The Misadventures of a 10-Foot Fishing Boat

Before we even hit the water, my son insisted on getting ‘psyched up’ by engaging in a friendly BB gun competition because, apparently, the key to catching a state record bass is perfecting your aim on soda cans first.

It had been 3, maybe 4years since I last took our trusty 10-foot plastic fishing boat out on the water.

It had been sitting there like an abandoned relic, accumulating dust and possibly harboring a few spiders with grand ambitions.

Step one: revival mode. A new lithium battery, a seat repair (after its tragic airborne escape and subsequent run-in with a car on the interstate), and a pressure wash that turned into an unintentional family water fight, good thing it was a hot day.

With the trolling motor miraculously still functioning, we set off for Cedar Creek Lake, or rather, an alternative section of it, because my son proved less than helpful in lifting the boat over a guardrail.

No worries, new fishing grounds meant new opportunities or so I hoped.

Within minutes, lake weeds had claimed the boat like some horror movie scene, wrapping around the motor and ensuring we stayed put whether we wanted to or not.

Just as I was considering cutting our losses, the sky declared war on us, unleashing a 20-minute monsoon.

My son, understandably not thrilled, went into full panic mode, convinced we were moments away from meeting Davy Jones himself.

By the time we hauled ourselves back to the truck, the rain promptly stopped, as if it were just messing with us.

Then, redemption! A bobcat trotted across the road carrying a rabbit, which was, frankly, the coolest thing I’d seen all day.

Spirits restored, we got back in the boat, armed with a dark worm on a Carolina rig (because apparently, that was the "hot bait" of the moment).

My son, however, treated our outing like a live demonstration of every fishing technique he’d ever seen on YouTube, swapping baits every five casts.

Finally, a win, a 4-lb bass took the bait, a triumphant moment amid the chaos.

Holding the boat steady in high winds was a battle, but it was worth it.

Plans were already forming in my head: a fishing platform on the front of the boat, an adjustable seat, and most importantly, moving the trolling motor back to the front where it belonged.

Despite the disasters, soaked clothes, weed traps, and mild childhood trauma, the trip was perfect in its own ridiculous way.

Next time, I hope my son hooks a heavy fish and catches the bug, preferably without switching baits every 30 seconds.