World War II ended in August 1945 and by the summer of 1946, military surplus stores were booming. Eliminating the middleman, one of my industrious Uncles, Austin Bryan, a Navy Sea Bee, had appropriated a two man, inflatable life raft that had been “lost” off of a Catalina flying boat. It had never been used so Uncle Austin made a plywood box for it and shipped it back to the ‘States, to his Brother, my Dad. We now had a “fishing boat” and me, being young, thought pumping it up was neat.

Our first trip was with our neighbor, Dave Miller, a WW II veteran and former student at Texas A & M College (now University) and his son Bill, to an oxbow lake off of the Brazos River, south of Richmond, Texas. This was a very “private” lake on a large State Prison Farm. This trip being arranged by another Uncle, A.C. turner, who, at the time, was the Rehabilitation Director for the prison sysytem.

We drove to the lake, inflated the boat and then “took turns” fishing out of the life raft. Bill and I went first and learned quickly the art of paddling a life raft. Our first attempt resulted in an inglorious circle! Our fishing results were better, several small bass, that were put on our communal stringer and then we headed to the shore and turned the raft over to our Dads.

Left on the bank while our Dads were working on the bass, Bill and I caught some grasshoppers and went to bait fishing. Not much wind, a real nice afternoon and we noticed a snag drifting near our spot. It drifted up and stopped and quit drifting. Being nine and eleven years old we thought nothing of it and kept fishing.

Our Dads were headed back our way with a couple of more fish on the communal stringer and Dave yelled to us, “What’s that in the water out from you?” Being young we answered, “Where?” My Dad said, “Boys, watch where I cast,” as he cast a wooden, Lucky 13 plug, toward us and across our “snag”.

He twitched his rod tip and reeled one turn at a time, “walking the dog” back over the “snag” and then the water exploded and a big, it seemed five or six feet long, alligator, our “snag”, cleared the water in a twisting, mouth open, teeth showing jump, made a great splash as it returned and then took off, at top speed, pulling the life raft behind it!

My Dad’s Calcutta rod was dangerously bent! He was yelling because the ‘gator was stripping line from his reel, and the reel’s only drag system was his thumb! Trying to stop the ‘gator’s run, his thumb was being blistered because he was using it to put pressure on the reel spool. The ‘gator jumped again, the plug pulled loose and came sailing back toward my Dad and, a ducking Dave and settled on the water behind them. “Whoopee” exclaimed Dave, followed by a “Damn” from my Dad, as both anglers paddled back toward us.

Laughingly, my Dad told us “ ‘Gators like to eat little boys if they can catch one and this one was sizing both of you all up for a dinner.” Silently we deflated the raft, packed it in its plywood box and did not enjoy his attempt at humor!

In a picture box display, in the main hall of my ranch house, are all of my Dad’s old fishing plugs, including the tooth scarred, wooden, Lucky 13 that he “walked” over the ‘gator.

As spring turned into summer I was really getting the feel of the little Boston Whaler and its small size and shallow draft had helped me to find a short cut from Jones Lake to all of the fine fishing in upper, West Galveston Bay – Greens Cut, Confederate Reef, the wrecked shrimp boat, and North and South Deer Island. The short cut changed a twenty-five minute trip down to ten and remained my favorite route for over ten years.

Here I am guiding the Whaler over safer waters!

Randy, my son, and I were heading out, under the railroad bridge, to chase the birds around Greens Cut and he asked me, “Dad, let me drive the boat.” “Sure,” I replied, adding, “We’ll take my shortcut and I’ll guide you to it.”

We were skimming along close to thirty-five miles per hour and I told Randy, “See the stake up ahead on the right? Steer close to it and we will be OK.” This stake was the right side of a four, foot cut, in a live oyster reef. We found out the width of the cut on this trip.

For some reason Randy did not steer as close to the stake as he should have and CRUNCH! We hit the left edge of the reef and missed the cut. As the boat unexpectedly stopped, I flew over the bow, tucked quickly and covered my head with my arms, did a half flip, and crashed down, on my back, into the twelve inches of water covering the reef.

