip-bobber and worm threader and we were on our way to big, muscular trout. We caught four the first morning. Jake caught a nice one with a $10 dollar tag on it. When we took off, I noticed them bouncing behind the boat. I yelled to Steve but it was too late, and wouldn't you know it, the money fish was gone from the stringer. We ran into one guy who saw the grins on our faces and called us over to him. He whispered in our ears like a junkie introducing us to heroine, "you know fellas, these trout have shoulders", that was it.
In the last decade, the goal has never changed, to catch heavy limits, but our methods of camping have definitely become more modern. The group has grown and morphed into different tribes many times over the years. Steve and his gang still monopolize a large circular camp area; the wagons that might have surrounded it in the old days have given way to fourwheel drive trucks hauling fishing boats with rods and nets standing at attention like a fisherman's flag. Pattyo and his wife Suzanne "Red" inhabited a large travel trailer and his brother, always the entrepreneur, rents a house with his family and his parents. Last year we all stayed together. Around midnight, just as everyone was settling down to get a few hours of shut eye before the early morning wake-up, we heard a fumbling on the porch. Everyone went into intruder mode. Archie the body-builder launched himself onto the porch to confront the intruder. We all followed diligently toting mag-lights and fire-pokers to open a good can of "whoop ass" on the uninvited guest.
"What the *^&% are you doing here?"
"I'm just looking for my friends. I'm lost." replied the young and obviously inebriated wayfarer.
Disappointedly, everyone let their guard down slightly. It appeared that no one was going to be needing their weapons. The night was black as charcoal and the young man appeared more pathetic than threatening.
"Where am I?" asked the drunkard.
"You're at Eagle Lake, Spaulding Tract"
"You mean this isn't Blue Lake?"
It's amazing how alcohol can transform a perfectly normal college student into a suspected alien, beamed down to earth just to confuse everyone and ruin the few hours of sleep that Eagle Lake fisherman all outwardly dismiss and secretly covet.
"No, you're a long way from Blue Lake mister. How the hell did you wind up here?"
"My buddies and I were heading to blue lake."
We went round and round like this for what turned into hours. It started seeming more and more plausible that this guy was dropped off by an alien spacecraft. He couldn't remember for sure his friends names, where they were staying or how he got here.
"All I know is that we lined up shots and then my buddies disappeared".
I noticed he was shivering and brought him a blanket. Brian slipped away and called the Sheriff. Archie scrolled through the aliens cell phone and had long conversations with members of the Aliens family, none of whom seemed too surprised that he might find himself on a random porch on a random lake, drunk as a skunk with a group of complete strangers.
Finally the sheriffs deputy arrived after an hour-long drive from Susanville. The long conversations with his relatives (some of them long lost I'm sure) must've sobered him up or triggered something in his brain. He remembered that the cabin he was staying in had a cone shaped roof and a flag. The sheriff knew the place, it's located about a half-block away from the Eagle Lake Bar and Grill. Our cabin was at least a mile away in near complete darkness. Next time we're going to shut off the porch light a little earlier.

