Standing on the concrete spillway with the full force of Texas’, Colorado River, being held in check by the restraining balloon, I didn’t then, nor have ever found out what the air filled giant was made of, but it was over three hundred feet long and probably twenty feet in diameter and was stretched across the river from giant concrete anchors.  Tidal water, from the Gulf of Mexico, fifteen miles south, was to my front and behind me, behind the huge barrier, was the fresh water from the river.  The water was used for irrigation of the many rice fields in the area.

Surprise, one of my first casts, with an artificial shrimp tail lure, into the brackish water was picked up by a nice, channel cat and five minutes later I was stringing the eight, pounder.   Several casts later, my rod bowed as a big fish hit the lure and headed down river.  This wasn’t a cat and, because of the apparent head shaking, I identified it as a big red.  My gear, a six and a half, foot fiberglass, popping rod, 6000C, reel loaded with two hundred yards of fifteen pound line, should be sufficient to stop this fellow’s run.

Hopping down off of the spillway and running along the bank, I was able to gain some line and soon the fish slowed and made another shorter run, but something was out of whack, this fish was fighting deeper than a red.  Maybe it had swallowed the lure?  Gaining line and easing the fish up out of the depths, I had my first glimpse of a big striped bass, probably thirty inches long.

Having caught some in South Carolina, but never in Texas waters, I wanted this one for, at least, a picture and as I bent over to “lip” the striper, all the while trying to keep my line tight, the single hook on the plug, pulled out.  I could only watch, and I still have the mind picture, as this silver/greenish, striped beauty slowly finned down out of sight.

There is a small striped bass fishery in the Trinity River, below the Lake Livingston damn.  Having fished Trinity Bay, around the mouth of the Trinity River, many times, I have caught reds and specs but never a striper, although I’ve heard tales of anglers regularly catching them.  I’ve fished around the salt water, barrier on the San Bernard River and no stripers.  I think there’s too much pollution around the Brazos/New River system for them and have never caught one around there.

All I can imagine is that this fish either came into the Colorado from the Gulf, or came down Trinity to Galveston Bay, then into the Gulf for, forty miles, then up the Colorado?

Whatever, it certainly did some traveling.

After finishing my military active duty requirement, I went to work for, at the time, the largest computer company in the country and the spring of 1960 found me in Radium Springs, Georgia, just outside of Albany, to attend six weeks of computer training. Computers were new to almost everyone then.
Radium Springs featured a huge casino/hotel combination, built in 1920, but since demolished and was a beautiful and delightful place to hold the class, except for the bone chilling, constant temperature of the water, 68 degrees and, the incessant B-52 takeoffs from Turner Field, a SAC base. We were on the end of the twelve thousand foot, runway and the big bird’s wings would actually “flap” up and down when the behemoths cleared the ground.
One Saturday, while I was in town getting a haircut, I sat in the barber’s chair and watched one of Martin Luther King’s first marches down the main street of Albany. Law enforcement was brutal in the handling of the marchers. A very interesting note about this, unknown to me for years, a softball playing, friend of mine was one of MLK’s bodyguards and he too remembers this march!
What does all of this have to do with carp? The sparkling blue pool at Radium Springs, yes, the water in the springs does have traces of radium, was “covered up” with large, almost pet, carp. Being a fisherman of sorts, I went into town and bought me an inexpensive spinning reel, rod, hooks, weights and a stringer and one stop at the hotel’s kitchen set me up with some carefully constructed “dough balls” for bait.
The chef, a black lady, was eager to please, even when I told her to mix in some cotton with the dough. The cotton would help to keep the bait securely on the hook. She remarked, “I hasn’t heard of this, but if’n it works, save me two or three big ‘uns!”
My first cast produced a tap, tap and setting the hook, I held on for a long sizzling, run and soon, I pulled the, I guessed, five pound carp up on to the bank. Thinking this was a “big ‘un”, it went on the stringer.
My next cast didn’t yield a tap, tap, but the rod was almost yanked from my hands. This one meant business and almost stripped the line on its first run. Luckily, the fish turned and headed back my way and I regained some line. This fight lasted for ten minutes and the carp was too big to slide up on to the bank, so I handed my rod to an onlooker with instructions to keep the line tight and into the cold water I went and, unceremoniously, grabbed the big fish, I guessed twenty pounds, with both hands and arms and carried it up out of the water and ‘rasseled it on to the stringer. Whew!
The next one was even bigger and I barely won this fight. After stringing it, I was cold and wet and had had enough of this “carping” to last for one day. After letting the little one go I carried the big ‘uns to the chef and she was all smiles. She told me that the fish were for her family and that she would ‘bile ‘em to gets all of bones out and then make fish cakes out of the meat. Sounded good to me!
The next morning I was standing, almost at attention, in front of my Class Manager, who was almost smiling, when he told me, “The hotel manager said for me to tell you not to catch and keep any of the hotel’s carp! You can still fish, but throw them back.
His guests like to watch them.”

