Last night, I had a vision. Papa Hemingway came to me in the midst of my detestable sloth, and spoke unto me:
“Look at you. Pathetic. You’ve spent the entire Summer sitting on your ass on the couch stone cold sober, when you could have been drunk off your ass in a fishing boat . . . in the rain.”
I looked upon him with bleary eyes, made crossed by the flashing of late-night infomercials, and repented. Papa then spake thusly:
“This is your last weekend before you have to go back to thinking. Get out there and gut a fish. Like a man. In the rain.”
And when I awoke, and saw Bassmasters at 4am before me, I knew the vision to be true.
So it was said, and so it has been written. This weekend I go to Lynxsville with my father, get in touch with my Inner Hemmingway, and sit on an old broken down pier hanging over the Mississip’, Hubbard’s Fishing Float and Cafe. There will be much drinking of fermented barley and hops, and consuming of cheese sandwiches. And we will return victorious, many walleye and pike strung in buckets too small in the back of the Chevy pick-up.
In the rain.