We eased into things, letting Fins sprint to the water and Fisch take in his surroundings before making any attempts at wetting a line.
As things settled, we both casted out our plastics, the target species being crappies.
We should know by now that Finley goes absolutely nuts when we cast anything.
In a boat, he is at least contained and eventually gives up and lies down.
On shore? Far from it.
Now one of us is charged with taking Fins down shore to bark and splash while the other is left with Fischer, neither of which are very conducive to fishing.
Somehow, in the few casts we both managed to make, we had two crappies in the bucket when I opted to take the duo back to the truck for a snack so Scott could fish for a few minutes.
He joined us shortly thereafter, having added one more, and I make my way back to the inlet in a half-run trying to make the most of my turn.
I too added one more to the bucket before the guilt set in.
I made my way back, rod and tackle box in one hand, bucket of fish in the other.
I bemoaned my decision to wear shorts as the cockle bur stems scraped against my legs and the bucket banged against my knees sloshing water.
I couldn’t help but think, “So glad I own a big, fancy boat.”
It felt like we hardly fished, or breathed, when we sensed it was time to call it quits.
We loaded up our circus and headed home, Fisch screaming in his car seat, fighting a nap, me questioning whether days like this were worth it.
My hope is that they were, and that we find ourselves fishing out of our boat together 30 years from now.
