Kaisa's Memories of Fishing Trips or Writing Lyrics from Boat Cushions

It seems eight lifetimes ago that I wrestled myself out of bed to tumble into the backseat of the truck or car where everything would still be grey with twilight.

Every trip would commence with a stop by Dunkin' Donuts - or at least the fresh water trips before we upgraded to the ocean. Everytime I wanted the same thing, a strawberry jelly or a vanilla cream filled. I occasionally brave the transfat demons and try one when I go back to Salem, but they never taste the same.

In the very early days, I would also get a hot chocolate heated to the approximate temperatures it takes to heat the fires of Vulcan. Even though I would try to be prudent, I would always end up scalding my tongue to the point where everything I ate for the next 24 hours would taste slightly citrus.

And because I was with Dad, this would be a whole lot of candy.

Scott was usually huddled in the corner in a quilted green coat, ripe for either cuddling or harrassing, depending on my mood. The a.m. was usually reserved for cuddling. We would sometimes share a seatbelt (if we wore one at all) as the car wound its way on mountain curves towards whatever lake we were going. Although it was cold and it was going to be horribly cold wherever we ended up, for the moment, in the car, everything was pleasantly close and warm. There was never a trip where my Dad wouldn't blast the heat. To this day I still hold a disproportionate amount of fondness for any man who will turn the heat to high. It's much rarer than I could have guessed at that time, when I was young and beautiful and planning to be a famous writer/model/actress.

When we finally got out on the lake after enduring the stretched time from the unloading of the supplies to the launch on to the water, two things would become quickly apparent. 1) It was freezing and 2) it was really quiet. Both were natural enemies to young Olsen children.

There was a Oliver Cromwell style kerosene space heater in the boat that was either dead or scalding. No sinful temperance for that thing. To receive heat you must be baptized by fire, and this was the objective of the dangerous thing. Scott and I would hold our denim encased legs close to its grated front as long as we could stand it, and then pull away, shreiking. After about three minutes our smoldering jeans would cool to a pleasant warmness that lasted about two seconds until we had to start the whole thing again.

This activity was usually accompanied by our enthusiastic if somewhat eccentric singing. Everything in our view was subject to verse, from our father telling us to be quiet to the ever present danger of losing your bait and hook in the swampy bottomless seaweed.

Our favorite for a good while however was a simple chant named "Gale Force Warning". For the record, the lyrics go "Gale Force Warning (repeat three times)/Storm Force Warning (repeat three times)/ and finally (with feeling) HURRICANE WARNING!!! WHOOOOOOOO!!!"

It wasn't until I had children of my own that I even knew my Dad was listening. It was a creative and motivating song, but I must confess I stole the lyrics from the floation cushion that had probably been purchased long before I told Scott too much thumb sucking affected his ability to divest milk duds of their chocolate coating. (Which therefore meant he had to give them to me to get the chocolate off so he could have the much easier to digest caramel portion and not suffer any gastronomical discomfort.)

These were good times, and unlike a lot happy things that zip past before you have time to get used to them, I knew they were as they surrounded me. At the end of every fishing trip, right after my Dad slit open the bellies of the unfortunate fish to show me what they had been eating, a spongey feeling of melancholy overcame my soul. The wind of late afternoon shaking the branches of the lazy maples seemed to predict an unavoidable fate where life didn't permit such pleasant freefall, and it was coming soon.