Having caught and released my tarpon by 8:00 AM, we had continued fishing, hoping for another one! Two kings, two cut offs and one jackfish later we still hadn’t seen or hooked a tarpon.

The tarpon were in and cruising along the beachfront early in the summer of 1998 and Bob Baugh and I had decided to take a day off and go fish with Mike Williams, owner of Tarpon Express, and considered to be the best saltwater/tarpon guide in the Galveston Bay area. We hadn’t used a local guide before but figured he’d know about catching the tarpon, where they were, and most important, he was on the water every day.

By the time we met Mike at 69th Street and Seawall Boulevard, he had already picked up a supply of frozen cigar minnows, that we would be using that day for bait. He had made the decision for us not to use artificials since the tarpon were really spread out and hadn’t been hitting them for the past week. That’s exactly the reason we hired him!

Continuing to fish hard we were rewarded with two more kings and lost several more, kings or sharks, we couldn’t tell, since they had bitten through the eighty pound, mono, leaders.

After another cut off, I tied on a new “circle” hook, applied a cigar minnow and sent a long cast, looping out to the general area where I had just lost my rig. As soon as the bait hit the water, there was a sharp tug, a short run and airborne came a twisting, turning, black tip shark.

A long run, two more jumps and after a tug-of war, the four and a half foot, shark rolled over on its side beside the boat as Mike asked me, “If you want to keep this one, I’ll gaff it? Good eatin’!” Replying to the affirmative, he gaffed it, whacked it on the head with two good licks and laid it out on his cutting board. Cutting off the shark’s head, gutting and skinning it, he held up, probably, twenty pounds of shark ready to be sliced and grilled. The shark steaks were greatly, enjoyed!

Black tips, and most sharks, are terrific fighters, offer real sport and the guides now release all of them they catch.

One hundred miles out, after a fast, less than three hour run, over a glassy Gulf of Mexico, we, Bob Baugh and his ex-wife and Layla and I, pulled up to acres of floating Sargassum sea weed and my first cast produced a strike by a chicken dolphin (small dolphin weighing less than five pounds) and the fun started. We boated over a hundred that morning, despite losing many to the numerous sharks.

Around noon, I had a big hit and immediately knew it wasn’t another small dolphin. The fish was a great match for my medium weight tackle and after it made a long run with no jumps, we couldn’t even guess what kind of fish it was. It was too far offshore for a kingfish, maybe it was a wahoo, maybe a “bull” dolphin, but they will usually jump like crazy?

After a real ‘rasslin match I got the fish closer to the boat we saw that it was a good size, albacore tuna, twelve to fifteen pounds, but it was being closely followed by a large, at least, six, foot, bull shark. As the shark clipped off the tuna’s body right behind the head, Bob grabbed for his .357 magnum pistol. The shark happily lolled on the surface just long enough for Bob to shoot it right in the middle of its head. And, the last we saw of it, it was slowly sinking.

The next morning, after a stop at some close in oil rigs and several spirited bouts with some bruiser, forty to fifty pound red fish, we headed back over a glassy Gulf, out to our weed island, a hundred miles out. Fishing around the weed patch, we caught more chicken dolphin and lost more to the sharks. Layla had a nice dolphin on and, right beside the boat, up came a big bull shark and ate the dolphin. The shark lolled on the surface and Bob grabbed his .357 and reboomed it. As it slowly sank, we noticed a second hole in its head where Bob had shot it yesterday.

I guess both shots missed any vitals, if any happened to be up there?