The Togiak-Part II

The Grumman Goose circled Togiak Lake and touched down smoothly near the headwaters of the river. We unpacked on a sunny beach and waved goodbye to our pilot. As the drone of the engines faded into the wide-open Alaskan sky, it hit me: an infinity of suffocating silence. There was the slight gurgle of moving water and the wavy swoosh of wind, maybe a bird chirping, but the absence of any noise pollution whatsoever was both stifling and liberating. We were alone, that was sure. The nearest town, actually an Indian village, was about thirty miles down river. If I didn't understand why my Dad had spent the last year meticulously packing, planning and deliberating over this trek, it was definitely beginning to sink in now. Any mistakes from here on out and help would be a long timing coming, if at all.
The next day we floated and fished at our whimsy, stopping along gravel bars to eat and sleep and fishing until late into the morning. In the northern latitudes, during mid-summer the sun barely sets, dipping below the horizon for a few hours. It plays tricks with your biological clock and you find yourself engrossed in letting your spoon drift through the currents ripples, hooking fish and fighting with them until your arms tire. Often we wouldn't retire until well after midnight with no signs of fatigue or even a hint of darkness.
It was probably two days in before we saw our first bear. It was a long ways off across a swampy bog. It stood up and sniffed us and disappeared. We made our way down the river quickly.
I hooked a nice king salmon on our third day. We were standing on a beaver pond and I could see it struggling deep down under the cool clear water. I remember trying not to give it too much pressure and instead gave it too much slack. I watched in agony as it opened its massive jaws, shook its head and spit out the spoon. My Dad, for the first time in my life, didn't say a word when I yelled out "F(*&!".
The next bear we saw before it saw us. We were drifting around a bend and the bear was working it's way across the bank. It reminded me of a shaggy puppy, only slightly smaller than a VW beetle. "We can drift right up to it", whispered my father.
"Won't it get us?", I asked.
"Not if we're in the water", he replied, feigning confidence. I wasn't so sure but I remember distinctly that when it stood on it's hind legs, caught our scent and went "whooooof", our paddles both hit the water simultaneously, like those synchronized swimmers in the Olympics. The massive bundle of fur, muscle, claws and teeth wheeled and ran into a thick stand of Alders. What impressed me the most though, wasn't it's size, but it's quickness and grace. Retreating into the bush, it didn't make a sound. Maybe I just couldn't hear it over the pounding heartbeats in my ears!
We met the first of three other groups only minutes later. A make-shift fishing camp greeted us along the same bank as we had seen the bear. We told them about it and they replied that he was their pet. Only in Alaska. The second visitor was a game warden/biologist. She didn't check our licenses but preferred to talk about the weather. "You guys are pretty luck" she said. "Before this week there's maybe been a day and a half of sun. The rest has been nothin but rain. Last summer we might have had five days of sun all summer." Considering that we had been there five days and had only seen a light shower once, we did indeed consider ourselves very lucky.
My Dad hooked a lively Chinook later that day. He fought it for maybe fifteen minutes until finally he brought it up alongside me. I had the net ready and scooped it up, knocking the lure out as I jammed it into the small net. The tip of the salmon's nose hit the rim of the net and it's body circled in the mesh so that it's tale hit the other side of the round rim-it barely fit! We were both ecstatic.
The last day of the trip the river slowed into a slough's pace. I had all but given up on my chances of catching a mighty king, though we had landed many sockeye and arctic char. I sat back in the rear of the canoe and casted to the bank from an inclined position, lazy like the river. My line stopped and I thought I'd snagged a submerged tree trunk when I saw a huge tail flap into the air-fish on! I scrambled up and began the fight in earnest, trying to gain line on the beast as the canoe picked up speed. The clever behemoth was using the current to his hook-nosed advantage and it became apparent to my Dad and I that we'd have to pull over or we'd be pulled downstream forever. My Dad paddled for the nearest gravel bar and I hopped out, hoping we hadn't stopped too soon and I could find a way to slow the big fish down. I remember the line started to make this humming twangy sound as the big Chinook stretched it near the breaking point, my Dad standing helplessly next to the big fish in knee deep water with our pathetically small landing net. Finally I backed up the gravel bar until the fish ran out of water to swim in and my Dad pounced on it, wrestling the flopping behemoth up onto the pebbly shore.
We took pictures and measurements. 36lbs and 42 inches long if I remember correctly. I wanted to keep it but my Dad reasoned that we would be boarding the plane later that day and we were far from any freezer or cooler. I didn't realize then that trophies don't always have to be killed and mounted. The satisfaction I have now, knowing that big fish reproduced, outweighs any meal it would have provided us.
We arrived at a windswept tract of tin roof shacks named "Togiak". A "dry" (apparently you don't mix Eskimos and alcohol) village with a population of less than 100. The most distinct memory I have of that remote village was of two Eskimo children playing catch with a grapefruit sized boulder, occasionally clunking it off each others' heads and having the time of their lives. Maybe not much to do in that village for children too small to fish? Probably one of only a half-dozen sunny days they would enjoy that season; and to think that my Dad and I picked this exact week for our vacation over two years in advance. Sometimes you just get lucky.

Better than a good day at work.

