Deadmeat
Well-known member
I apologize in advance for the length of this post but there's just no way to shorten it.
Ok, I'll admit it. I'm not necesarily proud of what I did. On the other hand, I've not lost any sleep over it either. I'm one of those guys who believes that what goes around comes around, and the jerks of the world generally get what's coming to them at some point in life. Unfortunately, however, I've seldom been around to see it. Even more seldom have I ever played a part in their come-uppance. But I have to admit that the story I'm about to relate warms my heart every time I think about it.
It happened in Knoxville, Tennessee a few years ago toward the end of sauger season--probably around the end of February if I remember correctly. I had been fishing for sauger on Fort Loudon Lake all winter, each time launching my boat from the South Knoxville Bridge ramp. On this occasion I got to the ramp about 1:00 p.m., having taken off from work early. For that time of year the afternoon was unusually warm, and I arrived at the ramp knowing it was likely to be crowded with fishermen wanting to take advantage of the warmer than normal temperatures. After fishing all winter in insulated coveralls, I, too, was looking forward to a less than bone chilling run up the river.
Sure enough, the parking lot was crowded, and several boats were ahead of me waiting to launch. As always, I stopped near the entrance to the parking lot to load my boat with my equipment so that I could launch quickly and minimize any delay for those wanting to launch after me. Moving my batteries to the boat and loading my rods and reels and various other fishing paraphernalia probably took something over five minutes, and when I finished I was somewhat surprised to see that not only had only one boat launched but the remaining three boats were lined up to launch on only one side of the ramp. I thought this strange, given that the ramp is designed to launch two boats at a time, one on either side of a floating dock.
Leaving my boat, I walked down toward the dock where the owners of the remaining three boats were gathered. On my way there I noticed that a black truck with a tandem jet ski trailer was parked and apparently unattended on one side of the ramp. One jet ski was on the trailer, which was backed in the water. When I asked what the problem was, the three fishermen replied that the #!@*& who owned the black truck had backed the trailer holding two jet skis into the water, offloaded one, locked up the truck, and had taken off upriver on the jet ski. According to the fishermen, they had been waiting for at least 15 minutes, and they had tried several times to get him to move his truck whenever he came by. Each time, he gave them a hearty wave and continued riding.
These guys were ticked!!! Finally, one of them, a guy who was only marginally smaller than Andre the Giant of 'rasslin' fame, said the truck was going to be moved one way or the other. How he planned to accomplish it, I don't know, but just as he approached the driver's side of the truck the jet skier (whom I'll call Slick) came by, whipped up to the dock, and demanded to know what Big Bubba was doing to his truck. Bubba responded that he was going to move the truck because it was tying up the ramp. To this, Slick responded that this was the first time he had had his jet skis out since the previous summer, and now that he had checked one of them out he was going to check out the other, and he'd only be gone another 10 minutes or so. Wrong response!
Bubba really became incensed and told the jet skier that not only would the truck be moved within the next 30 seconds but that if it wasn't Bubba would put the jet ski in a location other than its customary place on the trailer, if you get my drift. Discretion being the better part of valor and having a girth substantially less than Bubba's, Slick tied the jet ski to the dock, cussing at the top of his lungs all the while. It was the first time I've ever witnessed ramp rage, and I can tell you that it compared favorably with the worst things that happen on I-75 out of Atlanta. This guy was totally out of control, and had Bubba been somewhat smaller or had there been only one fisherman instead of four, I have no doubt that a fight would have ensued.
By this time Bubba had walked back to his truck and was perhaps 50 yards from the jet skier. Still cussing, Slick shouted that Bubba's geneology was questionable, or something to that effect, that Bubba descended from a line of female dogs, and that Bubba's application to MENSA would probably be rejected. Too far away and probably too slow-moving to do anything further, Bubba merely raised his middle finger, showing Slick that he was Number One in Bubba's heart. With a few parting words to those of us who had been with Bubba, the jet skier left at full throttle, the no wake zone be damned. After some further musings over how inconsiderate some folks can be, Bubba, the other two fishermen, and I parted ways, and a short time later I was headed upriver.