During the spring of 1957, Richard Frazier, an ROTC buddy of mine, and a newly commissioned 2nd Lt. In the U.S. Army, and I had been hearing stories about the great fishing behind Earl Galceran’s camp near the old Coast Guard Station at the far west end of Galveston Island. It was a private place and without a boat, we couldn’t figure out how get to it?
Earl’s camp was really several thousand, prime acres, leased for dove, quail and duck hunting, plus it had access to some of the best trout water in the state. At the time, live bait wasn’t available in the immediate area so our only option was artificials, like the Dixie Jet silver spoons, pictured, with a yellow buck tail attached.

Richard had an idea that since we couldn’t sneak into the area, why didn’t he and I go ask Earl Galceran, already a fishing legend, if we could fish behind his place. We could sight our lack of funds, honesty and Richard’s newly commissioned status as reasons we could be trusted not to do any damage to his property or equipment. Or, my idea, we could just drive down there and act like members, wave and smile and just wade out and start fishing.
We choose the latter approach, correctly thinking, “Always beg for forgiveness and never ask for permission.” If apprehended, we would plead ignorance of the private property and say we were just following the road to West Galveston Bay.
Arriving at the open gate to Earl Galceran’s we drove to a parking area, parked, grabbed our rods, and stringers and headed for the bay. Out came Earl, we smiled and waved, he smiled and waved and went back into his trailer. Whew! We must have looked like members.
Reaching the edge of the bay, a light southeast wind was blowing at our backs, as we looked out over trout paradise, a slight ripple on green, clear water with grass growing and swirling right up to the surface. Like the Rockport and Port O’Conner areas today, grass grew in abundance and the holes in the grass reminded me of holes in the moss in fresh water lakes.
No hesitation and in I went and found a hard sand/shell bottom and I couldn’t believe the grass. On my first cast and spoon landed silently past a hole in the moss, I began a rapid retrieve and whamo, a three pound, spec nailed the spoon and the fight was on! When a big trout hits, you know it, a jarring, pounding, rod bending hit, not the sideways, slow hit of a big red picking up a shrimp. Landing the trout bare handed, I secured a firm grip behind its gills, slid it on to the stringer and looked over at Richard who was also in the middle of a fight with a nice fish.
“This is some place,” I exclaimed, as I sailed another cast past a likely looking hole in the grass, and got another whamo! The hook pulled out, no fish. What I didn’t know then, but have since learned, the trout lurk in the grass beside the holes and ambush baitfish as they swim through the open area.
Another cast, another jarring hit, and this one’s hooked solid and I’m soon stringing another three pounder. Several casts catch grass, and before you know it, whamo, another fine fish soon to be on my stringer. Thirty minutes of fishing, wonderful conditions, bait in the water, trout all around and three solid three pounders on the stringer. What a day this will be!
Wait a minute, what’s going on? My stringer was caught on something. That something brushed my leg. That something was a shark! “Shark,” I yelled, as I stepped back and looked down at my stringer, which was tied, not looped, onto a belt loop of my jeans. Another lesson learned, “Never tie, always loop.”
Two bites and the shark, a four foot plus, black tip, clipped off the last two trout on my stringer, swirled around me, brushed my leg again, and came up to the surface and grabbed the last trout, all of this right by my right hand that was futilely trying to pull the fish away from the snapping jaws! The shark won, bit off the third spec and swished away!
I heard Richard laughing. I didn’t think this was funny at all. I’m left with three trout heads on my stringer, heart racing and he’s laughing. I guess Earl Galceran kept these sharks around as pets to feed on his “guest’s” fish. I quickly got out of the water and sat on the bank for a while cooling off and by that time Richard, still laughing, came out of the water with five nice ones on his stringer. He said “You ready to call it a day.” I didn’t reply, just turned around and started back to the car.
I went back to this place by boat in 1970. A big chemical plant had been built in the mid ‘60’s, on Chocolate Bayou which feeds into Lower West Galveston Bay above Earl’s old place and the grass was gone. Trout fishing changed in Lower West Bay to anchoring on reefs, fishing under the birds or drifting, with not much wading. Earl Galceran moved to a houseboat set up in the Chandleur Islands off of the Louisiana/Mississippi coasts. From what I have heard, he took some of his sharks with him.
That summer, Richard went on active duty at Ft. Hood as a Platoon Leader in a basic training company. One of his recruits was Elvis Pressley.

