My son, Chilly and I were camping in northern Ontario a few years back. It was early July, we were fishing in current below a waterfall and we were catching LOTS of walleyes. Big walleyes, one 24” fish after another with an occasional 26, 27 or 28 inch fish. On this day we probably caught 60 walleyes between us. Anyway, in the middle of all this excitement, I suddenly needed to take a break from fishing and head into the woods, (if you know what I mean). The only problem was that I didn’t want to stop fishing.
“Fawkinnae! I’m going to have to get into shore,” I yelled. “Chilly, see if there’s any toilet paper in the front of the boat will you?” “Oh dad, do you have to take a crap again?” Chilly said with a smirk.
I knew I needed to stop fishing and take care of business, but I couldn’t quite get myself to reel up that jig. Sure enough, BAM! A good fish smacked my leech. I could tell right away this was a better fish. I couldn’t move him. “Fawkinnae, I love fishing,” I said, to no one in particular. Just then, I was again reminded that I desperately needed to get to the shore. “Fawkinnae!”
I was up on my feet now, trying to concentrate on two things at once. I was shuffling along, unable to pick up my feet, following this beast of a fish around the boat. With my legs slightly bent and my eyes half-closed, I’m squeezing my ass together as hard as I can, praying that this fish will start to move. The big fish seemed to be weakening until it took off toward the front of the boat like a golden rocket. I took two pathetic shuffling steps forward and tripped on the landing net lying on the floor of the boat. Clunk! I dropped to my knees and tipped over on my side, knees still bent. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Chilly convulsing with laughter. This is bad. I know there’s going to be a stain.
“Chilly, I’m in trouble here, grab my rod and help me up. I need you to start the big motor and run the boat. As soon as I get this son-of-a-bitch in you’ve got to get me to shore.” Somehow I got back on my feet. It’s a miracle, but I could finally feel the big fish starting to let go of the bottom. I got him up to the surface and it’s a beauty, nine plus I figure. Chilly nets him between stomach numbing spasms of laughter. “Set him down and get me to shore as fast as you can!”
I was standing in the front of the boat, unfortunately not paying attention to anything except my pending relief. Five feet from shore Chilly hit a rock the size of a Volkswagan that I should have been watching for. I did a complete flip out of the front of the boat and landed flat on my back in about 15” of water. I stood up, shuffled up the rocks on the shore line and dashed (sort of) about 10’ into the woods, and pulled down my pants. Oh it’s bad - Fawkinnae...
“Chilly give me the fillet knife.” I cut off my underwear and hung them on a small tree next to me. It reminds me of a white surrender flag. Let’s see, did I win the battle or lose the battle? “Fawkinnae Chilly, let’s take another look at that fish before we let it go.”
Hey, I’ve got a great product idea for you—The Fawkinnae Sportsman’s Diaper. “When that 9 pound walleye just can’t wait.”
P.S. The names have been changed to protect the son of the damaged fisherman.