One year my sister called me up. It was Larry's fortieth birthday coming up. Big FOUR OH. He had mentioned wanting a new fly rod. Something graphite or something. Did I know what he needed and could I help her find and buy it for him? Did I? I eagerly offered to buy a top of the line blank, make the rod myself, complete with his name and a sippy thank you inscription on the butt section. I did just that with loving care I never bestow on my own rods, and sent off the rod to my sister who presented it to Larry. He was thrilled. Now he could cast. He took the rod to Chopaka for the opener...and trolled. I called him up after the weekend of his trip to see how it all went, wanting to vicariously live again our old game of fishing superlatives. Larry was sullen, quiet, wouldn't talk, almost sounded like he might cry. Finally I drug it out of him He lost the rod. No, he didn't LOSE it, a fish took it. Out of the boat, while he was trolling. One bounce over the stern. Right out of sight. Trolling along, rod sitting loose on the bottom of the boat. Never happened with the old cane rod. Right outa sight. Musta been a big one. Drug anchors along the bottom for hours trying to snag the line. Gone. Sorry. Secretly I was laughing. Served him right for trolling when he should have been casting. In my glee at listening to him squirm I actually offered to make him another rod, just like the first one. I owed that man lot. Months later I sent the second offering up to Seattle, and we waited again for another Chopaka Lake trip. But this time it was my nephew, Larry's son, who took the rod to Chopaka when his father couldn't goI had taught Jay flyfishing and casting myself. Everything would be o.k.. He knew what happened to the first rod. The trip date went by and I heard nothing from Seattle. I called. I should never have called. Larry was quiet, sullen, wouldn't talk. The rod was gone. Lost. No, not really lost. Fish took it. Trolling. Right out of the stern. Jay was missing strikes 'cause the reel was spinning too loosely so he took a loop of flyline around the handle. That did it, didn't miss the next strike. Pop, right over the stern. Outa sight. Drug anchors around for hours but no luck. Sorry. Now a real sportsman, or a REAL loving brother-in-law might just offer to make a third rod. I didn't get the chance not to; Larry had already gone out and bought a brand new factory made replacement. No name. No inscription.
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