Deep Thoughts #2 - An Ode to my Fisherman’s Metabolism

Something for the half-bath.

Not to get gross, but I was inspired this evening to sing the praises of my fisherman-friendly metabolism.  When I exited from the half bath (fittingly enough a room we call the fisherman’s bathroom, mostly because of the décor) post-dinner this evening I was ribbed by my wife and son for my regularity.  For a fisherman, however, this is an ability I hold most dear.  Honestly, I can get up at 2 AM (or 7 or 5 or midnight) to drive to the beach (or stream or river or lake), perhaps drink a glass of water while making coffee, sit in the powder room, drink the coffee, load up the car, sit in the powder room, and go fishing.  When I am up, I am up, and in most cases I can even forego the coffee if necessary.  No stops on the ride to my destination required.  No squatting in the sand dunes or hunting dark streets for a contractor’s near-pristine Johnny on the Spot (aka  Baño Portátil).  I am blessed with a fisherman’s digestive system, and I want to celebrate that for a moment.

On the spot and on the job, day or night.

Not all anglers are so lucky.  I have waited for my father in the dark while he availed himself of the Mr. Bob (who, luckily, was on the job at 4 AM) on the front lawn of a beach-block home under renovation.  As my dad and I stand waiting, outboard idling, dock lines in hand, the question posed to Kenny every morning for a week in Canada during our yearly trips is, “Well?” to which the answer is not always a thumbs up, if you catch my drift.  Speaking of drifts, I have watched Ward’s brother talk his body into not having to go while 5 miles at sea with nothing but a bucket and the warm ocean between him and relief.  “Not Now!!”  he commands his own body as he paces the deck of the 28 foot center console, chain smoking.  Still on the subject of drifting, one of my housemates on LBI used to relish his bucket-sit at sea.  But the thing is that the boat and the dumped contents of said bucket often sailed at nearly the same speed for a time.  Not a pretty sight afterwards—and before is not much better.  Who wants to see a grown man sitting on a 5 gallon bucket with a roll of TP in his hand waving to other boats full of inshore fluke fishermen?  Franks and beans, Ted, franks and beans.  In addition to knowing every facility between Lawrenceville and, say, the Pequest, my boy Dolf was a dune sitter, often with Wawa napkins or what was presumed to be a bait rag until otherwise enlisted.  He seemed to delight in his al fresco excursions with no concerns for biting insects or amorous foxes or nesting plovers (nor the ensuing fines for violating their sanctuary in such a manner).  I often assisted by landing the bass that hit his bait while he was indisposed (or let the Baitrunner sing, all the while telling him he had a fish on and to hurry up!).

I'm like a bird....

I am not particularly religious, but I am grateful to whomever gave me this expeditious gift.  My wife says I am like a bird (I poop right away): Soon as I put my fork down, then it’s time for a sit down.  The lyrics fit quite nicely with the 20-aught’s hit “I’m Like a Bird” by then-young Nelly Furtado, and my wife is quite fond of singing this tune to me.  Despite my father’s documented trials in this arena, perhaps the gift is hereditary, as I do have two parents.  I will never know, however, for this is not a subject one should discuss with one’s mom and, hereto, I have not.  Wherever this gift came from, whether nature or nuture, I may never know, but I am thankful that this morning ritual, nay, necessity is not a source of stress or discomfort or impromptu exits en route to my fishing destinations.  For those who share my gift, Cheers!  For those who do not, don’t hate me because I am hyper-regular.  Tight lines and, well, never mind…

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