By Ben Mabetti
Several years ago, to mark my twenty-five years on the Board of Directors of the Greenshields Foundation, I was presented with a beautiful handmade fly-fishing rod and reel.
The ice had just melted on Hatley Pond, and as the annual trout-fishing trip with Robert (the President of the Foundation) was fast approaching, I thought I had better get some experience in wielding a fly rod. Armed with the “For Twenty-five Years of Devotion to Duty Rod,” I launched my friend Janet’s borrowed rowboat and set off to hone my non-existent skills — I had practiced a couple of times on the lawn at home.
To give some perspective, the rod was longer than the boat by about a foot and was nearly twice the length of the small fishing rod I usually use. Moreover, standing on the terra firma of my lawn was one thing; sitting and casting from this skittish variation on a Javex bottle was quite another. Standing in it was completely out of the question. Well, I flailed around for a while, grew fatigued by the exertion of it all, and decided to try my luck out in the middle of the lake.
As there was no place on the boat to attach the anchor, it had to be secured by removing an oar, placing the loop at the end of the anchor line around the oarlock hole, and reinserting the oar. I had the rod in my hand and therefore could not accomplish this, so I merely put the loop around the handle of an oar. I quickly thought better of it and went to attach the anchor properly — still with the rod in my hand. What followed was a brief but dismally unsuccessful attempt to get things squared away, after which the anchor line fell into the water, quickly followed by the loose oar. These events were in turn followed by my making a mad lunge for both escaping objects.
This particular craft does not favour mad lunges. In fact, it takes a dim view of any kind of lunging.
The next part happened just as in the movies — in slow motion. The boat rolled, ejecting me. I bellowed an expletive as I hit the icy water, went under, and was immediately struck on the head with the full force of the boat rolling over. The water, just above freezing, took my breath away.
I had to get out from under the boat, which I did with dispatch.
My first thought was the rod. How could I ever again show my face at the Foundation and confess I had lost it the first time I used it? I assumed it would now be lying, along with my rubber boots, one sock, and my glasses, in the murky depths below — but it was floating, its tip sticking out of the water on the other side of the overturned boat. The rod was retrieved, the boat righted, and luckily the seats, bailer, and remaining oar had stayed with it. Unluckily, it was full to the gunwales with water.
Having struggled around to the stern, I began bailing with a flimsy plastic container — slow progress, to say the least. Bailing while in the water is a difficult job, I suspect even in warm water. Eventually I deemed enough water had been removed to attempt climbing in over the stern. However, my weight was too much for the small boat, which immediately sank stern first.
The only remaining tactic was to swim for the rather distant shore while holding onto the boat to rest from time to time. I had been in the water quite a while, was becoming rather tired, and knew I would not have much more time to resolve this situation before things took a rather nasty turn.
Weighed down with layers of clothes, the exhausting trip to shore resembled an anxiety dream in which one struggles toward an unobtainable goal — but I did eventually crawl ashore on a small beach.
Despite wanting only to lie there, I had to keep moving. The next task was to empty the boat, then set out paddling with the remaining oar in search of the other one, which by now had blown across the lake. Having retrieved it, and returning to where the anchor line was floating, I hauled up the anchor and rowed like one possessed for Janet’s house.
It was not until I was in the hot and exceedingly painful shower that I realized how cold I was.
As Janet and I are very different in size, I was amazed to find some of her clothes I could actually get into, with my limbs protruding quite a bit. I had to do without socks, and footwear consisted of Japan Airlines slippers — not substantial, but better than bare feet. After all, it was only the first days of May. I suspect I looked rather comical.
The experience must have given me more of a scare than I realized at the time, because that night I kept jolting awake believing myself still underwater. For the next few days, every muscle in my body ached as though I had been pummelled.
Of course, I should have been wearing a life jacket. And I would have been in quite a situation had I needed help, as nobody could see or hear me, there were no other boats at the lake, and Janet was not at home during this escapade.
All in all, this was not an auspicious introduction to fly-fishing.
Postscript
Shortly thereafter, during an annual checkup, I related this mishap to my doctor. Her response was:
“You were very lucky.”
I agreed.
“I mean you were very lucky,” she said. “I had a friend, a lot younger than you, who had a similar thing happen — and he died of hypothermia.”