By Georgia Osten
The subject of fishing (and crabbing) has become a big joke around our house. We absolutely love seafood, the catchers of seafood we are NOT! My idea of going crabbing is to give Joe a call to tell him how many dozen we’ll be needing, then driving over to Bolivar with my cooler and ice. We’ll sit in the yard on a couple of buckets and proceed to clean the dickens out of them. Maybe that’s why the grass looks so good. Fishing is another story. Our son loves to fish and buys only the best rods and reels, lures, nets and stuff, and he dresses great too. He’s always wearing a pair of water shoes and a fishing shirt to be envied by all the anglers out on the bay. His Dad, on the other hand, wears a shabby t’shirt and his oldest shorts and tennis shoes. After Friday’s fishing trip, I received a call that they’d caught their limit, HaHa – so I said, “I’ll heat up the frying pan.” After a couple of beers at Stingaree, the weary fishermen came home empty handed.
So, bright and early on Saturday morning, they set out while I was still hard at slumber. Several hours later, I received a phone call from my husband advising that they would be home shortly and could I please get him to the hospital – he’d kinda nicked his hand. He had it wrapped in his old t-shirt and it was thoroughly soaked with at least a pint of his blood. Several hours and eight stitches later, we made our way back home where our son had cleaned and put the kayaks away, cleaned all the fishing gear and proudly filleted all the fish …
I cannot lie, leave off that last part about “cleaning all the fish” …
GO’s Sand Bucket is only one beach bum’s journal of life at the beach, probably something each of you can relate to. Please feel free to email me with your thoughts, visions and/or feelings of just exactly what the beach means to you.
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