Venison sausage, pickled eggs: gone fishin'

It worked out to about $10 a fish. And that was just for the fishing license ­-- I did not have to pay, personally, for the boat, the captain, the bait and other such essentials to a day-long bass fishing trip. That was all supplied by my friend Don, who hosts about 10 of us on such an outing, on Long Point Bay, every summer.
Now, when I say he does this every summer, I am being more presumptuous than I should be. Don keeps careful minutes, each trip, and the minutes always point out that each and every one of us, with the exception of mine host himself, is on probation.
It's not completely clear what we would have to do in order to lose our probationary rights, but none of us are eager to test the boundaries, at the risk of finding out. So, for example, we agree that Don always catches the biggest fish, and that it would be foolish to actually measure the bass, since Don's catch is demonstrably larger.
This is the only time, all year, that I fish. One day. Actually, by the time we made the trek to Port Rowan, and then took the two-hour boat ride to where the fish were allegedly biting, we probably got no more than about four hours of genuine fishing in.
In that time, I caught three fish, and watched several others escape my line. It's a thoughtful moment, when you realize a bass is smarter than you are. But I did triumph over our finned foes, three times in a day.
While this sounds less than stellar, I actually wound up in the middle of the pack, when it came to production this year. Everyone caught at least one fish, but for some, that was their total. No one caught their personal limit; Dave, our "sleeper" this year, caught nothing for about two and a half hours, and then landed (boated?) five in the last hour and a half to take the title.
This may not be exactly how it appears in the minutes of the meeting, however. Don has a way of massaging the facts, and may, in fact, wind up as the superior fisherman of record. Who are we probationers to argue?
All in all, this is an unusual day. It's always on a weekday, so except for two or three of the assembled multitude who are retired, for the rest of us it carries that special sense of playing hooky. We should be working; instead, to quote an ancient phrase, we have "gone fishin".
We all take along some edibles, which are served starting around 8 a.m. --­ and comprise a most unusual breakfast. Venison summer sausage, for example, pickled eggs, limburger cheese with sweet onions; cheese curds (cheese is big with these guys), suicide pepperoni. Not your standard healthy breakfast, but it seems just right, when you are skimming (well, in this boat, perhaps "ploughing" is the more apt phrase) across the waters of Lake Erie.
We get to the area where the fish are hanging out, today -­ how the captain knows, we don't ask... it would be like asking a Mason to reveal secrets of the order --­ and we fish.
Actually, we cast out our lines, and reel them in. Pretty much everything else, except for the eating and drinking part, is handled by the captain. He puts the bait on the hooks, he replaces lost hooks and sinkers, he nets the fish. We take the credit... or give it to Don.
On the way home, we stop at a place where the owners have built a niche businesses, cleaning fish for the likes of us.
Then we finish the homeward trip (this year in a borrowed 1977 camper van with a designated driver), knowing the feast that awaits us once Don fires up the barbecue and concocts his secret bass seasoning.
One bit of that fresh-caught fish, and there is no doubt in anyone's mind that Don caught the most, the biggest, perhaps the only fish of the day! Let the record show it.