I forced myself to turn off the US men's soccer elimination match against Iran today because I needed a nap after fishing with Bruce earlier today.
Musky fishing is a lot like soccer. One score or one fish can be a really big deal. The US men's team accomplished their goal today. Bruce and I did not.
With the clear water I was pretty confident going into tonight's trip. Bruce is on a two-year cold streak and was certain we'd get skunked. So much so that he bet me a Big Dirty (a large Bocce double cheese, double pepperoni, extra sauce, well done pizza) we wouldn't catch a musky. He might have problems hooking up with fish lately, but I now owe him a pizza. I wonder what outcome he would choose if we agreed to that bet every time we went musky fishing. Musky or pizza? With our recent curse I'd be broke and my heart would go on strike after a month or so. A Big Dirty runs about $35, $40 with tip, and is just about the most delicious, awful-for-you food you can ingest.
We re-started at 5:30. We trolled in front of Strawberry, the corner and Frenchman's over and over. About 8:30 I thought my fish finder broke; blank screens everywhere. It was depressing. We called it at 9:30.
There were a few highlights from our evening, however.
Bruce used a blow torch to melt chocolate chips he removed from some impromptu trail mix on to a few shortbread cookies. Despite the strong butane aftertaste, they weren't bad.
I am a dork's dork. Besides baseball and fishing, one of my true fascinations is Mankind's exploration of space. Can you name the original seven Mercury astronauts? I can. Ask me to name them at a meeting sometime. (My brain is full of nearly useless information.) One of my little dorky quirks is to play a song from the First Man soundtrack where Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin undock the Apollo Lunar Module Eagle from Apollo Command Module Columbia and descend to the lunar surface when we pull our lines in the canal and dock the Lund. I told you! DORK'S, DORK! Tonight Bruce connected to my Bluetooth speaker and changed my selection to a song he thought more appropriate and surmising of our musky trips, Send in the Clowns. Here I am messing around with my phone trying to figure out why Judy Collins is singing about clowns and there's Bruce behind me giggling his head off.
There are few poignant lyrics from the Stephan Sondheim classic that certainly apply to Bruce and I and us musky fishing together
Sorry, my dear!
But where are the clowns
Send in the clowns
Don't bother, they're here
Isn't it rich?
Isn't it queer?
Losing my timing this late in my career
But where are the clowns?
There ought to be clowns
Well, maybe next year
Send in the Clowns was the perfect choice, by the way. As the boat came to rest in the slip, Ms Collins closed the song, our trip, but hopefully not our season with, "well, maybe next year." I had to force myself to stop laughing so I didn't pass out or hack up a lung. Enjoy your pizza, you jerk. I can't get the damn song out of my head now.