What do you do when a five foot black tip shark hits your speckled trout outfit, runs fifteen yards towards you (I thought it was a big red fish.), jumps out of the water ten feet in front of you, splashing water on you and, then, heads for Mexico, stripping off all your line?

In the spring of 1954 trout fishing had been very good along the broad sand flats from Galveston’s East Beach Lagoon around to the base of the South Jetties, a curving distance of approximately two miles protected from any wind except north or northeast. This area was at the far eastern tip of Galveston Island and the western side of Bolivar Channel that cuts between the island and Bolivar Peninsula. This is also the mouth of the Galveston and Houston ship channels. It was good fishing and just plain fun to go down there and watch the ships and the girls. We always tried to plan our trips when the wind was light and the tide were coming in.

The week before today’s event my cousin and fishing buddy, George Pyland, and I had made a “killing” on school trout on the north side of the flats. The fish were everywhere, plugs or live shrimp, even a bare hook. We spread the news among our fishing group and everyone awaited a break in the weather.

I got a early morning call from one of my partners in crime, Bobby Brown, saying “Things look good for the flats this afternoon”. My reply was “I can’t. I have a date”. This was totally unacceptable to Bobby. His girl friend didn’t like to go fishing and he was free today and tonight. My girl friend was game for anything. She didn’t fish but liked to wade out and watch us fish. After saying, “He would buy the gas”, all of $.18 per gallon, I called my girl and told her of the change in plans and she reluctantly agreed to go with us.

The tide was running in and the wind was light when we bought shrimp at Bobby Wilson’s East Beach Bait Camp and headed for the flats. Wading out about seventy-five yards to waist deep water, the fish were there and we started catching some nice specs, up to two pounds. Bobby, to my right, and I were about 30 feet apart and girl friend was behind me, my stringer floated off to my left with the breeze and incoming tide.

My cork went under and as I set the hook I remarked, “Hey, this is a real nice fish probably a big, red”. I struggled to keep the line tight as the fish bored toward me, my companions watched intently. Ten feet in front of me a beautiful five foot long, black tip shark, cleared the water, mouth open, teeth getting my attention, hit the water splashing some on me, and headed off to my right towards where I thought Bobby was located. My valiant fishing partner and girl friend had already halved the distance to shore and left me alone to battle the denizen.

Not much of a battle, fifteen pound braided line on a Shakespeare Direct Drive reel and a fiber glass popping rod, all being no match for an eighty pound shark. The shark headed to my right and I headed straight for the shore where my stalwart friends waited for me. At least the shark didn’t get the fish on our stringers!

This area, the East Beach Flats including Bobby Wilson’s Bait Camp no longer exists. Natural erosion assisted by a small hurricane that came up the channel in the mid 70’s, completely changed the landscape, eliminating one good fishing spot.

Girl friend never went wade fishing with me again.

It took eighteen years for me to have another “up close and personal” meeting with an alligator and this one was too close for comfort!
The summer of 1964 found me still working multiple jobs with little spare time. My Dad had made friends with a contractor from Philadelphia, Miss. that he had employed in his department at Southwestern Bell. Looking back now I can see that he was a “redneck’s, redneck”. In the fall he was a market hunter for ducks and had absolutely no respect for game laws, but he appeared to be an OK guy.

In past years he had spent time in north Louisiana and had made several successful float trips down the headwaters of the Calcasieu River. These were easy trips of four to six hours, floating and fishing about five miles of river. Put in and take out at State boat ramps, easy, no problem. The object of these trips was to catch small mouth bass – not really the cold, water variety – but spotted bass, common to moving water in the south and southwest.

My Dad, who was nearing retirement, and I had arranged for a weekend off in mid May, so off we went to north Louisiana. Our “headquarters” was a motel in Alexandria and we arrived at the jumping off point, a State launch ramp, at first light on a bright, clear, spring, day.

Four of us were going on the float trip, my Dad and I in one jon boat and his contractor friend and one of his relatives, who “knew the river” and would “guide” us, in the other boat. His relative saying “We got a few falls (fallen trees spanning or down in the river) to go over, under or around, but outside of that, it will be easy. I have since learned that if I hear the word, “easy”, I prepare for the worst!

