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Bundled up for a delightful Memorial Day excursion on the lake.
(photo taken by Sydney Mosiman who was greatly annoyed
that her picture didn't make the cut) |
"My goal this year," Sam Ratigan vowed on our four hour annual drive to Black Lake, "is to not do anything to make Mr. Mo yell at me." Past years have thus far been unsuccessful. He yelled at her when she dropped a big bass on the bottom of the boat. He yelled at her when she demanded he rotate our anchored boat 180 degrees so that she could fish from the "successful" side, and he yelled at her when she announced she was bored in the middle of our Memorial Day vacation. I, as usual, held my tongue, despite her constant criticisms of my driving. "Why don't you pass?" "Someone's passing you on the right." "You're making me nervous."
Why do I continue to take this person with us to Black Lake, I wondered, holding the steering wheel in a death grip.
Our holiday week-end weather resembled Christmas more than Memorial Day. I took my shorts out of my suitcase and replaced it with a winter coat. Packing is definitely NOT an area of strength for the Mosiman women. This was reiterated when it was discovered that, aside from Brad, no one in our cabin had packed a bathing towel. Brad did not seem thrilled to share his towel with the five of us. Brad, Sydney and her friend, Sam H were huddled in the cabin after a frigid morning battling forty degree temperatures on the water when we finally arrived. After lunch, Brad took Savannah, Sam Ratigan, Chloe and I out, assuring us that it was much warmer than earlier. We dressed in layers of sweatshirts, wool socks, rubber boots, rain suits, hats, and mittens and mummy-walked our way to the boat.
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| Chlo: The Co-Captain |
Chlo's mari-time name is "The Co-Captain" and she takes her duties very seriously; inspecting the boat, monitoring bobber action, and approving catch size and quality. Brad continued to encourage us by explaining how much colder it was that morning while the drizzling rain, four-foot swells, and dropping temperatures caused us to doubt his depiction of earlier events. Although I could hardly hear him through my chattering teeth (which Sam Ratigan tried to turn permanently blue with trick candy...WHY do I bring her again?), I listened in disbelief as my husband insisted that the temperature was around 60 degrees. There's a whopper if ever I've heard one, I thought, as I pried my frozen fist from my fishing pole.
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Sam, currently in first-place with the biggest fish contest.
"Oh, that's embarrassing," moaned Brad, "that that tiny fish is in first place." |
Brad relocated us to a little cove, buffeted from the wind. "If you can't catch a fish here, it's because you're incompetent." I watched Sam dancing around and asked, "Did you mean incontinent?" By this time, I'd assumed the fetal position beneath the blanket and just prayed that I'd eventually make it back to shore. As the girls began to regularly pull in Sunnies, I heard Brad set the necessary limit to ensure a bountiful dinner for us later. This was a goal I could work with so I shed my warm cocoon and began fishing with determination. 11 to go. 9 to go. 7 to go. 5 to go. We finally had our catch and I hurriedly began packing us up. Brad bounced our boat across Black Lake, great geysers of freezing water spilling over us. With relief, we reached the dock and grabbed up our gear when Brad made a startling discovery. Our catch basket, containing twenty fish destined to become our dinner, had not been hauled into the boat as it made its perilous journey across the lake. The tied off rope, a tenuous tether, grew tight and taut, until, like Mr. Mosiman's temper, finally snapped. Brad held the frayed line up and we collectively held our breath, ready for the real storm to rage. But what we didn't realize was while Sam was busy making her vow to avoid triggering Brad's temper, Brad was making a vow of his own. Whatever turmoil may have been boiling inside, Brad's demeanor was calm and easy-going. A new fishing basket was quickly purchased and tomorrow morning, we'll work to replace the twenty that "got away." It takes some patience to catch a bunch of fish. It takes a ton of patience not to react when you lose a bunch of fish. "There was actually twenty-two fish in the basket," Sam Ratigan corrected as she listened to the story. Why do I bring her to Black Lake again?
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| Enjoying the balmy "60 degree" temperatures. |