Before we got here, Pacific Salmon were a way of life for the Native Americans. Their lives were intertwined with the salmon runs since the ancient times.
I haven't eaten Salmon in almost two years. That's because I refuse to eat "farmed fresh" yuck fish and because the DFG has closed the season off the coast of California indefinitely. I'm sure that someday I'll be telling my kids about "the good old days" when you could actually catch your own salmon off the coast, but for now I'll just have to settle for reminiscing on this here blog.
My first experience with Salmon fishing was with Old Man Phil and "Flipper" his 19ft bathtub. Phil is older than the ocean and he can still outhunt or fish anyone, just ask around. Long after everyone's on Gary's porch sipping on "duck tales", Phil is still out trying to get one more. On the ocean, he's known for saying, usually around 1 or 2 when the twilight wakeup call and midday sun starts to turn the most avid angler into a sleeping baby, "Just say the word and we'll head in." It's a kind of salty dawg game of chicken-I'm not going in until you say "Uncle". I can't ever remember hearing Phil call it quits, he's the epitome of a diehard.
Duxbury Reef off Stinson Beach is one of his favorite spots and "mooching" his favorite style of fishing. Although trolling is definitely the most popular method and possibly more effective-mooching is a lost artform. There's no drone of the outboard, no 2lb. ball of lead to man handle. Adrift on the sea like a hunting pelican, the mooch is a dance with the ocean. If you read the clues and drift through the right spot, with the patience to let the salmon nibble, nibble, nibble and then take your bait, you will be rewarded. One thing that makes Phil's blood boil, however, is the circle hook. The result of overzealous fish and game bureaucrats who make a name for themselves creating new and more stringent rules and regulations, the circle hook is now the law. We usually lose a fish or two each time because of them. Tough for a guy who has fished with a J hook for 50 years to swallow-no pun intended. Nobody ever said Phil wasn't stubborn.
Probably the one characteristic of Phil's that sets him apart from all the youngsters is his respect for a dollar. A young man during the great depression, Phil can squeeze a quarter between his butt cheeks and fart out 25 pennies. When we head out, he calculates the bait, gas, launch fee and ice costs and gives you a price for his charter. "Alright, it's gonna cost you $33 dollars". Now that's a steal when you consider the charter boats will charge you $80 plus a tip for the deck hand. If you give him $40, he insists on giving change.
It was no suprise then, when we pulled into the Richmond boat launch and the arm that's supposed to lower after each fee stayed up, that Phil hit the gas. Not to mention the fact that the car in front of us had a Gore sticker. "Come on Phil!" I said as the Gore car pulled through under the arm, "don't let those damn democrats get one over on you!" Phil sang some crazy song for the next half hour, "I didn't wanna do it, but I did it anyway... You made me love you!!!" at the top of his lungs. He was so happy we got a free launch that day that he forgot to undo the transom straps, or at least to check to see if we had. Little did we know we would pay for that $6 dollars saved in bad juju for the rest of the trip.
When Pattyo backed in the flipper, of course it refused to leave the trailer, so Phil leans out and undoes one of the straps, thinking that of course we hadn't forgotten to remove both of them. He finally wrestled it loose as the 6am traffic at the launch ramp increased to a bona fide "jam". Pattyo, always loathe to suffer even the slightest embarrassment, especially in front of fellow fisherman, was growing impatient. "What the hell's going on back there" he yelled as we asked him to pull forward and then back up twice. He couldn't hear us over the sound of honking horns so he stopped the truck and came around to find out for himself. When he went to start it back up, all we heard was, "clickclickclickclick". Oooops!! What do you do when you're stalled on the ramp with a boat half-assed off the trailer? You ask someone to jump you of course, after all there's a line a mile long waiting for you to get the hell out of the way. This of course is Pattyo's worst nightmare so I do the talking. We finally get the truck started and undo the other transom strap and we're motoring out.
Everything's going smooth, except Phil isn't singing his usual "I Love Fishin!" song at the top of his lungs like usual when we leave the no wake zone at full throttle. The motor had suddenly started acting up. Turns out Phil bought the new fuel filter but, ever the conservative (liberal is a four letter word to Phil) he just cleaned out the old one and put it back in. So now he's changing the fuel filter as our competitors leave us in their wake and the sun starts to brighten the day. We finally get to Duxbury and it's a parking lot: party boats, private boats, six packers and one Boston Whaler with a family of eight that's got about two inches of free board (distance between the waters surface and the edge of the boat). Luckily they're all wearing life jackets! We can't get a hit to save our lives and end the day with one barely legal twenty and one-half incher.
Pattyo and I take the boat battery with us to start up the truck and head up the ramp while Phil tends the flipper at the dock. Uh-oh looks like the boat battery has drained now too! "Hey, you guys got any jumper cables?" We're both thinking maybe Phil should charge us a higher charter rate and invest in a new battery.
Don't get the wrong idea though, Phil knows how to catch salmon and I'll forever be grateful that he introduced me to some of the finest fishing right outside the Golden Gate. I just hope the season opens up again someday and I get another chance to go out with the old man, for everyone's sake.