The Calcasieu River, at our put in spot, was slow moving; clear as tap water, about seventy-five feet wide, for our whole trip didn’t exceed that width and we didn’t see one other boat or fisherman. The banks were lined with some pine, but mostly hardwood trees. Pretty trees. Pretty now, but we all would be cursing them by midnight!

We drifted about fifty yards from the boat ramp, I put a hand full of Beechnut chewing tobacco in the side of my mouth, and my first cast with a yellow Piggy Boat and, bam, a solid strike from a one pound, spotted bass, the fish taking line, running, not jumping like a regular bass. My Dad hooked up and soon we had two nice ones on our stringer. Looks like a good day starting. I’ll ask myself later “Why did we keep these bass?”

We eased under our first fall, a tree down from bank to bank, and up ahead we saw one resting in the water. We drifted up to it and, in the water we went, and pulled the jon boat over it. The little “dip” was refreshing. This was repeated several times during the first half-mile of our “easy” float.

We came to hundred yard, stretch with no falls and casting right up to the bank, retrieving for two reel cranks, I had a savage strike. This fish was fighting hard, running and now jumping. What a pretty sight. I landed him and onto the stringer, a four-pounder! My dad took another and we were amassing a really good stringer of fish.

More falls, it seemed one every thirty or forty yards. It was now noon and I bet in the last four plus hours, we haven’t made two miles. I asked the relative and he said, “A few more falls than I remember, but we don’t have that far to go.” Later I thought, “Who is this guy who supposedly knows the river?”

The fishing remained great! Whenever we could we make a cast, at least half of them were rewarded with a solid hit. However, it seemed we were spending more time slipping under or pulling over trees, than fishing. We caught several more nice, three and four pound bass. Our stringer was getting heavy.

We slipped under a fall and blankety-blank, my Dad let out a line “blue streakers”, and slapped the top of his head, smushing a red wasp that had just popped him. Over the side and into the water and I think, “Oh no, he’s had a heart attack,” but he came up out of the water smiling and said, “Boy, when wasps get after you, it’s better to go into the water than run.” As if he could have run anywhere. He asked for my chew of tobacco and slapped it on the sting and soon the sting was just a memory.

More falls! Over them, under them, drag the boat, we’re both soaked, so are our other 2 fishing mates, it’s close to 5:00 PM and no relief in sight! The intrepid relative said, “There sure is a lot of these falls!” We echoed his sentiments!

Ahead was something new, two trees down at the same place, a longer drag, almost a portage. My Dad jumped onto the logs pulling the boat sideways so I could get out. We pulled the bow of the boat up on the logs and he jumped down into the water and the water exploded! He just had jumped down on top of an alligator! Ride ‘em cowboy! “Alligator, look out!” the fearless relative shouted. A six foot ‘gator was airborne as my Dad scrambled back up onto the logs.

The ‘gator was long gone but here came the “blue streakers”, blankety-blank-blank, from my Dad. He was soaking, again, really mad and ready to choke our “guide”, the relative. He said in a firm voice, “Get me out of this blankety-blank place. The relative replied, “We still got a ways to go.”

He was right, it was nearly dark and we seemed no closer to the take out ramp than we were two hours ago. Something was wrong here. We pulled over to the side and I asked the relative, “What’s the deal.” He replied, “Best I can figure, the hurricane that came through here last year (Camille) just tore up these woods and knocked all of these trees down. But don’t worry it’s an easy walk out’a here.” There’s that word, easy, again.

At near dark, probably 7:00 PM, we tied up the boats to a convenient (they are all convenient) fall. The “relative” could worry about his boats later. We started “out”, carrying our rods, luckily we didn’t bring any tackle boxes, fish on the stringers and water, today’s lunch being all gone. Our “guide”, the relative led off. We guessed we had to walk two to three miles to the road, then north on the road for another mile to the State ramp and our vehicles.

The darkening sky found us walking somewhat north, through very thick underbrush and trees everywhere, carrying our rods, the stringer of fish and our water. Down and up through a dry creek bed and slipping down the “up side” of the bank I remarked “This is more like a forced march than an easy walk.” No reply from our “guide”.

We trudged on for almost an hour and slipped down a creek bank and climbing up the other side and I saw my slide marks. We had walked in a circle! “Stop” I shouted and our weary procession slowed to a halt! “We’ve walked in a circle”, showing them my slide marks. I said, “This deal stops right now! I’m taking the lead and getting us out of this damn place!” I looked to the sky and found the Big Dipper and followed its bottom two stars to the North Star. That will be my mark to keep us on line. Our “guide” is silent.

