Vast oceans of philosophical differences separate the way men and women plan to go fishing. When two men plan a fishing trip, it goes something like this:
“Hey, Buttface, doing anything right now? Wanna toss some lures? I gotta hot tip on some bass action in the lake.”
“Not doing a thing ’cept half way through mowing the yard and getting ready to paint the house before we have to go to my wife’s sister’s wedding this afternoon. I’ll be at your shack in 10 minutes, Dogbreath.”
In 20 minutes, Dogbreath and Buttface launch their boat and head to their favorite honey hole. About three miles from the landing, they each start to wonder if the other one remembered to put gasoline in the tank after the last trip. About an hour later, they start scrounging in the livewell, the dry storage and under the seats to see if anyone left anything to eat or drink from the last trip.
Women, especially that special breed known as “wives,” can’t act so spontaneously. They must plan everything down to the most minute detail. If wives had planned the Normandy Invasion, the Germans would still occupy France.
“Oh no, this won’t work. The British uniforms clash horribly with the American uniforms. Let’s add a splash of color to that putrid drab green. Maybe some pinks and reds or purples around the helmets and sleeves. Who wears boots and long pants to a beach? Besides, I don’t remember anybody inviting the Germans anyway. And who painted those battleships that ugly gray color? Pink would go so much better with the sea blue, just like a baby’s room.”
Recently, I asked my wife, Sweetums, to go on her annual fishing trip. Long ago, I learned a hard lesson. I took her fishing one time and she caught more fish than me. Naturally, she wanted a new rod and reel of her own. I predicted that the novelty would wear off soon, so I bought her the cheapest rod and reel combination I could find.
Take off boot. Insert cartridge. Aim at foot. Fire!
My prediction came true. After about a week, she lost all interest in fishing. Then, for years, the cheap rod and reel combination cluttered my storage room. Wise men learn from their mistakes!
“Sweetums, I’m glad you accepted my invitation to go fishing. Look, I spared no expense because I love you so much. I bought the best rod and the most expensive reel I could find just for you on your birthday. Heck, I even threw in some hot new killer lures! Isn’t this better than the matching mop and broom set I bought last year for your birthday?”
“Thank you, Dearest,” she hissed. “You don’t know how deeply I feel about your (inaudible mumbling) and that mop set! I don’t know how to use that kind of reel. It looks pretty sophisticated.”
“No problem. You can use that old cheap, Er, I mean, that classic rod and reel combo I’ve kept just for you in the garage all these years until you learn how to use this one. The best way to teach you is to personally demonstrate it for you. When we go fishing, you just watch me cast it for a day or perhaps several days, maybe a few weeks or months, perhaps a couple years. Then, you’ll learn. When you’re ready to try it, just let me know and I’ll get myself another one just like it.”
“Well, if we MUST go fishing, let’s at least get some supplies.”
“OK, Sweetums, here’s a $20 bill. Let’s go get some drinks and food.”
“You keep your $20 — for now. I’ll get it from your wallet after you go to sleep. I’ve got the checkbook and plastic. Let’s SHOP!”
She handcuffed me and dragged me into that no man’s land — the MAUL. About four hours and $350 later, she granted me parole.
“Honey, how do you like my new fishing outfit? I had to get a new one because you bled all over the last one when one of our boys stuck his hook in your neck. Remember? This time, try to bleed only over the water.”
“OK, I understand the new outfit, but why the purse, the shoes, the makeup and the accessories?”
“Because I need them and that’s final! Now, I’m hungry from all this shopping and too tired to cook. Let’s go out to eat tonight.”
After spending $50 on food, we stopped by the grocery store for fishing supplies. Usually, my fishing supplies consist of a bottle of water and maybe a package of crackers or beef jerky bought at the gas station on the way to the boat launch. Women don’t understand that. About $300 later, we walked out of the store with enough food, drinks and medical supplies to invade Cambodia.
“Sweetums, you know I only have a 16-foot boat, don’t you? I may need to rent a barge to tow all this food and junk. What’s all this skin care stuff and other things?”
“Just some necessities. I bought tanning lotion to get a good tan and sunscreen to avoid getting burned. I also bought flower-scented bug spray, rose petal air freshener to spray over the bait, some disinfectant for the boat seat, some paper towels to match my outfit, some cloth towels to wipe my face, one for my hands and one to sit on and a few other things. You should try sunscreen with the way you burn after each trip.”
“Only sissies wear sunscreen. I’m a real man!”
“Oh, yeah, you look so macho when you lie on the sofa for three days whining for me to bring you something to drink and to rub medicine on your back because you are so sunburned.”
“Ha! That’s how much you know. Getting sunburned is just part of the tradition of fishing, almost as much as getting rained on or extracting hooks from vital sections of the anatomy.”
“Oh, I see,” she responded. “Well, if that’s the case, you must be as big an expert on fishing as you claim.”
“Darn right! Besides, getting sunburned lets me get out of cutting the grass, another fine family tradition and I rather like staying on the sofa while you bring me stuff. Anyway, let’s get some sleep. We’ll get up before sunrise tomorrow morning.”
At the appropriate hour, the clock alarm sounded and I jumped out of bed. Within 15 minutes, I dressed, drank a cup of coffee, hooked up the boat and loaded it with rods, tackle, ice chests and other supplies. Then, the waiting began.
“Let’s go, Sweetums. The sun is coming up. Fish won’t wait for us.”
“I’m coming. First, I have to take my shower, shave my legs and put on my makeup. I’ll be ready in just a few minutes.”
“OK, I’ll just sit here and read the newspaper while you get ready.” Hours dragged on. After reading the paper, I caught up on about six months’ worth of magazine reading and drank a pot of coffee. The sun grew steadily hotter. Finally, she emerged from her natural habitat, the bathroom.
“Sweetums, you look great. Now, can we finally go fishing?”
“It’s too late now. You fell asleep on your recliner with all those magazines covering your face. You looked so tired that I let you sleep. I didn’t want to waste all that effort getting ready, so I took that last $20 out of your wallet to go to lunch with my girlfriends.
I gave some of the food and drinks you bought for our fishing trip to one of their husbands because he came home from fishing with some guy named Buttface and looked thirsty. Fishing is such fun. Let’s do this again soon!”
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Biographical Sketch:
A native of Louisiana, John N. Felsher is a professional freelance writer and photographer with more than 1,450 articles in more than 105 magazines to his credit. He’s also the National Fishing Writer for Examiner.com (www.examiner.com/x-16491-Fishing-Examiner)
John hosts a weekly Outdoors radio show on WNSP in Mobile, Alabama. Go to the podcast archives at www.wnsp.com to listen. Contact him through his website at www.JohnNFelsher.com