Scary Larry

"There's only two things I can't weld, a broken heart and the crack of dawn!"
Scary Larry was a caretaker at the Tule Belle for about a decade. When I first met him, we pulled our buddies blind out with his truck and proceeded to kill about eight black widows with brake cleaner. He called it "Panther Piss". It worked well. The poor widders would curl up and drop from their nests. Kinda freaky on a dark night with just a pen light.
Larry was known as a poacher, "Some guys wait for the ducks to come to them. I go after em'. I hunt em down and I kill em!" Larry upheld the season and bag limits, he just liked to remain blissfully unawares of certain boundaries. Usually he'd get into the landowners good graces, hunting a neighboring club on their non-shoot days or visiting a farmers marsh when their truck just didn't happened to be parked there. He used to say, "You've heard of A-zone and B-zone? Well, this is R-zone!"
Somehow he got the keys to some P,G & E land and we hunted all late summer for a blacktail. Finally Larry came running down the mountain like a hillbilly running moonshine. "Get the truck, there's a buck up there" he hollered. I grabbed my buddies truck because he was off somewhere on Larry's dirtbike. "Drop me off here! When you hear a shot, come over the hill and pick me up!" I did as I was told. My heart started thumping in my chest when I heard the rifle crack and took off like a Duke Boy up that dirt hill. When I got to the top I noticed a fence and cattle grate but there weren't any "No Trespassing" signs so I slid around the hill and backed up to the bottom just as Larry dropped the tail gate and slid the small buck into the bed. "Get goin!" he half-yelled, half-whispered. I was concerned with his sense of urgency but I just figured this was Larry being Larry. Gettin excited about being excited and so we rolled out with a growing plume of dusk following us through the gate and back down the hill. We stopped and rendezvouzed with Kenny. He heard the shot and motored up to meet us. As we sat there contemplating the bucks inexplicably small antlers, I noticed a truck on the top of the hill facing us. "Uhhh, Larry, did you see that truck before?"
"Uh oh, we'd better high tale it boys".

The Togiak-Part 1

This was one of the greatest adventures of my life. My Dad and I spent a year planning our Alaskan Odyssey. The plan was to spend two weeks in the bush, fishing, floating and camping. We took Alaskan Airlines to Anchorage Alaska when I was 13 years old. From there we flew in a commuter jet to Dillingham and then chartered a bush plane from Manakotak (Man uh coh tuck)Air(Dad could never pronounce it and the locals got a kick out of him) to the Atnarko River for a three day "warm-up" before hitting the mighty Togiak for a week. We had a Dan Wesson .44 Magnum (think Dirty Harry) for bear protection and a canoe that folded into a large duffel bag.

I'll never forget that first Bush plane ride. The pilot had a cigar clenched between his teeth and a gritty sourdough Alaskan accent. I got to ride shotgun and when I jumped in the plane, to my suprise and chagrin, I found a steering wheel in front of my seat.

"If I keel over and kick the bucket, you're takin us down young man", exclaimed our colorful captain. I gripped the steering wheel with sweaty palms as we flew headlong into a puffly marshmallow cloud. The plane shook as if possessed by a mighty monster. "Ya gotta watch out for them big white fluffy ones", he said. My stomach settled back down where it belonged and we landed without incident.

At the head of the Atnarko there is a secluded fish and game cabin. When we first landed, I remember swarms of mosquitoes. They were so thick you had to breath carefully lest you suck one up. I snagged a large silvery sockeye salmon that afternoon and the Rangers invited us over for dinner. It was delicious with wild rice and some other native herbs and spices mixed in. The Atnarko is a world renowned rainbow trout fishery, but when we visited, rains had swollen the river, spoiling it's potential. OH well, I wasn't looking for a trophy. I was looking for a bent rod and stiff forearms. The Grayling, Arctic Char and Sockeyes did the trick.
Pops and I paddled down the next day, drifting slowly and enjoying the unspoiled wilderness. Drifting in silence, we finally got our taste of seclusion. Floating for hours without seeing any signs of another human being. No trash, no jetsam, no artificial sound, just the pitter patter of dripping rains on luscious green leaves and the gentle background rush of moving water. When we stopped to camp, I recall the dampness. Starting a fire was an exercise in futility and so we quickly cooked our freeze dried meal and crawled into our tent.
The Tikchic Lakes are a series of seven natural bodies of water, interconnected by small streams like the Atnarko. The next day found us at the lower lake where we would camp and await the floatplanes arrival the following morning. Where the Atnarko dumped into the lake, we found our honey hole. All we needed to do was drop a Pixie Spoon over the side and we'd be hooked up with a fiesty Arctic Char, ready for battle. My Dad stopped long before I did I think and he sat back and just watched me enjoy the bounty of the deep blue Alaskan waters. At some point we called it quits and headed for the camp. It turned out to be the creepiest site I've ever stayed in.

