I'd be remiss if I didn't document the rest of that fantastic day.
This occurred in the afternoon after the Border Bass thing and before the Lady Urine Bullfrog of Hayes Point thing.
Headed back south from the border inlet, I felt certain stirrings in various organs. It was about lunchtime, plus we're on a mission to have me experience ten things in each US state and Canadian province/territory that fun-loving rock n' roll degenerates like me seem to dig. Time to bag the great state of Maine.
The day before, I'd noticed some picnic tables on an otherwise deserted place called Halfmoon Island. Looks more like a crescent to me, but hey, it ain't my lake.
https://www.google.com/maps/@45.7921414,-67.8137165,15.23z
I suggested to my better half that we head that way and, uh, tend to some bidness. She answered with a sly look and licked her lips. Yes, lunchtime beckoned.
Upon turning the corner at the island, my heart sank when I saw a boat beached there, and what a boat it was. The sinking feeling deepened when I saw it was John Q. Law, which I could have done without due to, actually, a few reasons. And, they were Feds - Border Patrol agents in a wicked RIB with twin 150 Hondas. I wasn't expecting that at all.
One of 'em was super cool. The other was a total toolbag and seemed interested in getting the bracelets on me immediately upon looking me over. I guess that no haircuts for the last 8 years thing + my Black Sabbath shirt didn't sit well with him. Oh well, screw him and the RIB he rode in on.
I couldn't help but ask if that expenditure of resources was among our better work as a nation. Was Grand Lake prone to an onslaught of terrorists or illegal aliens crossing from New Brunswick? Methinks very much not.
Agent Cool Dude offered tacit agreement with my concerns via laughter and nodding. Agent Toolbag was not remotely amused by my critique and started behaving as if he was going to intimidate me, which is real close to impossible. I put a quick stop to that, then essentially threw 'em off the island, no....MY island with an epic line:
“Well, if you fine gentlemen are ready to get out there and intercept some suitcase nukes or anthrax or whatnot, how's about ya git after it.....we gots some bidness to tend to.”
The tables on the island, put there by CLIC in memory of a fellow named Bob Benn, proved very helpful. Thanks!
https://www.facebook.com/ChipLakes/Just the mere lunch was special to me, for I rarely consume any food or drink other than reverse osmosis water before dinner. Sometimes I'll have a few pieces of kimchi for lunch. Having been a pallbearer for far too many nice people who often consumed a full daily allotment of calories
before lunch, I prefer to aim for longevity and potency.
Various needs were met and it was back to lippin' after a push off from my very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very nice fishing partner.
I, feeling pretty warm and fuzzy at the time, wasn't quite sure where to go, but a lone big rock near the island caught my attention and we headed that way.
Turns out there were exactly one trillion smallies on it and we left 'em biting after two hours, a rare occurrence with us. Just finding 'em biting is often hard enough. "Good call hittin' that rock, Bill," said she. "Thanks, Monica," I replied.
In case you're a bit slow, those are not our real names.
It's interesting how constantly catching fish off one piece of structure can actually get boring and one sets off to, well, find another thing to catch the same kind of fish off of. LOL!
So there you have it. What a day. A great bite on the dock before I'd even touched the boat. That border bass rampage thing. A delightfully bawdy shore lunch after throwing the Feds off my island. A trillion smallies on a rock with orange stuff on it. The wee-wee hilarity during an incredible bite at Hayes Point. Topwater bite in the home cove at dusk. Sucking down about 40 oz. of some of the best beef I've ever had like some kind of cold, remorseless eating machine.
The day ended like this.
As our forefathers said in the Constitution, the success of a day is measured by the size of the drool spot you leave on the pillow when recovery slumber comes. Oh, wait....that was a drunk on the DART train who said that. Either way, he was right, and I left a big wet spot on the pillow that night after sleeping 8 hours in the same position, both aspects a rarity for me.
The account of that exquisite day is now complete. Wait...almost. A bit of partying followed by a hammering of the best chocolate candies I've ever encountered (well done, Monica) ended the vertical part of the day. How did I have room after inhaling those ribeyes like a Dyson carpet sucker? A gluttonous monster for the ages I be. Simply disgusting. Wonderfully disgusting, however.
Tight lines, and always know that jaw-dropping good times are often well-within reach even if common sense claims you're too old to have THAT much fun. Aim high!