Fishing Sickness

Fishin’ Sickness
Chuck Martin

T. K., a big, ruddy faced Irishman, was a friend of mine. He was one of those guys who walks to the beat of a different drummer. He was a nice guy, but give him a couple beers and his personality changed. On a week end he was usually lit up like a honky-tonk on a Saturday night.

One day T.K. asked if I wanted to go deep sea fishing. He said to meet him by the pier at four Saturday morning. The boat would leave at four-thirty.

I had never been out on the ocean. “What should I bring?”

“Forty bucks. They rent poles and bate on the boat.”

< align="left"At four o’clock I arrived and T.K. was waiting. He held an extra large ice chest containing a couple six-packs of Budweiser, a large bag of peanuts, and a couple sandwiches. “Let’s have a beer.” T. K. popped one and handed it to me. I’m not much of a drinker, three beers and I want to lay down and go to sleep, so I sipped it. He handed me a sandwich, “We otta’ eat before we go.” I found it contained wilted lettuce, and a large slice of, ugly looking, Spam. I swallow it down with the help of my beer. He guzzle three beers, handed me some peanuts, and gave this advise. “When we get out there keep munchin’ on these peanuts. Keep yer eyes moving, an’ don’t look at any one object.”

< align="left">With other fisherman we climbed aboard our boat. As we left the jetty waves became large and turbulent, and the boat climbed up one, then plunged down, then up again. I felt queasy, ate peanuts , and kept my eyes moving. I was in the bow and the ocean spray hitting my face made me feel better. We were a mile out when we dropped in our lines.

I tried to concentrate on fishing, but the boats constant bobbing brought the nausea back. I looked at T.K. and he had finished another beer, crushed the can, and tossed it behind him. The bathroom was down by the engine room and I staggered inside. The strong smell of desial fuel made me feel a whole bunch sicker. It felt like every flu bug I’d ever had come back to haunt me. I headed outside to get fresh air.

Unknown to me T.K. was now so drunk he couldn’t hit the deck with his hat in three tries. T. K. staggered over to a man who had caught a lot of fish.

“I shappose you think yer a fisherman,” T. K. said.

“I do all right,” the man answered.

“Well, les see ya do this,” T.K. grabbed a anchovy from the man’s bait bucket, and bite the head off.

At that moment I was coming out of the engine room. I saw T.K bite the fish and ran for the rail. For the next three hours I chummed for the entire fishing party. I wished for two things, to be on dry land, and, to die. But, I had learned a valuable lesson, keep your eyes moving, don‘t look at one thing.