Texas. Big is Texas. The people of Texas love their state, still think of Texas as its own country. It’s not Six Flags Great America — rather, Six Flags Over Texas. But we drive past Six Flags Over Texas and its towering rollercoasters because there are no children on this trip. There are no wives on this trip. There are only grown men, eager to restore a bit of their masculinity with a weekend getaway, a “man-cation,” if you will.
We lost two men in the early round. The early round was asking our wives if we could indeed go on this man-cation, which isn’t very manly at all. The lost two will be made fun of incessantly throughout the weekend. It helps us feel good about ourselves.
We are men, damn it, and men go fishing and we are going fishing on an enormous lake in northeast Texas.
If we can only find this enormous lake in northeast Texas.
We are at the exact spot the car’s GPS system says we should be to rent a boat to go fishing like real manly men on this enormous lake in northeast Texas. But we are staring at a pumpkin patch. We don’t want to be at a pumpkin patch, and asking for directions is not, of course, an option.
After an hour or so of cursing (and whimpering), we find ourselves behind a dilapidated mini-mart, handing $200 cash to a stocky, long-haired fellow named James.
James was born and bred in Texas, owns a small boat rental business on Lake Lewisville. He’s got a boat — a big, yellow pontoon, full of dents and dings — a few wave runners, and some kind of weird flying contraption he says we should go up with him in. “We’ll take the big, yellow pontoon and see you in a few hours, thank-you-very-much.”
The sea was choppy that day, my friends. Wind gusts of up to 100 mph (10 mph) rocked (lightly swayed) that big, yellow pontoon all about, but we stayed the course (anchored), determined to hook ourselves a 60-pound Bigmouth Buffalo (possibly a 3-pound catfish).
After four hours, we catch nothing but a little bit of nausea from the beer and the listing. We’re able to return the boat to a grinning James, who wipes away the little self-respect we have for not drowning by telling us he is headed to South America in the coming days to mountain bike along some of the most treacherous cliffs in the world. Good luck, James.
A David Allan Coe concert can’t seem to revive or restore our objective of this being a man-cation, but a huge Texas vs. Oklahoma college football game at the Cotton Bowl is sure to do the trick.
If we can only find the Cotton Bowl.
The GPS puts us at a dead end in a residential neighborhood outside of Dallas. This time we break down and ask for directions. A sweet little Asian woman directs us to the game. The bleacher seats in this old stadium are not made to conform to men who stand over 6 feet tall. It’s ridiculously uncomfortable. We sit awkwardly scrunched together through a 55-17 Texas loss.
Later, we meet another Texas-born-and-bred fellow named Larry who asks us, rather bluntly, “If you don’t hunt deer and you don’t drink Scotch, then, what do you do?”
We have no answer.
bspencer@oakpark.com
Twitter: @oakparksports