Finding a small flotilla of sauger fishermen at the deep hole near the Ijams Nature Park, I cut the motor and began fishing. After maybe 15 minutes I heard the unmistakable whine of a jet ski. Sure enough, here came Slick still running full-bore. In case you don't know it, sauger fishermen fish vertically and are often tightly bunched. As such, common etiquette demands that the wake of a passing boat be kept to a minimum, not only to keep fishermen from being thrown out of the boat but to keep the tightly-packed boats from slamming into each other.
As expected, common etiquette was uncommon to Slick, as was common sense. Never slowing up, he weaved throughout the armada of boats, dousing some fishermen with his spray. And as expected, the fishermen responded with shouts and by giving him half of the peace sign. Several more times he zipped by at full speed, although never again through the cluster of boats. Each time he was met with angry shouts and obscene gestures. He genuinely seemed to enjoy the havoc he was wreaking.
Fishing was not good that day, and after some period of time I decided to try another hole I knew of several miles upstream. It was a long run, but having little else to show for my efforts I decided it was worth a shot. A couple hours and a couple sauger later dusk was approaching and I decided it was time to call it a day. I was the last boat to leave the hole above John Sevier Highway, and I saw no other boats until I got to the ramp at the confluence of the Holston and French Broad Rivers, where two boats were being taken out of the water. Looking upstream I saw no other boats on the Holston either.
By this time the sun was setting, and it wouldn't be long before it was dark so I headed back at a good clip. I was about halfway between the French Broad and South Knoxville Bridge ramps when I saw something in the middle of the river. As I got closer I saw it was a jet skier waving frantically. I couldn't hear him over the sound of my motor, so I cut the engine and drifted to within about 20 feet of him.
It was Slick! At this point, I'd have to say our reactions were diametrically opposed. My reaction was, "There is a God!" His was, "Oh, S..t!" From the expression on his face I knew he recognized me instantly. Still, he explained that his jet ski had conked out and asked if I could give him a tow back to the ramp, which was still a good two miles away.
Now, I'll have to admit that until then I had never turned down a plea for help from another outdoorsman. I have no love of jet skis, but I have towed them to shore on a couple of occasions, and several times I've helped get offroad vehicles out of mudholes. This was another story, however. This guy had not only been a pain in the *** from the outset , but he had endangered my safety and the safety of other fishermen by running full-bore through a cluster boats, laughing all the while.
At this point I weighed the options. It was obvious that there were no other boats on this part of the lake and I was his last hope of getting a tow back to the ramp. Still, he was wearing a wetsuit, so he was in no danger of getting hypothermia, and he wore a lifejacket so he wouldn't drown. From this location he could: 1. Drift or paddle his way to shore, walk through the fields, and try to find help on Riverside Drive a good mile away, 2. Make is way to shore and walk out through the Ijams Nature Park, or 3. Drift down to Island Home Airport, still a good distance away. Whichever option he chose he was in for a long walk in the dark to say nothing of the difficulty of getting the jet ski back to the ramp.
Given that he was in no danger and wishing to seize the rare opportunity to screw over some jerk who so desperately deserved it, I looked over a Slick and said, "Aren't paybacks a *****?" and referred to him as a body part commonly referred to as an anus to those of us in the medical profession and as the vent to the hook and bullet crowd. With this, I cranked the motor and continued downstream, leaving him stranded and incredulous on an inoperable jet ski in the middle of the Tennessee River with five minutes left until dark.
Continuing downstream, I met two other boats at the Ijams Nature Park hole, both of which were just leaving for the Knoxville Bridge ramp. After arriving at the ramp we took out boats out of the water and went our separate ways.
Like I said, I'm not really proud of what I did. I know I should have overlooked his out of control, in your face attitude, given him a tow back to the ramp, and chalked it off to him just being a jerk. Sometimes, however, some small measure of retribution rises up within me, and the desire to put the screws to someone who has really ticked me off overrides my Bible belt upbringing.
Over the remaining few weeks of sauger season I told the story to a couple of friends who regularly fish with me. They, in turn, told others, who told others, so that now whenever I get together with a group of sauger fishermen I am invariably aked to relate the story at least once. It seems to be particularly heartwarming to those who were there that day, wishing they had been given the opportunity to do something similar but were not given the chance. I've not seen Slick since, but somehow I suspect that he will test his jet skis in a less remote and less hostile location next time.
