Originally appeared in Florida Sportsman
Ever wonder why so many boats live in yards on trailers? Probably it’s because the buying part of the owner’s brain--responsible for imagining joy and the new boat zipping along on that first day--lost out to the witness section of his brain that watched his wife fall hard on her tailbone on the slimy boat ramp. The witness part of his brain also made a permanent recording of the savage summer rain storm with huge seas and zero visibility…his panicked children…running aground on the way back to the ramp…paying the tow boat…and so on.
As a new boat owner, the joy part of the owner's brain, with all its early promise, had considered free Coast Guard Auxiliary safe operation and coastal navigation classes, but the fun-loving, macho part of his brain said, “Hell no, not me.” Now the owner's wife won’t even push the lawn mower near the boat, and the kids always have other things to do.
Truth is, my brain also has a vicarious section that loves to plan fishing trips. I do my research months ahead, when it’s cold and windy outside. Unfortunately, my vicarious brain part doesn’t do details very well.
Case in point: I recently arrived with pals at an Abaco Island bonefish lodge to discover that the “native Bahama guides” was really just one guide, an enormous young man from the bright lights of Nassau who didn’t know a bonefish from a sand perch. The ancient 20-ft. skiff could get us to a flat to wade, but poling was impossible. Fishing “muds” was the guide’s idea of bone fishing, which he did with hand lines. It’s the least sporting way to catch a bonefish. We were waaay too snooty for that. We waded and didn’t catch many fish, but they were small.
The lodge’s dining room with spectacular water views was closed right after dinner, so we returned to our rooms to drink and tell lies. Why was the dining room closed? That night I awoke to a scurrying sound, flipped on the light and saw at the foot of my bed hundreds of cockroaches covering a box of mangoes I’d brought. The next morning I couldn’t look at the breakfast buffet. I suspect the roaches live in the refrigerator to keep cool.
My vicarious brain section was so eager to go bone fishing I’d bought every lie in the outfitter’s ad in the fly-fishing magazine. Should I have insisted on references, on talking to recent visitors to the lodge? Common sense went fishing.
Trust me here. Your brain is waiting to surprise you. As it gets older, more wrinkled, the brain section that learned outdoors skills begins to weaken. The brain part that selects a long-established fishing knot will come up with a way to tie it more efficiently. All parts of your brain are on the slide when this happens, so be forewarned. The same brain part is responsible for not leaving enough of the leader’s tag end to tie a knot properly, and makes you ignore every illustration, even YouTube videos. Your cheapo brain segment produces this subtle change.
Your goin’ fishing brain part is responsible for not putting the plug in the boat and leaving your new rain jacket at home. It easily overcomes the brain part regulating caution. I’m not sure what brain section is responsible when your new super beer cooler (more expensive than your laptop and lawn mower combined), placed in the boat ever-so carefully, bounces out on I-95 in Miami’s morning rush hour. Who’s responsible for that!? Blame it on the "poop happens" part of the brain.
Fortunately, the imaginary memory part of my brain stores the catches of three permit on one day on fly in Key West—those long, perfect casts. Bonefish are in a different brain fold, but easily accessible, in there with giant Rainbow Trout and salmon on my hand-tied flies. Argentine sea-run rainbows? I can see ‘em from my armchair. Makes me want to go out in the yard and check on the boat. My memory is a wild thing. Isn’t yours?