Milt and I push his small rowboat into the lake’s calm waters on a sunny, early morning. Fishin’ is absolutely on our minds.
Milt’s boat has stood the test of time, and she definitely looks it. There are patches here and there, scrapped and worn paint, and even some mismatched planking on the floor.
Rowing the boat far from shore, we arrive at the very best place to fish the lake. The deep water covers the territory with the biggest fish around.
We both become quite involved with our fishin’ as we cast again and again, hoping to catch the big one. We fail to notice the threatening skies above. A mother-of-all thunderstorms appear heading for the lake, and we sit directly in the crosshairs of its vicious aim.
Before we can even think about rowing back to the safety of the shore, Milt and I feel the tiny craft being engulfed by the torrents of rain and the white caps of the charging waves.
Our clothes and fishin’ tackle become soaking wet in a few short minutes, and then the boat begins to list to the starboard side. She’s taking on water much too quickly.
Looking more anxious by the second, Milt shouts out, “Start bailin’ now!”
Watching my tackle box floating away, I yell back, “With what?”