The wasps poured down like rain and I was stung a half-dozen times before I knew what was going on, then at least four or five more before I could get out of the way.
The Old Men had mostly retired from running trotlines but were still a long way from giving up fishing. Fortunately, the chief sailor among them had accepted a pontoon boat and motor, complete with trailer, in payment for a welding job, so they could still go after catfish with as many hooks as they could wet, which, as it turns out, was quite a lot.
The pontoon boat gave them ample room to stand and stretch while fishing, because it was about as large a rig as you’d want to tow anywhere on a regular basis. It lived at the chief sailor’s home and was pulled by pickup truck to and from the water each time we went.
Part of the boat’s launching procedure involved releasing a latch underneath the trailer’s main front structure. I wasn’t quite old enough to drive, but I took a lot of pride in helping launch the boat. I’d been a holder and a helper at this task on a variety of boats for a long time, so I was quick to show I knew what to do without being told. We backed into the head of the ramp at Smithville and I went immediately to release the front latch.
Evidently, while parked between trips, a fair sized wasp nest was built and populated in the gap underneath the front winch. Its occupants hadn’t made themselves known as the trailer was being hooked up, and their spot was sheltered enough to keep them aboard during the 30-minute tow. When I reached into their territory to release the latch, they’d had enough.
I don’t remember exactly what I yelled just at that moment, but it got the Old Men’s attention.
“I’m stung 10 or 12 times,” I told them through gritted teeth.
“Huh,” one of them said as wasps darted and buzzed. “Wonder how they didn’t blow off on the drive?”
The two poured a bait can half full of gasoline from the boat’s tank and dashed it onto the wasp nest, settling that issue. I assumed we’d waive off the trip at this point and take me home.
“Hand me up that cooler,” said one of the Old Men from inside the boat as the other got behind the truck’s wheel to back the trailer down the ramp, “and don’t forget the battery.”
An hour later the fire in my hand had mostly gone out, but it had swollen to the size and shape of a catcher’s mitt. I could flex my thumb enough to operate a reel handle, though, so I fished on. I saw the Old Men peek at my hand from time to time. Eventually, they even began to manifest some concern.
“We probably should have taken you home,” one said as the other nodded in agreement.
“No sir,” I said with all the bravado I could fake. “It would have hurt just as much sitting at home. At least this way I was fishing.”
They both got a big kick out of that and repeated it many times afterward. Actually, I’d have much rather had my hand at home stuck in a bucket of ice all that time, but if they weren’t going to volunteer to take me I wasn’t going to speak up and ask. Sometimes being hard headed has its rewards, dubious as they may be.
Kevin Tate is a freelance outdoors writer.
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