Salesman of the Year

I’m not sure what it is about anglers rooted in bass fishing that requires us to have more rods and reels than anyone could use in a given day. That said, I motioned to the egregious display I’d placed aboard and shouted over the noise of the outboard motor, “Which do you prefer?” When Woody pointed to a baitcaster, I knew it would be a good day.

Why did such a thing fire my positivity receptors? Because anyone comfortable enough to choose baitcasting over spinning tackle is a practiced caster. Enough said. If fishing tackle were golf clubs, baitcasters were the long irons, hardest to hit, but with practice, and some natural ability, deadly accurate.

Nici grabbed a cold Michelob Ultra from the ice chest, popped the top, blew the foam off with one big, pppfff, then took a swig. “This is the fourth year in a row he’s been nominated for Salesman of the Year,” she said in the sweetest southern drawl you’ve ever heard. She wore a baseball cap on top of hair so dark it was almost black, had the face of an angel, and hazel eyes that said, “I’m Nici, and you want to know me.”

“So, you’re like the Susan Lucci of the Auto Parts Industry?” I asked Woody, Nici’s husband.

“Susan Coochie?” asked Woody, in the deepest southern drawl you’ve ever heard, as he fired a cast that skipped once, twice, then fell into the little pocket between two mangrove branches. I didn’t have to explain because the water blew up with a loud gulppop! A flash of silver cut a swath through the tannic water. The fish jumped and skipped along the surface on its tail before making a run back to its tangled lair. 

“Nice snook!” I said. With a tight line, Woody pulled to the side, holding the rod against his body, and turned the fish. “That’s why I like bringing good old boys from back home fishing!” I said, moving nimbly around the boat, getting ready to land the fish. By “back home,” I mean Louisiana and Mississippi. “That’s how it’s done! This is your year, Woody!” He fought the fish a little longer and brought it in so I could clamp the Boga-Grip (fish grappler) around its lip. I missed, and the fish got off, thus ruining a photo op. 

We trolled down the bank against the current, making strategic casts around points, pockets, and little inlets. We talked and laughed, caught fish, got broken off, and I nearly fell in if not for my legendary reflexes.

Woody landed several smaller snook, and I caught a bruiser similar to his I let get away. He fought fiercely with honor, as snook always do, sending me around the boat to the bow, where I had to shove the rod halfway underwater to avoid getting caught in the trolling motor. 

This is a call for everyone to put their devices down, get outside, and do something cool with people. The world will be a better place, I promise. The wilderness is my sanctuary, and mother nature is my higher power. Zinging drags, the slap of high-fives and braided line whistling back through guides are gospel to my ears. Out here, differences are put aside amidst ebb and neap tides where bonds are formed, respect is earned, and relationships are built among the most unlikely of characters. Where else would one end up taking their ex-girlfriend’s husband fishing, along with said girlfriend? That’s right, Nici was my high school sweetheart.

The sun was low over Marco Island, and through the rain clouds on the horizon, the sky looked bruised. Quickly I pulled the trolling motor out of the water, folded it down, and wiggled my way to the engine to get to the Snook Inn before the deluge. Nici wanted to get her dad a t-shirt, hopefully similar to the one she brought him back in 1991 when she and I came down to the Island for vacation.

Woody won the Salesman of the Year award, by the way.