Randy was half in and half out of the Whaler. When we hit the reef, he had the presence of mind to pull back on the throttle, idling the engine, and since it had no shear pin, it was OK. Randy got all the way out of the boat saying “Gee Dad, I’m Sorry. We missed the cut!” My shirt was shredded and my back was cut up, but I stood slowly, thankfully I wasn’t hurt bad. I told Randy, “Don’t worry, I’m OK. Let’s lift up the front of the boat and make sure it’s not damaged.”

The boat was fine, Whaler can really make ‘em! We still had our shrimp, there’s not much wind and the tide was coming in, so I said, “If you’ll wash off my back with salt water and clean out the cuts we’ll go ahead and fish.” Later that morning, while we were catching speckled trout, Randy said, “Dad you’re a tough old guy! I thought you were going to end our trip after my wreck.” I thought to myself, “Old, I’m not even 60.”

All day long I had been trying to get a hold of my Son, Randy, to help me with a sticky problem on my Blog. Finally, in the evening he called me, very frustrated. He had “snuck” off and gone fishing, a noble achievement!

He was frustrated that he had lost several nice bass, because he had made a mistake of epic proportions. He forgot to put the hook on the, new H&H Spinner Bait, that he had just purchased.

This particular product comes from the manufacturer in a plastic bag with the hook separate and the fisherman must attach the hook to the spinner bait before using it. In Randy’s excitement and impatience to get to the fishing at hand, he had neglected to attach the hook.

As I laughed at his omission, my thoughts went back, years ago to a hastily planned fishing trip that I went on with my Uncle Gus, George Alvin Pyland. He and my Dad were both from Marlin, Texas. That particular summer I was working on another of my Uncle’s, Shelton Gafford’s ranch, outside of Marlin. Finishing my chores early I went into town to make a purchase at the local sporting goods store, that happened to be owned by Sam Pyland, Uncle Gus’ brother.

When I walked into the store, surprise, there was Uncle Gus talking with his brother. We hugged and shook hands and exchanged some small talk, and one of our favorite subjects, fishing, came up. Mentioning that Uncle Shelton had gotten me permission to fish in a stock tank, that was not fished by it’s owner, and had been stocked with bass by the state five years earlier. I was on my way out there as soon as I picked me up a couple of yellow Piggy Boats. Uncle Gus volunteered to go with me. He was in town for a short visit and would be happy to “help” me thin out the bass in this particular tank.

I don’t know who manufactured Piggy Boats Spinner Baits, I guess the Piggy Boat Company, but I do know that the company that made them had been sold to H&H, the current manufacturer and H&H now had just been sold to a large retailer. But, whoever the owner, this particular spinner bait remains one of the best baits for stock tank, small lake and stream fishing for bass. In saltwater I have even caught red fish and speckled trout with them.

Uncle Gus had no tackle, but I had an extra rod and reel with me, and he purchased two Piggy Boats with yellow skirts, told his Brother good bye and we headed out to catch some bass. Arriving at the stock tank that was in the middle of a one hundred acre field covered with red buffalo grass, I got out of my truck, walked to the edge of the water and made a cast and was into a nice bass immediately. Uncle Gus said, “Wait for me Jon Howard” as he hurriedly attached the Piggy Boat to his line.

Uncle Gus looped a cast along the bank near us and had a strike that almost jerked the rod from his hands, the bass ran toward the center of the tank, jumped, mouth open and the Piggy Boat came flying back towards us. Uncle Gus was a salt water, fisherman of great skill and perseverance, but muttered, “Dang, that’s funny, the hook didn’t get set good even with that hard strike.” as he prepared for another cast.

Another cast, another jolting strike, another lost fish caused him to mutter, “Jon Howard, these bass are harder to hook than specs.” He was a great Uncle to me, and a good Christian man, but when he lost his third bass I was afraid my rod and reel were going into the water. Before that happened I asked him, “Why don’t you bring your rig over and let me check the hooks?” “What hooks?” he replied. I tried hard not to laugh, but in his haste and excitement he had forgotten to attach the hooks to his spinner bait

Slipping the hooks on his lure, he cast out and, whamo, another hard hit, but this one was hooked solid and soon landed and put on the stringer. We both got to the business of catching bass, along with a couple of goggle eye perch, and ended up with a nice mess of fish.

The story ended well, but after Randy’s “hook” problem, it got me to thinking. You know, both Randy and Uncle Gus are former students at Texas A & M!