The cold is nothing to laugh about
As I sit here looking out the window at the thermometer hanging on my shed, it says its 34º. Maybe for you folks that hail from up north 34º is nothing but for a skinny little guy like me that is cold, really cold. O.K. so I am a ninny-baby. I’ll accept that title with pride but in my defense, it’s hard to come up with fishing stories when the water temperature is 50º. Other than sheepshead, sleepy redfish and a few lethargic trout, there really isn’t a lot going on.
Every afternoon I walk my beagle Butterbean down to river and yesterday was no exception. I was layered up something fierce and it wasn’t until I reached the river that I stopped, listened and realized that once again I was falling deeper into my annual winter slump. It was the listening part that did it. It was quiet, too quiet. No boat engines on the river, no splashes of fish jumping or porpoises rounding up schools of bait. Nothing was moving. Not squirrels, birds…nothing.
If that wasn’t enough, after putting the Bean back in the house, I ran to the grocery store and walked by an old acquaintance of mine and she didn’t even recognize me. I’m not talking someone I kind of knew, but someone I did business with for years and years. I try not to think about getting old because deep down I have the mentality of an 18-year-old (or so I have been told many, many times) but age definitely changes one’s appearance. Yeah, I lost most of my hair back in my early thirties but the older I get, the more my appearance changes and not necessarily for the better. This revelation took me further toward the rabbit hole that winter always dangles me over.
So, with that said, I thought that this time around it might make me feel better if I thought back to a few memorable instances that occurred during my younger years. Just thinking about some of them had me chuckling and maybe even a smile or two on this old, weathered face. I hope I am not bringing you down with my dread of winter so I am going to try to lighten things up with a game of sorts called “what if I told you…”
What if I told you that my first real experience with alcohol happened when I was 15. Without naming names (except maybe that one person was related to Charles Fraser), three of us teens were walking by the back door to the kitchen at the original Plantation Club in Sea Pines and there sitting in plain sight, was a case of Colt 45 malt liquor. Nobody was around; we were young and curious so guess what we did? Most of the roads were dirt back then and fearful of getting caught, we buried the loot way back in the woods in burlap bags. A month or two later, my folks went out of town and had me stay at one of my fellow criminal’s house.
The time had come. Knowing where a spare key to my house was hidden, we contacted a handful of friends and it was time to sample a taste of life. I don’t remember much but I do remember that I woke up in my shower with cold water running on me and the only person around was a kid with his head in the toilet to my left. I was there for a long time, forgotten and freezing to death. The next thing I remember is people carrying me by my hands and feet and dropping my head on the beautiful Savannah red brick floor my parents had put downstairs.
My next image was a heavy hand waking me saying “Get up! It’s time to go fishing!” Not sure where I was, it dawned on me I was at my friend’s house and that was his father ranting in my ear. OMG, I felt absolutely horrible but I couldn’t chance getting us all caught so on the boat I went. The ocean was like glass, not a ripple as we trolled for Spanish mackerel. It didn’t take long before I got violently ill over the side and my “friend” was saying one thing over and over again…” Big fisherman YOU ARE!” To make matters worse, after we finished fishing I went to check out my house and waiting for me was our maid Geneva. Is it possible for a black woman to turn red from anger? Without a doubt I can say yes to this question. Not only was the house trashed but also someone had put an entire box of laundry soap in the washer and bubbles covered the entire bottom floor of the house. To this day I cannot smell malt liquor without a gag reflex taking over. The only bright spot was that sweet Geneva never told my parents. I don’t know about you but I feel better about winter now. Maybe next week I’ll tell you about driving the length of Hilton Head without headlights. Just maybe…
Collins Doughtie is a 60-year resident of the Lowcountry, is a sportsman, graphic artist, and lover of nature. collinsdoughtie@icloud.com