With me in the lead we headed north. After about another hour we all decided to drop our stringers of fish and leave them for the varmints. Why did we keep those fish? We finished the water and dropped the water bags to the ground. Pressing on, to our north, the artillery at Ft. Polk began booming. I thought, “This will be a good guide too.”

Still bearing north we saw a light ahead, six hundred yards later it turned out to be a Coleman Lantern hanging in a tree. We saw three men sitting around a low fire. “Hello, the camp!” I shouted. Startled, the three men jumped up and looked around. Seeing us, four apparitions coming out of the dark with no lamps or flashlights, out came their guns!

“Hold it right there! Who are you?” We explained our plight, still standing outside the circle of light and finally our “guide” remarked that he is the brother in law of “so-in-so” a deputy sheriff. The guns came down and they asked, “What do you want.” I replied, “A drink of water and a ride to our cars parked at the State

My company sponsored an annual event for our customers and the occasion for 2002 was a golf outing at an exclusive country club, southwest of Katy, Texas. The club, located along the drainage of Buffalo Bayou, was on the Katy Prairie and was still a haven for ducks, doves, quail and alligators! The geese, up to a million in the past, had, years ago, moved to other haunts. When the geese were there, I had hunted this area many times.

The club offered a challenging layout, with lots of water hazards and sand traps. Our customer’s executives enjoyed the opportunity for the relaxation and appreciated my company’s hospitality.

When I played golf, the low 90’s were my norm, then, in 2001, I took lessons, from a former PGA tour player and friend and was never the same. My slice took on epic proportions; my grounders were frequent, lost balls increased and, once, playing with three of my salesman, I actually threw a sand wedge into a pond. Retiring from the game (and sticking to softball) in 2004, 2002 found me hosting this golf outing.

My game and temper were under control and my score through sixteen holes was 82. Trying to focus on only the next shot, and trying to silence the little demon in my mind telling me that maybe I’d be in the low 90’s for a change, I stepped up to the tee box and looked down at the potential horrors lining the fairway. A dogleg left with a flowing creek all the way to the green; on the right, a berm and sand running sixty yards from the two hundred, yard marker and behind the berm, a seasonal pond.

I teed off on seventeen and my slice that had been in check all day, returned with a vengeance as the ball sailed over the berm and settled behind it. Maybe I won’t be in the water and can salvage something out of this mess. Luckily, since my lessons, I had become a fair player out of hazards since I was in them most of the time!

My playing partner, a close friend and an executive in one of my old accounts, had also sliced, but was in the sand on the fairway side of the berm. He jumped behind the wheel and we sped off toward our balls. He kinda’ slowed down as we approached the berm, but as we reached the top, he hit the brakes hard!

Right below us was my golf ball and right beside it was a monster, ten, foot, alligator! The noise of the cart, or the ball hitting it, had awakened the beast and it looked up towards the cart. It wasn’t more that ten feet from me as my friend said “Wow” and quickly backed the cart down off of the berm. He inquired, “ Will you play that ball or drop over by mine, Hahaha?”

Fading on the last two holes, I ended the round with a 97, better by ten strokes than usual, but I told my partner, “The ‘gator cured my slice!” ramp.” Mumbled conversation and a reply, “Pay for the gas and we’ll take you to your car, but no water.” “Thanks” I said, then mumbling under my breath, “You sons ‘a bitches!”

Back at our cars, my Dad’s contractor friend was quiet, not having said much for the last six or seven hours and his relative, our “guide, only said, “It was a tougher float than I thought it would be.”
Saying our good byes, Daddy and I got into h

My company sponsored an annual event for our customers and the occasion for 2002 was a golf outing at an exclusive country club, southwest of Katy, Texas. The club, located along the drainage of Buffalo Bayou, was on the Katy Prairie and was still a haven for ducks, doves, quail and alligators! The geese, up to a million in the past, had, years ago, moved to other haunts. When the geese were there, I had hunted this area many times.

The club offered a challenging layout, with lots of water hazards and sand traps. Our customer’s executives enjoyed the opportunity for the relaxation and appreciated my company’s hospitality.

