"A trip worth taking is a trip worth preparing for."
That's what my dad used to say. He said it all the time,
even when we weren't going anywhere. But, then again, he said a lot
of things. Whenever I think that thought though, I always think of
that trip we took to Bass Lake, circa 1961, in our 1953 Buick Special.
Well, the preparation started the minute dad decided
on the location, a few weeks after New Year's. He was in the middle
of one of his protracted burps when, at the tail end, came those fateful
words, "Baaasss Laaakkkee." For a moment my sister and I weren't
sure if what we heard was gas or a vacation destination, but our confusion
was rectified soon after when he repeated it. "Bass Lake. That's
where we'll go this summer." And in the same breath he said, "Bill,
varnish the rods." Hearing this, mom scurried out of the kitchen
with pad and pencil and began the list. "A trip worth taking," ".
. . is a trip worth preparing for," sis and I chimed in, and a trip starts
with a list.
From that day on my slumber involved dreams of catching
"One Eye George." You see, for years dad told the story about almost
landing this huge bass while on leave from World War II. He almost
had it in the boat when he noticed it had only one eye, but he worked himself
loose and off he went, back to the wild blue. The fish, I mean.
Well, the list and completing items thereof were
the topic of dinner conversation from then on. I began working
on the rods. I found them up in the rafters in the garage looking
like they could use a good vacation. Sanding, painting, retying the
loops and greasing kept me busy after school for months. I even revarnished
the tackle box. And before you knew it, the last days of school wound
down. My math grade was forgotten in the last minute preparations.
My dad focused on his belief that the sooner to school ending we left,
the less traffic. Each year my dad's obsession was to get on the
road first. This year he planned to pick us up from school on the
last day, with books in hand, to hit the high road.
When I opened the door to the car that day, I realized
my sister's gorgeous girl friend Candy Leggly would be joining us.
Now, there are women and there are girls, and then there are people of
the female persuasion named Candy Leggly. And I assure you there
is a really big difference, 'specially to a fourteen-year-old boy from
Culver City. I could hardly believe my good fortune. From that
moment on, thoughts of catching One Eye George became a mere shadow
of a desire. What a vacation! Yes, middle class America, there
is a god and she lives in the body of Candy. This would be some vacation.
Nothing could go wrong now.
It wasn't till we hit Gravity Spot just outside
of Gridly that we realized we left the poles, and all my months of hard
work, in the garage. Why we were in Gridly, 322 miles past Bass Lake,
is a story in itself. Let's just say that navigation was not one
of my father's strong points.
But, for those long 322 miles back, all we heard
was my dad whining about leaving "Big Red" in the garage -- "Big Red,"
dad's favorite twelve-foot rod, made of bamboo and well over 80 years old.
He liked it because it got him farther out than any other fisherman when
he went fishing off Catalina. Never mind that a fresh water fish
would go undetected on an ocean rod . . . and we would be fishing on a
lake in a four-person row boat.
Well, all his concerns vanished when we arrived
at Ducy's lodge: a tenement of cabins nestled in the backwoods off Bass
Lake, surrounded by gentle pine trees, 6,200 feet above the biggest ball
of string and just eight short miles from Gravity Point where water appears
to travel up hill -- so the brochure said. However, reality and brochures
about mountain cabins never seem to meet.
The only thing distinguishing Ducy's from a prison
camp was the knotty pine, the bright yellow trim, and the pine cone that
immediately hit my dad on the noggin. We retired early that night
so as to sneak up on the fish, as sometimes fish need to be snuck up upon.
As I began my slumber, my mind drifted to thoughts of catching bass, One
Eye George, and imagining how Candy looked in her Bikini . . . but not
in that order. My reverie was interrupted, though, from a strange sound:
ka-boink, ka-boink, ka-boink, ka-boink . . . What the heck was that?
A sound was emanating from the next room, the room my parents slept in.
Ka-boink, ka-boink, ka-boink, ka-boink . . . They weren't sleeping
at all. Why, they were . . .!?! Ka-boink, boink, boink, boink,
boink. Their old steel World War II bed gave away the true nature
of their doings. I looked across to the bed Candy slept in.
She was smiling at me. My sister stifled a laugh.
All was forgotten in the morning though, as we were
soon to be on the lake, and planned on feeding One Eye George fish hooks
for breakfast. Setting out for the dock, my father received another
pinecone on the noggin -- a little reminder from mother nature that he
was indeed on vacation.
The boat (and I use that term loosely) was also
made of knotty pine and was painted the same yellow trim as Ducy's cabins
-- an added touch to aid the regulars on the lake, in their fast, sleek
ski boats, in distinguishing the marked tourist one-timers. Well, we managed
to get to Sharks Cove where One Eye George was last seen by my father 20
years earlier. Why they called it Sharks Cove, in a fresh water lake,
will forever remain a mystery.
I pondered this while we fished, and we fished,
and then fished some more. I layed my line in the reeds, casting
in and pulling out as the others fished in the opposite direction.
Call it a premonition but before long, there he was, tailing my line, like
a politician in search of a vote. I pulled him in slowly. But
just as I was about to make him mine, he gave a wink with his one eye and
escaped. As might be expected, no one saw him but me.
That night, Candy made us what she called her specialty:
dumplings. You see, the one other thing she contributed to life,
besides catching every boy's attention units, was the ability to make dumplings
24 different ways. While we barbecued our catch, the family chided
me for my "fish" story, as it was to be dubbed for years to come.
But my mind was on Candy that evening. I imagined she believed me.
Or perhaps I read too much into the fact that she gave me an extra dumpling.
The next day, to our surprise, dad let go of some
of his tightly-held cash and rented a ski boat. We spent the best
part of that day skiing and seeing how well Candy looked in her bikini.
The best part, though, was when I got to drive and my father tried to get
ski-borne. It was not to be. Perhaps it was his wobbly legs,
but more probably, my feeling those eighty horses of Mercury Mercruiser
power at my finger tips. Dad could not get the hang of it.
We'll never forget the site of dad's bulky trunks catching the water and
exposing his derriere to those unfortunates swimming and relaxing on the
beach. Mothers covering their young one's eyes. No, it was not a
pretty sight. Yes, a Kodak moment, one we did not soon forget and
were forbidden to talk about.
All good times must end, when mine only began.
Or so I thought. As we headed home that night, Candy sat next to
me. With the car bouncing down the highway, her long blond hair suddenly
fell over my arm, reminding me of Bridal Veil Falls. I sat motionless
so as not to spoil the moment. Soon, her head lay gently on my shoulder.
Could it be? Had I caught more than I bargained for at Bass Lake?
Is Candy letting me know how she feels about me? As I thought those
thoughts, every moment an eternity, I felt that I now knew that heaven
did exist, right there in the back seat of our '53 Buick Special.
That is, till I heard something. A noise starting slowly, then a
little louder. Why, Candy Leggly was sleeping and . . . and she snores!
I had lots to think about on that long ride
home. It's funny how your education creeps up on you when you least
expect it. I calculated the distance home, one snore per three hundred
feet divided by eight hundred miles. Yes, I was beginning to understand
and, well, like those math word problems.