I’d been knocking the tips out of the park. My lowest gratuity for the summer had been $75 for a four hour fishing trip, all the rest had been a Benjamin or better. So when Randy handed me a wad of cash after I had guided him and his wife on a 50+ fish day, I confidently shoved it in my front pocket knowing that I had, once again, hit a tater.
Randy was richer than God Allmuddy. He had fished all over the world, hired the best guides and stayed at the finest resorts. I became aware of just how loaded he was after I showed him a picture of the 6.5 foot sturgeon I had caught earlier in the summer.
“Where did you catch that?”He asked in his English accent
“The Snake River in Idaho.”
He quickly typed it into his phone and then turned to his wife.
“Let’s go to the Snake River on the Friday after we get back from Sailfishing in Thailand, I have got to catch one of those buggers.”
So anyway, I thanked him and he walked down the dock with his chauffer, leaving me standing there with a pocket full of greenbacks and a bladder ready to explode. You see, you don’t just hang a leak off the back of the boat when you have hoity toity clients like these so I’d been pinching it off for so long that urine was leaking out of my ears. Dancing around my boat like a preschooler in a long bathroom line I surveyed my options for extrication. On the hill directly above me was the glass walled Rainbow Room restaurant, to my right was the tour boat dock full of tourons ready to embark on their adventure to Antelope Canyon and to my left was the bustling launch ramp. Holding it any longer was futile. Desperately I picked the only available cover my vicinity provided, my Mercury Optimax motor. I knelt down, pretended I was looking at something on my motor cowling and stealthily whipped it out of the leg of my shorts.
At this point I must backtrack to the wonderful batch of three alarm salsa I had made the night before. Hotter than the hammers of hell, I ate enough to choke a Mexican. Throughout the day I had felt the seismic activity rumbling throughout my gut.
My tackle had the PSI of a tractor tire as I opened the flood gates and let ‘er flow like a race horse. Pressure release from the bladder is connected to the release of pressure in the hinter regions of the digestive tract, you cannot control one independently from the other and as my stream arced toward the water I was given a lesson in this scientific fact. My mind shot back to my adolescence and some wise advice my uncle Mick had once given me.
He said, “Kyran, as you get older there are three things you need to know.
First, Naps are as important as food and air.
Second, never waste a boner, it may be your last.
And third, Never ever trust a fart.”
I had a better chance of holding back the mighty Mississip with popsicle sticks than I did with cutting off mid stream and as a spattering noise emanated from the backside of my breeches, I knew that I had been ambushed. The warm lumpy liquid running down my leg and onto the stern of my boat confirmed that I had indeed shart myself. All I could do at that point was finish peeing and cuss. As luck would have it, I was on a boat that just so happened to be floating on water. Sweet! No harm no foul. I took my phone, wallet, and keys out of my pockets and jumped in the cleansing waters of Lake Powell. I swished and scrubbed myself and shorts clean as I thought of how crappy it would have been to shart myself in the cold of winter. Properly uncontaminated I jumped back into the boat and headed to the launch ramp.
“Let’s count the spoils.” I thought as I dug into my front pocket.
Dig……..digging……..dig………more digging ………..DRAT……..pockets inside out…… no freekin way…..AHHHHHHHH!!!!!
I angrily flipped a bitch and pissed and moaned my way back to the scene of the sharting.
“Does money float?” “
“Oh please God let money float!”
I crisscrossed, I did concentric circles, I grid searched and no money.
“I was going to buy new shoes for the babies with that money,” I cried
I did an experiment with a few dollar bills. Money it turns out is neutrally buoyant which meant that my wad ‘o Benjamins that I so temporarily possessed was floating suspended under an arms length of lake.
The hardest part of the whole ordeal is that I will never know how much money I lost. It could have been $20 (He was European after all) or it could have been $400. I will never know. As a coping mechanism I have decided to believe in my heart of hearts that a mentally challenged, poor orphan with leprosy and chronic halitosis found it on the shore and spent it on lap dances at the booby bar.
For guided Lake Powell fishing trips and in depth fishing reports visit www.fishingpowell.com