Ever feel like you’re floundering? I do. And I certainly did last night.
“There’s a reason they call it floundering,” our cousin Mick said. He’s witty. I sloshed in the salt water and chuckled. It was 4am, and I was in my husband’s wader boots trying not to make clouds. Clouds in the water that is. I had the gig in my right hand, but I found myself holding it like I was in Braveheart. Mike was taking pictures with a small digital camera I never see anyone carry anymore. I hope he shows me those photos someday. I’m pretty sure I don’t look cool. But, happy probably. Drew looked at his camera and said, “You know you can’t tweet those…” So many funny people in this family.
[[[My bracket key was coming out of the board[[[ while I was writing this [[[and I kept having to punch it back in[[[and I wanted you to [[[experience it with me [[[so I’m leaving it in the post.[[[
I followed their instructions. I’m not an expert at fishing of any kind, but it’s weird to flounder. It’s the middle of the night, and this small group of people slowing trying not to be too sloshy follow one person with a lantern. Three of us had gigs. I liked holding the gig. I felt important. Plus a gig is a verb and a noun which is fun. It’s like Google. I didn’t get to gig the first flounder we saw. It wasn’t my turn, but I observed carefully. He was a big one, and he flopped around while Mick put him on the string.
We sloshed all the way over through some salt grass and under a barbed wire fence. Finally, it was my turn. I stabbed right where he told me, and I hate to tell you this, but it was the one that got away. I didn’t like the way he moved anyways. I was disappointed, but there was no chasing after him. He slipped away in the sand.
My nephew got the third one with a little help from Matt. It was a big one, but not as impressive as mine would have been. I’m sure of it. We meandered a long time with my hopeful gig waiting on the light to show us just one, please, just one measly flounder. I didn’t need to be impressed anymore. I just wanted to gig one. Everyone else began to move towards the pier. Two was it for the night. It wasn’t meant to be.
I sat on the pier with my legs dangling like a kid, and we laughed about the game of cards we had all just lost. We had left, this floundering group, without any cares and without knowing who eventually won the game. I breathed in the salt, and I was grateful for snide remarks and fun family. Faint light was moving the water, and I knew there were lots of flounder out there laughing some evil laugh. It’s not all about the flounder anyways.
After all, there’s a reason they call it floundering.