The Outsider: Showering with the barber
|By Will Jones - The Outsider | June 22, 2017|
I guess I should mention that the skies were already darkening as we pulled away from the boat launch.
And, I suppose I’ll have to admit that this was the morning after the night before when we’d sat stunned as we read an alert about a tornado warning for Haliburton County, broadcast on the TV.
But it’s fishing, you see. And fishing with the barber on our spring fishing weekend at the camp.
And so, come hell or high water, both of which we were summarily served, we’d be going fishing on one of the big lakes.
All seemed good, even as we rounded the point into the main lake and the wind seemed to pick up to greet us. The waves lapped and slapped at the sides of the boat as we bobbed along making ready with our equipment.
Now, me being a fly fisherman, I can carry everything that I need tucked into the pockets of a fishing vest. The barber, however, trolls for lake trout and it’s a whole different ball game, if such a poorly fitting analogy can be used when talking about fishing. Perhaps it should be a ‘whole different set of sinkers’? Hmm, but I digress.
There we were, putting out down-riggers, lowering cannonballs, threading minnows onto treble hooks, selecting spoons, discussing depths ... all kinds of important stuff, as the waves lapped a little higher at our merrily bobbing boat.
Two miles per hour – the speed at which you go when trolling for lakers – is awful slow on any day but when the weather is closing in fast it seems mind numbing. And so, as the first drops of rain began to fall, it was a blessed relief as a rod popped up and the shout of “Fish On!” rang out. A trout in the boat, all was good.
And then the black skies opened. You know those fancy high pressure, ‘rainfall’ shower heads that you see in
magazines? It was as if God had taken delivery of one and he’d decided to test it. On us. He warned us mind you, with a loud clap of thunder, a mere second before the deluge.
The boat began to fill with water a minute or two after the rain started, which would have been somewhat disconcerting had we not already been soaked to the skin. And, contrary to Tyler’s upbeat assurance that the storm would pass us by quickly, as I looked down the lake there were no immediate signs of God’s new power shower being turned off soon.
The rain lashed the surface of the lake, turning it to foam. The barber took on the form of a grinning drowned rat, his hair plastered to his head, his leathery brown skin glistening from its soaking.
“The umbrella’s not cutting it, is it,” he said with a laugh, looking up at the sorry, drenched sun parasol that we’d erected over the helm. Tyler tried to interject with yet more positive ‘the rain can’t last’ baloney but he was drowned out by another clap of thunder and God turning his shower onto ‘body massage’ mode.
We caught no more fish.
We were actually wetter than the ones that we left in the lake as we motored for home. But the smiles couldn’t have been bigger as we rolled back into camp. Especially that of Ron, Tyler’s grampa, who’d opted to stay indoors because, in his words, “we may get a little rain.”
WILL JONES - is The Outsider