We spotted a cabin on the near shore and decided to investigate. It turned out to be abandoned and moderately dilapitated. The roof sagged but offered a welcome respite from the rain. Inside it looked like some sort of varmints had claimed this as their home long before we got there. My Dad had the welcomed idea of pitching our tent inside, to protect us from any curious critters.
I wish I could say there was something concrete that spooked me; Bones, a grave marker, a humongous grizzly bear track, but the cabin betrayed nothing of its sinister scariness. All I can tell you is that there was a vibe. Like someone watching us from just the other side of the rainforest cover. What it was, I can only speculate, but the feeling was undeniable and omnipresent. Did some old trapper die a miserable death there? Was there a Sasquatch lurking in the shadows watching us? I'll never know but I can tell you that I was very uneasy and I remember it to this day. Dad shared my sentiments and we packed quickly and headed for a gravel bar to await the buzz of the air taxi. In the warm sunshine of midday, on the bank of the lake on the other side of the river, I finally shook off the creepiness and felt at ease again for the first time since we'd arrived at the ghost cabin.

Boom!

When Tanner was around 2, he picked up his hatchet and held it up to his eye, peering down the length of the handle like a spotting scope. I asked him what he was doing. "I'm booming deer daddy."
You are?
Yeah, is there a deer over there?
I don't know do you see one?
Yeah, I do! I see some! I'm gonna boom em Daddy!
Moms was out of the house and I figured, what's the harm in a little innocent hunting safari.
I showed Tanner how to sneak up on his quarry.
Tanner, we have to be quiet.
Shhhhhhh! Daddy we're hunting, he whispers. His shoulders hunch up and he crouches down, moving like a cat. We use the sides of walls and doors for a rest, so he could get a steady "boom", just like I learned from Miami Vice years ago. We probably got us a good half-dozen deer that day. Give or take one or two. And they were all humongous bucks. I asked Tanner and he confirmed it.
OK Tanner, now you can only go hunting with Daddy OK? Never boom anything without Daddy there. Never boom anything or anyone OK?
OK Daddy.
And, ummm, no booming in front of Mommy OK?
I boomed um! Like this!
Tanner, listen to me carefully. No booming when Mommy is watching OK!
OK Daddy. Boom. Boom.
I could see our little harmless prank spiraling out of control. I never wanted to be that parent that let's their kids run around pointing fake guns at people (or shooting them with those nerf guns) and going pow. But hey, Tanner started it. I never told him to start booming. He's just a natural. It's in his blood. Or maybe it could be all those hunting shows we watch together.
Anyways, Mommy comes home and gets boomed and she's mortified. I realize now the full depth of my incompetent, irresponsible mistake but it's too late. I cling to my guns like Charlton Heston at an NRA rally.
Babe, he already knows what he's doing, we just need to teach him responsibly.
No! He's two years old. He's been saying that at Day Care! We have to teach him that's not right! Tanner, we don't boom anything OK! That's not nice. We don't say that OK?
OK Mommy.
I try to save some grace. Babe, you're right, he's not ready yet. I won't let him say that anymore.
Tanner and I are having a guy day. We're heading out to the duck club to pick up decoys in Heymans skiff. I've got his Lightning McQueen lifejacket and the dog so we roll.
Are we going fishing Daddy?
No, Tanner we're just going to pick up some decoys.
Decoys?
Yeah they're like, fake ducks. They bring in the real ones.
We're gonna get some ducks?
Yeah.
Yeaaaahhhh!!!!
Tanner seems a little unsure as we step into the boat, but it's a flat bottom skiff and stable.
Hold me Dadda.
Ok, you ready?
Yeah.
I idle through the no wake zone and the boat jumps onto plane. We're zooming along, skimming the surface like a harley on asphalt and Tanner lets out his monster cry, "yeahhhhhhhhhhahhhh". It's a mixture of pure unadulterated joy mixed with a little terror. He hangs in there like a champ though he gets a little nervous when I wade away from the boat but he's stoked at all the ducks we're getting. He keeps saying, we've got lots of ducks ha daddy! And I keep piling them in the skiff.
Look at all the ducks we got!
Yeah Tanner we've got lots of ducks. He doesn't even talk about booming them or anything and I'm pretty sure the phase has passed.
We get home and Momma wants to know how much fun he had. Did you have fun at the Duck Club Tanner?
Yeah, we got lots of ducks. We BOOMED em!