Fishing gone wrong

It seemed like a great idea at the time - much like 90% of my ideas that slide into the absurd half way through their execution.

“I haven’t been fishing in years,” said my friend Jerry. “I love to fish, but there isn’t anyone around here who likes it.”

“Hey, we can go!" I told him enthusiastically. "Can’t you charter boats on the Great Lakes?”

Jerry looked at me as if I had once again grown a second head topped by a bazooka covered with pink feathers and a winking eye.

“Hmm…well….,” he mumbled.

“Of course we can!" I said. "I’ll find one, and get it reserved for next week.”

Isn’t the internet the most marvelous thing? I went home, got online and quickly found what I wanted: Boats by Boris. The location was on Lake Huron. I emailed Boris and pretty soon received a reply. It was the end of the season, and he had planned to stop his charters that week, but he could, for a price, do one last trip for me.

I gave him a credit card number, confirmed the location and time to meet him, and grabbed a suitcase.

The fact that I know absolutely nothing about fishing did not slow me down at all.

I called Jerry.

“Pack your duffel bag," I said. "We have a boat for Tuesday!”

My excitement was met with heavy breathing and silence.

“Jerry? Are you there?”

“Yes," he finally replied. "Are you sure you want to do this? Once we are out on the lake, we stay there. You can’t decide to come back after 15 minutes when we are out there.”

“Of course I want to do this," I told him. "It will be so much fun!”

I was giddy.

On Monday we were driving along Lake Huron, its water reflecting the sky in a brilliant display of blue hues normally only seen in the waters of the Caribbean. It was warm, sunny, and the lake was silky smooth — barely a ripple.

Early the next morning, we bundled ourselves up and headed for the dock to find Boris.

He was waiting for us with his… boat.

What did I expect for my $375.00? The Queen Elizabeth II? A battle ship? A 50-foot yacht?

If you placed three bathtubs end-to-end, that might have equaled the length of Boris’ boat. It had a hump in the middle with a tiny opening about 24 inches square.

And the glorious lake we had driven beside the day before had spun some 180 degrees around into a sullen gray mass with white caps.

Boris handled 14 lines, checking them constantly to see if there were any victims.

Rain started pelting us, and the wind quickly rose. The toy boat we were clinging to started rocking, and I realized I needed to use something probably not found five miles out on Lake Huron.

Boris muttered and pointed me to that opening in the hump. Was he was speaking in tongues? Surely, there was no way I could slide into that darkness, find what I needed, and emerge alive.

But I slithered into the opening, and was quickly enveloped by the inky darkness most commonly found in a Stephen King novel. I was totally convinced that, at any moment, something would grab my ankles and jerk me into a massive web. 

The ceiling was about four feet from the floor. I bent to drop trow, and seat myself as the boat merrily tossed me about. Rising, I found I could not pull up my clothing unless I sat back down, tried to reach them, stand, jerk them up, and not fracture my skull on the ceiling.

I could not catch Jerry’s attention for help, but Boris turned and saw this woman bent over clutching all her clothing to her and babbling. Not only could I not pull up my pants, I could not get out of that hell hole.

Try not to imagine this: a 24-inch opening giving birth to a woman wearing a puffy jacket some 70 inches in diameter, emerging head first on her knees with nothing on her from the waist down to her knees—her jeans caught on a nail in that opening.

Boris stared out to the sea, muttering Eastern Orthodox prayers and dislocated his shoulder to reach back and jerk me out of the Cave of the Giant Spiders. I ripped my jeans and pulled them up crawling back to my seat.

That day, we caught each of the five fish that swim in Lake Huron.

And Jerry caught a bad cold.

Susan Keezer lives in Adrian. Send your good news to her at Lenaweesmiles@gmail.com.

This article originally appeared on The Monroe News: Fishing gone wrong