Call it years and years of ill-bred backwoods raisings. Or call it a guilty conscience. But anytime I have a close encounter with a game warden I break out into a cold sweat and try to bolt for the nearest pickup truck. The latest encounter during my vacation this weekend was certainly no exception.
As I was loading the fishing poles into the boat at dockside, I spotted a Department of Natural Resources boat coming around the bend. It was like they knew I was coming. Like maybe the wife and kid had tipped them off. And it was at that exact moment I remembered that my fishing license had expired on June 30.
Now don't get me wrong, the DeWitt family has come a long way from our early days of being notorious poachers and moonshiners and hog rustlers, when a man had to bend the rules a little bit to put food on the table and survive. Some of us, me included, now actually have a healthy respect for the law. Or, rather, a healthy fear of jail.
But a few of us around still suffer from a certain hereditary poor judgment in the heat of fishing fever, as well as a bad memory for little things like seasons and legal limits and hunting restrictions and renewing fishing licenses. I guess old habits die hard.
As the DNR boat chugged by, one of the officers waved. My son waved back from the dock.
"Put your hand down, kid," I told him in a panic. "Don't make eye contact. Put that pole down and get back in the house, quick!"
It was kind of hot anyway, so I decided to casually ease back inside myself and have a cold glass of ice tea, and give the wildlife officers a chance to get well downstream before we hit the water.
But wouldn't you know it, right about dark they caught us coming back in. I knew it was a DNR boat from the way the hairs were prickled up on the back of my cold, sweaty neck.
It was only then that I remembered the new, current registration sticker that I was supposed to stick to the boat when it came in the mail a month ago was still sitting on the table back at the lake house. And then there was that puny, undersized, illegal stripped bass flopping around between my feet that I was planning to use for cut bait.
I could see the headlines now: Guardian Editor charged with game violations, cops a plea and rats out entire family.
Yes, I would sing like a canary, if only they didn't take me to DNR jail (which in my imagination would be a small, cramped place full of stinky, sweaty fisherman with no poles, all being forced to sit around and stare at a fish tank full of bass, which of course would be put there just to torture them.) If it would save my hide I'd tell them about Uncle Harold, and Cousin Perry, and I'd even give up the location of Granny's old fish traps. I'd lead them to the grisly remains of dozens of alligators...
But all too suddenly, the game wardens were coming right up the middle of the channel, headed straight for us.
"Quick, honey, put your fishing pole down. Steer the boat over there to the edge, so I can jump out" I said, while trying not to make eye contact with the officers. I was debating on whether or not to throw my brand new fishing pole over the side or let them seize it for evidence. There was no time to throw the fish back. I put my foot on him so he wouldn't flop around.
We almost slipped by them. They just glanced our way and were going to pass on by when: "Hey, look, I caught a six-pound catfish!" yelled my son to the wardens when they got within earshot. I almost started crying as the scary green boat drew closer and he started telling the wardens the whole shameful story, because I just knew that any minute now the kid would start making fun of his Daddy for catching "that puny little funny-looking bass with all the stripes on him."
Luckily, these guys were more concerned with running lights and life jackets than licenses and live bait, and for having his Spiderman lifejacket on they even gave the kid a coupon for a free Frosty at Wendy's and a t-shirt that proudly proclaims "I got caught wearing my lifejacket."
How times have changed. Back when I was coming up, the warden handed out tickets and jail time. Nowadays they hand out t-shirts.
As the wildlife police motored on past us, no doubt to harass the next boater, I thought about joking to the guys that maybe instead of T-shirts they should hand out clean undergarments at every stop. But I quickly thought better of it.
I guess there are a few lessons to be learned here. Obey the law. Remember to keep your fishing license current.
And never trust a kid who looks good in a DNR t-shirt.