In the summer of '84, after my 21st birthday, my friend (and sometimes commenter on this blog) Steve, came to visit me for a weekend. Steve's a macho kind of dude, who, in university, could have passed for Father Guido Sarducci from Saturday Night Live.
I put him on my sofa bed which he ended up sharing with my two kittens. He called them Garfield and Nermal, though they resembled neither fictional cat. He told me after the first night, he rolled one way, heard a meow, so rolled the other way, and heard another meow. He didn't move for the rest of the night for fear of squishing one. Macho dude....heh...big ol softie is what he was....and still is.
On the Saturday of the weekend, Steve and I joined my friend Glen for a day of fishing. Glen, the boy scout, had boots and gear for all three of us so we set out for a popular river in the area. It was hot, of course, and fishing in boots is not nearly so dry as fishing in chest waders, so pretty soon, both Steve and I had bootfuls of water, which actually kept us from really noticing the heat. As well, Steve, macho-big-city-guy from Toronto, had never been fishing (or even in rubber boots I think), lost his footing a couple of times and fell up to his waist in the water. So he finally just walked into the deepest part of the river and dunked himself. Fishing hat and all.
I don't know how long we were on the river. We came to a tree with a rope swing and Steve and Glen tried it a few times to throw themselves into the river. By the time we were ready to call it a day, we were exhausted, hungry, and soaked. Glen caught 11 fish (and threw them all back), I caught one, and poor Steve caught none. But we had a blast.
Driving home, I offered to make us some grilled cheese sandwiches for supper and the guys wanted to hit the liquor store for some beer as well. Glen drove us to the store and Steve and I walked in, soaking from head to toe, our feet sloshing water in the rubber boots with every step. Quite the sight. Glen dropped off Steve and I at my place, went home to get changed, then returned for supper. I made a load of sandwiches, we each popped a can of beer, the guys sat on the couch, and I sat on the floor. We ate and had a beer and the next thing I know it was 2 hours later, the guys asleep, each at one end of the couch and I had fallen asleep on the floor, and only 3 or 4 cans of beer actually consumed. My laughter woke the two guys. It was only about 9 o'clock on a Saturday evening and the three of us called it a night.
Fishing is hard work.