"When I finally made the ninety-foot cast, I let out a loud
hoot that echoed throughout the neighborhood"
My fly line shot out like a bullet from a gun. Pride welled up inside me as my fly line unfurled seventy, eighty then ninety feet! That would put me in the ranks with Lefty Kreh, Mel Kreiger and other famous fly fisherman. It seemed I was destined to become a fly fishing guru. However, I could not foresee the disaster that was impending.
It wasn't easy perfecting the quadruple-haul cast. Hours were spent in the front yard. My wife, kids and neighbors all thought I was crazy. At work I would sit in front of my computer making casting gyrations. Soon my co-workers distanced themselves from me. I was too focused to notice. At the bus stops, church, around town, the gyrations continued.
When I finally made the ninety foot cast, I let out a loud hoot that echoed throughout the neighborhood. It didn't matter that it was midnight because history knows no time limits. It was time to share my accomplishment with the world. I decided to put on a fishing clinic and put up several fliers around the community.
Since the tractor-pull contest was called off because the tractor broke down, and the barn dance was a month away, there was nothing to compete with my fly casting seminar.
The shore was crowded at the river that ran through the outskirts of town. I was decked out in my finest gear, looking like a real pro. I had every gizmo and gadget on that a fly fisherman could own. I could see the awe in the kids' eyes as I strutted into the water. A hush fell over the crowd as I closed my eyes and started the Lamaze breathing that I learned in my wife's childbirth classes. Then I started gyrating, slowly at first, and then with ever-increasing speed. The line was starting to shoot out, five feet, ten feet, and then something horrible happened. On my back-cast my reel snagged the ripcord of my inflatable life jacket and it started to inflate. I pretended not to notice as if it was all part of the show, but it soon began restricting my arm movements. Before long it was at maximum inflation and I felt like a marshmallow with short arms trying to cast. My fly landed a mere twelve feet away. The crowd was robust with laughter.
Rex Jordan, the class clown of the third grade, started yelling " Dough Boy! Dough Boy!" Soon the whole crowd was shouting in unison.
That day I became a legend in town, perhaps not as a fly-fishing guru, but if you mention the name "Dough Boy" anywhere in my county...They'll know exactly whom you're talking about.