Ok, I'll admit it. I'm not necesarily proud of what I did. On the other hand, I've not lost any sleep over it either. I'm one of those guys who believes that what goes around comes around, and the jerks of the world generally get what's coming to them at some point in life. Unfortunately, however, I've seldom been around to see it. Even more seldom have I ever played a part in their come-uppance. But I have to admit that the story I'm about to relate warms my heart every time I think about it.
It happened in Knoxville, Tennessee a few years ago toward the end of sauger season--probably around the end of February if I remember correctly. I had been fishing for sauger on Fort Loudon Lake all winter, each time launching my boat from the South Knoxville Bridge ramp. On this occasion I got to the ramp about 1:00 p.m., having taken off from work early. For that time of year the afternoon was unusually warm, and I arrived at the ramp knowing it was likely to be crowded with fishermen wanting to take advantage of the warmer than normal temperatures. After fishing all winter in insulated coveralls, I, too, was looking forward to a less than bone chilling run up the river.
Sure enough, the parking lot was crowded, and several boats were ahead of me waiting to launch. As always, I stopped near the entrance to the parking lot to load my boat with my equipment so that I could launch quickly and minimize any delay for those wanting to launch after me. Moving my batteries to the boat and loading my rods and reels and various other fishing paraphernalia probably took something over five minutes, and when I finished I was somewhat surprised to see that not only had only one boat launched but the remaining three boats were lined up to launch on only one side of the ramp. I thought this strange, given that the ramp is designed to launch two boats at a time, one on either side of a floating dock.
Leaving my boat, I walked down toward the dock where the owners of the remaining three boats were gathered. On my way there I noticed that a black truck with a tandem jet ski trailer was parked and apparently unattended on one side of the ramp. One jet ski was on the trailer, which was backed in the water. When I asked what the problem was, the three fishermen replied that the #!@*& who owned the black truck had backed the trailer holding two jet skis into the water, offloaded one, locked up the truck, and had taken off upriver on the jet ski. According to the fishermen, they had been waiting for at least 15 minutes, and they had tried several times to get him to move his truck whenever he came by. Each time, he gave them a hearty wave and continued riding.
These guys were ticked!!! Finally, one of them, a guy who was only marginally smaller than Andre the Giant of 'rasslin' fame, said the truck was going to be moved one way or the other. How he planned to accomplish it, I don't know, but just as he approached the driver's side of the truck the jet skier (whom I'll call Slick) came by, whipped up to the dock, and demanded to know what Big Bubba was doing to his truck. Bubba responded that he was going to move the truck because it was tying up the ramp. To this, Slick responded that this was the first time he had had his jet skis out since the previous summer, and now that he had checked one of them out he was going to check out the other, and he'd only be gone another 10 minutes or so. Wrong response!
Bubba really became incensed and told the jet skier that not only would the truck be moved within the next 30 seconds but that if it wasn't Bubba would put the jet ski in a location other than its customary place on the trailer, if you get my drift. Discretion being the better part of valor and having a girth substantially less than Bubba's, Slick tied the jet ski to the dock, cussing at the top of his lungs all the while. It was the first time I've ever witnessed ramp rage, and I can tell you that it compared favorably with the worst things that happen on I-75 out of Atlanta. This guy was totally out of control, and had Bubba been somewhat smaller or had there been only one fisherman instead of four, I have no doubt that a fight would have ensued.
By this time Bubba had walked back to his truck and was perhaps 50 yards from the jet skier. Still cussing, Slick shouted that Bubba's geneology was questionable, or something to that effect, that Bubba descended from a line of female dogs, and that Bubba's application to MENSA would probably be rejected. Too far away and probably too slow-moving to do anything further, Bubba merely raised his middle finger, showing Slick that he was Number One in Bubba's heart. With a few parting words to those of us who had been with Bubba, the jet skier left at full throttle, the no wake zone be damned. After some further musings over how inconsiderate some folks can be, Bubba, the other two fishermen, and I parted ways, and a short time later I was headed upriver.
