Plan B

When my oncologist gave me a six-week "get out of jail free" card, we started making plans to head east to Yellowstone and some of our favorite waters. As I pored over maps and camp spots, reality began to sink in, and I finally had to admit, I wasn't in any shape to make that kind of trip. It was time to switch to Plan B, as in Boston Whaler.

I checked Airbnb and found that the only week our favorite getaway was available was the week we wanted to go, so I booked it. Now, I just needed to make sure the boat was ready.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am meticulous about maintaining my gear. Rods, reels, cars, trucks, boats — whatever, I maintain them and put them away, ready for the next adventure. My Whaler had been tucked under the deck and covered to protect it from the winter weather, but there had been one incident that concerned me. The tactical clearing of the property by our local police department that occurred while we were in Buenos Aires, on our way home from a two-week trip to Patagonia.

Late in the evening, on a typical rainy day in the northwest, our house sitter was alarmed to hear the garage door open suddenly. Assuming we had returned a day early, she went to greet us, but only found an open door. Now concerned and not comfortable with this situation, she called the local PD. Three patrol cars responded, and after a discussion between all parties, it was agreed that the officers should "clear the property."

Now, while I am meticulous about my gear, my garage resembles a small explosion followed by a landslide. Nevertheless, West Linn's finest cleared the garage, house, shed, chicken coop, and both boats. In the process, one unfortunate officer released a tidal wave of icy rainwater and fermented fir needles into the Whaler and his duty uniform.

With the property cleared and the officers off to change into dry clothes, our house sitter went back upstairs and was greeted by our lovely cat, Evee. Seeking attention, Evee jumped out onto the table to receive scratches and pets, then started playing with her new toy. Both the cat and the house sitter jumped at the sound of the garage opening again as Evee batted at the garage door opener, opening the door once more.

Remembering this story made me smile and reminded me why the deck of the Whaler was now gross and slimy as I pulled off the cover. I rolled the boat out into the light and started getting her shipshape. A little pressure washing, light sanding on the teak, and a fresh coat of teak oil had the "Reel Hussy" looking like she just rolled out of the factory new in 1981.

With the boat and our tackle loaded up, we towed up to Tacoma and launched at Point Defiance. I ran the boat across to Gig Harbor while Jennifer drove the truck and trailer over in case we wanted to drive somewhere. We settled into the Lyla and rigged up our fly rods. We had packed six and seven-weight rods, with floating and sinking lines, and enough flies to help Blake at the Gig Harbor shop round out his inventory. I still bought a few flies from him and boosted the end-of-day total with new flip-flops and a Gig Harbor Fly Shop t-shirt. Fly shop folks have to stick together.

I will be the first to admit I have not cracked the code of Puget Sound. Our trips, although relaxing, have been only moderately successful, with only a handful of respectable fish caught over the last few visits. Nevertheless, I love the learning process, but would love to master these beautiful waters. It just takes time.

We put in the effort, put on the miles, caught a few fish, and enjoyed the beauty of Puget Sound. Good food and conversations with old friends added to the experience, but for me, just being on the water, which rinsed away much of the pain of the last few months, was priceless. I only wish it didn't have to end so soon.