By Danny Maybin
I guess we all end up wearing a lot of different hats as we walk through life. Lord knows I’ve got a closet full. The funny thing is, they almost always end up being fishing hats.
Of the hats I wore as a young man, I have fond memories of when I was in a band and by extension, considered a musician. It was not a “flash and smoke” rock band or even a swaggering, urban cowboy, country band. We were a simple, five piece, high lonesome, bluegrass band, born right here in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Western North Carolina.
One of the highlights of my musical career was receiving an invitation to perform in the Dollywood theme park for the season in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. As a result of the season long contract, we were invited to a “meet and greet” with Dolly Parton, one-on-one with photo ops and all!
This is where my hat began to smell like fish. As my luck would have it, I was also invited on an “all expenses paid” fishing trip to Cape Cod on the same date. I have to admit, Dolly, by far had the best landscape but something about the phrase “all expenses paid”, proved to be more than I could resist. Besides, the band couldn’t fire me. I owned twenty percent of the equipment.
So I boarded a plane at the Greenville/Spartanburg airport, flew to Charlotte, then to Baltimore, on to Boston and finally to Hyannis port. Incidentally, the commuter from Boston to Hyannis port is really a hang glider with six grocery carts tied to it. Hyannis port is where I was supposed to meet my guide/host.
I followed the directions to where he was supposed to pick me up. It was a dingy little side street bar, the kind of bar you drive by and wonder, “who would go there?” He was sitting at a table for one, with his back to the door. From the back, he looked like a huge silverback in an outback coat, sitting on a preschool chair.
I slowly circled ‘round the room, not yet sure this was my man. There wasn’t anyone sitting within three tables of him. Knowing my luck so well, this confirmed in my mind, that he must be my guide. He had a bowl of clam chowder the size of a tea cup and a martini the size of Manhattan.
As I walked up to introduce myself, I noticed his hands looked more like rawhide clubs and when he looked up at me, I felt sure I could have tied some fine buck tail jigs from his eyebrows.
Turns out, his name was “Let”. I am completely satisfied that he did not get his name from “live and {let} live” or “{let} well enough alone. I knew that Salem had a lock on the witches but I didn’t know till I got there that Cape Cod held the patent on grouchy old trolls.
He looked me up and down, downed his martini and growled, “I suppose you want to go fishing”. *[Travel tip] When riding with one of these curmudgeony old guides; if he rolls down the window, sticks out his fist and starts yelling obscenities, you are definitely within one hundred yards of a roundabout.
He took me to the lodge that turned out to be a “salt box” on the backside of Buzzards Bay, in which I was to reside in the lower bedroom/basement for the duration of my stay. [note to self; Beware of “all expenses paid” fishing trips].
I must admit, I caught blues the size of summer camp sailboats and learned how to dig clams in New England. It’s a good thing I did because the only thing I had to eat was what I caught!
I had never experienced pressure in my young life until I was battling a fish almost as large as myself with a giant sized, northeastern accented Yoda, alternately yelling instructions and foul language at me. Funny thing was, he had a way of making me desire his approval that I’ve never figured out. Possibly Stockholm Syndrome? I’m thankful he didn’t think of selling me a timeshare.
Ol’ “Let” is gone now. In a way he became dear to me. He showed me things I would have never figured out on my own. I also learned some of his philosophies; which, try as I might, I could not wipe from my young mind and now, oddly enough, seem to be slowly overtaking me.
I guess the trip was worth it but thinking back about the chance to meet Dolly, the fishing on Cape Cod could never match the “hills” of Tennessee.