Finding a small flotilla of sauger fishermen at the deep hole near the Ijams Nature Park, I cut the motor and began fishing. After maybe 15 minutes I heard the unmistakable whine of a jet ski. Sure enough, here came Slick still running full-bore. In case you don't know it, sauger fishermen fish vertically and are often tightly bunched. As such, common etiquette demands that the wake of a passing boat be kept to a minimum, not only to keep fishermen from being thrown out of the boat but to keep the tightly-packed boats from slamming into each other.
As expected, common etiquette was uncommon to Slick, as was common sense. Never slowing up, he weaved throughout the armada of boats, dousing some fishermen with his spray. And as expected, the fishermen responded with shouts and by giving him half of the peace sign. Several more times he zipped by at full speed, although never again through the cluster of boats. Each time he was met with angry shouts and obscene gestures. He genuinely seemed to enjoy the havoc he was wreaking.
Fishing was not good that day, and after some period of time I decided to try another hole I knew of several miles upstream. It was a long run, but having little else to show for my efforts I decided it was worth a shot. A couple hours and a couple sauger later dusk was approaching and I decided it was time to call it a day. I was the last boat to leave the hole above John Sevier Highway, and I saw no other boats until I got to the ramp at the confluence of the Holston and French Broad Rivers, where two boats were being taken out of the water. Looking upstream I saw no other boats on the Holston either.
By this time the sun was setting, and it wouldn't be long before it was dark so I headed back at a good clip. I was about halfway between the French Broad and South Knoxville Bridge ramps when I saw something in the middle of the river. As I got closer I saw it was a jet skier waving frantically. I couldn't hear him over the sound of my motor, so I cut the engine and drifted to within about 20 feet of him.
It was Slick! At this point, I'd have to say our reactions were diametrically opposed. My reaction was, "There is a God!" His was, "Oh, S..t!" From the expression on his face I knew he recognized me instantly. Still, he explained that his jet ski had conked out and asked if I could give him a tow back to the ramp, which was still a good two miles away.
Now, I'll have to admit that until then I had never turned down a plea for help from another outdoorsman. I have no love of jet skis, but I have towed them to shore on a couple of occasions, and several times I've helped get offroad vehicles out of mudholes. This was another story, however. This guy had not only been a pain in the *** from the outset , but he had endangered my safety and the safety of other fishermen by running full-bore through a cluster boats, laughing all the while.
At this point I weighed the options. It was obvious that there were no other boats on this part of the lake and I was his last hope of getting a tow back to the ramp. Still, he was wearing a wetsuit, so he was in no danger of getting hypothermia, and he wore a lifejacket so he wouldn't drown. From this location he could: 1. Drift or paddle his way to shore, walk through the fields, and try to find help on Riverside Drive a good mile away, 2. Make is way to shore and walk out through the Ijams Nature Park, or 3. Drift down to Island Home Airport, still a good distance away. Whichever option he chose he was in for a long walk in the dark to say nothing of the difficulty of getting the jet ski back to the ramp.
Given that he was in no danger and wishing to seize the rare opportunity to screw over some jerk who so desperately deserved it, I looked over a Slick and said, "Aren't paybacks a *****?" and referred to him as a body part commonly referred to as an anus to those of us in the medical profession and as the vent to the hook and bullet crowd. With this, I cranked the motor and continued downstream, leaving him stranded and incredulous on an inoperable jet ski in the middle of the Tennessee River with five minutes left until dark.
Continuing downstream, I met two other boats at the Ijams Nature Park hole, both of which were just leaving for the Knoxville Bridge ramp. After arriving at the ramp we took out boats out of the water and went our separate ways.
Like I said, I'm not really proud of what I did. I know I should have overlooked his out of control, in your face attitude, given him a tow back to the ramp, and chalked it off to him just being a jerk. Sometimes, however, some small measure of retribution rises up within me, and the desire to put the screws to someone who has really ticked me off overrides my Bible belt upbringing.
Over the remaining few weeks of sauger season I told the story to a couple of friends who regularly fish with me. They, in turn, told others, who told others, so that now whenever I get together with a group of sauger fishermen I am invariably aked to relate the story at least once. It seems to be particularly heartwarming to those who were there that day, wishing they had been given the opportunity to do something similar but were not given the chance. I've not seen Slick since, but somehow I suspect that he will test his jet skis in a less remote and less hostile location next time.
