ODE TO THE AGING BASS FISHERMAN - JULY 2006

I.
Up before the sun’s bleary eye
Peeks over tall eastern hills
Shading the lake from sun’s warm rays.
Bundled-up in winter’s frock,
A light bellowing mist
Hushes across the lake.
A buff of wind rides on mist’s wing
Wrinkling dark glass-pane
Wavelets roll to far side
Gently lapping distant shore’s edges.
Tall pine trees shiver
In dawns early light.
Early-spring mornings breathe
Brushes our cheeks
With its fretful cold hands
Sending chills to the core of marrow.
The sun slowly rose over the hill
Comforting us with its warm slanting-rays,
The sensual comfort of woman’s warmth.

II.
Two dignified gents - in their eighties,
Put-putting around the lake
With knowledgeable demeanor
Of professional bass fisherman,
Pretending they know what heck they are doing.
Armed to the teeth with every known
Conceivable devices in the bass world
Chasing the scattering elusive bass.

Harry’s presentation was perfection.
From the denizen - Polaris launches,
Erupting the surface with explosive force.
The cry of “Fish-On” echoes across the lake.
A banzai charge a meter high,
Gnashing its powerful toothless jaw
And flashing its angry red gills
As it tosses its fierce head from side to side,
Trying in vain to dislodge the talons of death,
Like a bull dog shaking a Raggedy Ann doll.
Then plunges back to its lair
Splash,
Sending concentric rings of tsunami waves
Which race and dissipate into thinness.
Shuddering, and sprinting hither and yond
Scattering water boils on the surface
As it struggles for freedom
From line that binds.
Peeling 5 meters of line,
Sending the reel zinging the fisherman’s song.
The race for freedom ebb
Exhausted the vanquished lay belly-up.
Harry grasped the lower lip
Lifting the bass sky high
Showering the lake with fish’s sweat
Bringing closure to the fearless warrior,
The Fighting Bass.

III.
It wasn’t a good day for fishing
The bites were far between
Just a few to keep us motivated.
We keep plugging away
Hoping to find that rainbow in the lake.
We called it a day.
There is “Human Comedy”,
There always is
When two “OLD FARTS” with insidious intent
Of ethnic cleansing of bass.

Fishing God, Ku’ula,
Choreograph the events of the day
As it casts his vengeful kahuna
To those who decimate herd of bass
Leaving the flock parentless.
The eagle claw’s talons struck tenaciously,
And hung-on, refusing to let go,
Pinning Harry to his seat,
Unable to rise from his seat.

With dexterity of surgeons hand
The first triple hook was detached.
As work began on the next triple hook,
The lose hook re-hook his trousers,
If only I had 4 hands.
The fisherman on the next boat dock
Spied me prodding Harry’s okole
With a long nose pliers,
What strange behavior he surmised.
It took 5 long minutes or more
To extricate 3 sharp triple hooks
From the seat of Harry’s pants.
Fishing lures are divisive devices
That entices fish to strike
With dreadful consequences
And to those who sit on fishing lures.

The hookee was fine
The unhooker had a few penetrating nicks.
The small tear on Harry’s baggy pants
Did not expose his pretty behind.
The vinyl seat sustain the most damage
A small puka.
We survived fishing free from injure
Just curses from the Fish God Ku’ula
And hurtful wounds to Harry’s ego.
He will forget again
And I will be there to pick up the pieces.

IV.
It was a wrongful beginning
We failed to pay homage to Ku’ula.
Let’s start over again
When spring shed its hoary frock
For warm-spring’s smock
And incantation to Ancient Fish Deities
For heavenly connection
And to redeem unused karma.

How did Harry develop his thick hide
That is impervious to sharp hooks or knives?
Yes, Harry did sit on his knife once.
I search in vain from stem to stern
And from larboard to starboard for naught.
There the knife sat,
Under Harry’s ass.
“HARD ASS HARRY” his new moniker.
Fishing with oldies
Could be hazardous to ones health,
Frequent lapse of memories is the norm.
I too - will need a HARD ASS,
Perhaps Kevlar sown to the seat of my pants.
Preventive measures must be taken
When fishing with Oldies
Who keep misplacing lures and knives.

Be forewarn!
The Fish God Ku’ula and bass are after our ASS
For territorial transgressions.

DEDUCATED TO HARRY NAKANO
Hawaiian translation:
Kahuna = Sorcerer, evil spell
Ku’ula = Hawaiian Fish God
Okole = buttocks
Puka = hole
The Poets Moniker: Okole Puka