When I played golf, the low 90’s were my norm, then, in 2001, I took lessons, from a former PGA tour player and friend and was never the same. My slice took on epic proportions; my grounders were frequent, lost balls increased and, once, playing with three of my salesman, I actually threw a sand wedge into a pond. Retiring from the game (and sticking to softball) in 2004, 2002 found me hosting this golf outing.

My game and temper were under control and my score through sixteen holes was 82. Trying to focus on only the next shot, and trying to silence the little demon in my mind telling me that maybe I’d be in the low 90’s for a change, I stepped up to the tee box and looked down at the potential horrors lining the fairway. A dogleg left with a flowing creek all the way to the green; on the right, a berm and sand running sixty yards from the two hundred, yard marker and behind the berm, a seasonal pond.

I teed off on seventeen and my slice that had been in check all day, returned with a vengeance as the ball sailed over the berm and settled behind it. Maybe I won’t be in the water and can salvage something out of this mess. Luckily, since my lessons, I had become a fair player out of hazards since I was in them most of the time!

My playing partner, a close friend and an executive in one of my old accounts, had also sliced, but was in the sand on the fairway side of the berm. He jumped behind the wheel and we sped off toward our balls. He kinda’ slowed down as we approached the berm, but as we reached the top, he hit the brakes hard!

Right below us was my golf ball and right beside it was a monster, ten, foot, alligator! The noise of the cart, or the ball hitting it, had awakened the beast and it looked up towards the cart. It wasn’t more that ten feet from me as my friend said “Wow” and quickly backed the cart down off of the berm. He inquired, “ Will you play that ball or drop over by mine, Hahaha?”

Fading on the last two holes, I ended the round with a 97, better by ten strokes than usual, but I told my partner, “The ‘gator cured my slice!” is car. He looked at his watch and said, “It’s almost midnight. Quite a day!” I rolled down the window, and fished out a Pall Mall and lit up, blowing the smoke out of the window. My Dad had smoked for forty years but had quit ten years past and hated for me to smoke. He said to me, “Boy give me one of those.”
I never saw my Dad’s contractor friend again. And, I never saw my Dad smoke another cigarette!

August 1945 saw the end of WW II, and by the summer of 1946, military surplus stores were thriving. Eliminating the middleman, one of my industrious uncles, Austin Bryan, U. S. Navy Sea Bee, had come across a two man, inflatable life raft that had been “lost” from a Catalina flying boat. It was unused 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, another WW II veteran and former student at Texas A & M College (now University) and his son Benny, to an oxbow lake off of the Brazos River, south of Richmond, Texas. This was a very “private” lake being on a large State Prison Farm.
Another uncle of mine, A. C. Turner, Uncle Ace, had returned from the war and was back working for the Texas Prison System and had arranged for us to fish on this lake. He was Rehabilitation Director and, at that time, the Texas Prison System was self sufficient and profitable. Drugs, illegal immigration and our Federal Courts have that! Uncle Ace went on to become Warden of The Walls unit in Huntsville, then to the State Parole Board, rising to its President.

We drove to the lake, inflated the boat and then “took turns” fishing out of the life raft. Benny 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, which we put on a communal stringer and then headed to shore and turned the raft over to our Dads.

Left on the bank while our Dads were working on the bass, Benny and I caught some grasshoppers and went to bait fishing for bream and perch. 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 9 and 11 years old we thought nothing about it and kept fishing.

Our Dads were headed back our way with a couple of more bass 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”. The water exploded and a big, it seemed five or six foot 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 to high heaven because the “gator was stripping the line from his reel and his only means of trying to stop the ‘gator’s run, was to apply thumb pressure to the reel’s spool. Hence a blistered thumb!

The ‘gator jumped again, the plug pulled loose and came flying 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 you all up for a dinner.” Silently we packed up the raft in its plywood box and we 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.

The end of March 1958 found me casting towards the bank with my trusty, yellow piggy boat, while cruising along the shoreline of a one-acre stock tank in Falls County, Texas. I was congratulating myself on my discovery and manufacture of Release 1, of an inner tube float, bass fishing system. Propulsion was by swim fins attached to each foot and with very little practice I could start and move along slowly and even stop and loiter in one spot for several casts.

