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Texas Agriculture Archive

May 17, 2002

Water and who’s entitled to it has been at the center of controversy from time immemorial. Water disputes, from the days of the range wars to modern times, have been the cause of lawsuits, fist fights and bloodshed. Might have even caused a drowning or two. I can think of at least one person I could have held under until he stopped wiggling.

A few months ago, our family went out for a leisurely afternoon of fishing on Lake Whitney. That’s our old stomping grounds, and Mel was just itching to get into some sandbass or crappie. Our son, Eric, had pulled his boat up from Austin. His wife, Kim, and our little grandson, Jeffrey, were also participants in the family outing.

The day began with a series of minor delays, including having to pull the boat back out of the water because the motor wouldn’t start. Luckily, a technician living nearby had it going again in minutes. We launched at Kimball Bend Park and headed for the mouth of the Nolan River.

Mel insisted that I tightline when I like a cork.

“You ain’t gonna catch one like ’at,” he said.

“I’m catching as many as you are tightlining,” I said, noting that he hadn’t caught any.

When I changed to a spinner bait, he said, “They ain’t gonna bite that color. Try this un.” Mel shoved a Tiny Torpedo at me. He continued telling me where and how I should fish, how to cast, and why I wasn’t catching anything, while it was clear to me the fish simply weren’t biting.

“I’m catching as many as you are,” I pointed out.

Mel gave me a stern look and resumed his plugging. (He only lost two lures at this particular spot.)

It was cold as a hound dog’s nose and the wind was blowing like crazy. After an hour or so with no luck, we headed back up the Brazos, to find protection from the wind between the high banks at Bee Mountain.

“Man, this is nice an’ peaceful. We shudda come here first,” Mel said.

He and Eric tied on new lures and tossed them in the water. We put a fresh minnow on Jeffrey’s line and pitched it over the side of the boat. Kim was relaxing, and I decided to chunk a few times over near the water’s edge.

Suddenly, we heard this buzz that sounded like the Texas Chain Saw killer coming. A speed boat pulling two hotdoggers zipped by. One made a point to cut as close to our boat as possible, spraying us with a big rooster tail of water, and the other guy turned a flip on his slalom for added drama. Then they turned the boat around and repeated the same little ditty.

Kim, Jeffrey and I found it amusing, but Mel and Eric were fighting mad that someone invaded their turf.

“’Em jackasses don’t have a ounce o’ respect,” Mel bellowed. “Don’t they know we cain’t catch fish with them ripsnortin’ through here like Wild Bill an’ his sideshow?”

“Oh, I don’t know if they helped us or hurt us,” I shrugged. “We’re catching about as many now as we were before they came along.”