The cast landed inches up on the bank; I eased the piggy boat into the water and started my retrieve. It hadn’t moved 2 or 3 feet and was smashed by a hungry bass. Clearing the water, not 10 feet away from me, I could see the droplets flying off as it tried to shake the hook loose. Lipping the bass, slipping it on the stringer and I had landed the first bass officially credited to my new float fishing system. Before dark four more were added and I was sold on this new way to fish!

My bill of materials for the float fishing system was strictly a single level one. One patched inner tube (with no leaks); 3, 24 inch long pieces of rope, and one 5/8 inch piece of plywood, cut with 2 leg holes, drilled to allow the ropes to pass through and rounded off to fit inside of the inner tube.

Drawbacks were a gusty wind and the cold water. We were already water skiing along the coast, but central Texas was just waking up to spring, the water was chilly and a wet suit would have been of more utility than my Wranglers.

Two more afternoon trips were equally successful. On one, I hooked a four, plus pounder and was pulled around the tank. That was a fun trip and I released the fish.

Word spread quickly around my family and my bass fishing friends. My niece’s boy friend invited me for a “demonstration” fishing trip to a special, stock tank on property his Dad managed, just outside of Halletsville. Making sure it was ‘gator free, I accepted.

Donning my flippers, I stepped into my inner tube and waded into the tank. Showing off for boy friend and his Dad, I moved forward with speed, stopped and loitered, backed up a little and let fly a cast along the edge of some moss. The strike on my yellow piggy boat was instantaneous and as I set the hook, my plywood seat broke and down I went, stopping my fall by catching both biceps on the tube.

Boy friend and his Dad were hooting and laughing, I was struggling with the fish and trying to keep myself in the tube. I was wishing the bass would throw the hook, but it didn’t, and it was a great struggle lipping it and getting me, the tube, my rod and reel and the bass to the shore, where I fumbled the fish on to the stringer.

Not being able to figure out why my well-crafted seat had broken, one look by boy friend’s Dad was all it took. He queried, “Jon, you didn’t use marine plywood? Your seat didn’t break it just came unglued! Haw-Haw!”

Version 2 of my bill of material included one 5/8 Inch piece of marine plywood and Release 2 of the product fixed the problem.

Lake Lanier was about 25 miles north of my home in Lost Forest, in Fulton County, Georgia and offered some very good bass fishing. Sometimes I would take my 12 foot aluminum, boat and fish around the edges, always staying within electric motor range of the launch spot and other times I would go with a friend, Phil, who had a luxury, bass boat.

Phil, red headed with a temper to match, worked for me and helped me coach a Georgia Youth Football team and in college, had played middle linebacker for Auburn. He told me an interesting story about when he took one of his “official” visits to Alabama and met with the legendary coach, Bear Bryant. The Bear told him flat off, “Son, you’re just too small to play for me!” Phil played at 200 pounds and was 6 foot tall. He went on to Auburn and played against Alabama 3 times, winning two of the games. Phil was a tough guy!

Early one March morning, during a stretch of unusually warm weather, the sun was just peeking over the horizon and Phil and I pulled up to a launch ramp, near Cumming, Georgia and were first in line behind two fat men that were trying to manually launch an old fiberglass boat. We got out of the truck, began loading our gear into the boat, but couldn’t keep our eyes off these two fat guys trying to manhandle this old boat.

Walking over to them, I courteously asked the one nearest me, who was knee deep in the lake, if they needed any help and his reply, to say the least shocked me, “Hell no, we don’t need any “beep-beep” help and I’ll whip you’re “beep” if you don’t leave us alone!”

Taking this as a threat, I advanced on my adversary, but with the speed of a Southeast Conference linebacker, Phil jumped between us and I thought the fight was on. One look at Phil, red hair and red face, was all it took for Junior Samples, of Hee Haw fame, ‘ole BR-549, to back up and mumble an apology. Quickly saying, “We’ll get out of your way and you fellas can get launched.” All the while, his buddy, standing, slack jawed, on the other side of the boat and trailer, also in knee deep, water, never moved.

With their help, we launched and went on our way fishing and caught two nice 5 pounders and when we came back to the launch ramp, thank goodness, they were gone. We laughed when we discussed the possible newspaper headline, “Business Executives Fight With Prominent Entertainer Over Boat Launching Rights!”

The two things about this incident that I remember most were, one, we never introduced ourselves, and, two, he really was missing his front teeth.