A Cautionary Tale
Sometimes, I’m irresistibly drawn to doing dumb stuff—like some dadgum smelly hippie moth drawn to Burning Man. It often feels like I’m living my life as a cautionary tale for others.
Remember the popular ’80s TV police drama Hill Street Blues? Every episode, Sergeant Phil Esterhaus would dismiss the squad room with his catchphrase: “Let’s be careful out there.” My wife, after 30 years together and full awareness of my track record, delivers her own Sgt. Phil-style warning each time I leave to go fishing. Even our 17-year-old son sends me off with a cheerful, “Have fun! Don’t die!”
Rivers, lakes, oceans—yeah, they all pose some level of danger, especially to the unaware and the uninitiated. Toss in a little “hold my beer” bravado or some classic poor decision-making, and suddenly you’re a data point in an insurance adjuster’s mortality table—or worse, the star of a cringe-worthy viral TikTok.
Maybe I’m wired this way because I survived growing up in the 1970s. We kids bounced around unrestrained in the back seat of my dad’s Buick Skylark while the seatbelts stayed tucked neatly in their clips above our heads. Sometimes we rode in the <gasp!> open bed of a pickup or the way-back of a station wagon.
We rode bikes and skateboards helmetless—sometimes barefoot—and then launched them off makeshift ramps thrown together using found, splinter-filled scrap wood propped onto a too-big rock. The landing zone? More rocks, hidden sharp pokey things (thank goodness for tetanus shots), and whatever else nature and poor judgment provided. I got my second concussion when I was ten. (I’d tell you how old I was when I got my first, but… well, you see the issue.)
Unlike in my wildly unsupervised childhood, some places do post ample warning. Beaches with signs that shout Beware of Sneaker Waves. Or the ones—English and Spanish—at the mouth of Kern Canyon reading Danger — Stay Out — Stay Alive, complete with a grim death tally dating back to 1968. Merle Haggard may have lost his best friend on the Kern, but I once lost my dignity there in a belly flop contest—at an age where I really should’ve known better. So… maybe don’t hand me back that beer just yet.
As California anglers, we accept certain risks. Bear and rattlesnake encounters? Check. Salty surprises from the Pacific? You bet. And still, I seem fixated on lighting the hoop I plan to jump through on fire when I go fishing.
I’ve foolishly crossed the Truckee at a spot deep enough for the water to lick at the top of my waders. I’ve recklessly turned “just one more cast” into countless more while waving around a 9-foot, 5-weight lightning rod as thunder cracked overhead. It’s like I treat a fly rod as a Wonka golden ticket—only I’m Augustus Gloop.
And then there are the tales of luck beating misfortune. Like the time a buddy slipped off a big rock into the deep backflow below. He was pinned underwater, staring up at another friend and that friend’s teenage daughter, who were now watching him about to drown. Miraculously, he thrust his wading staff far enough for the girl to grab and haul him to safety. He still fishes that river with us—just not from that rock, which we’ve since named after him. As for the teen who saved him? He gave her a newly released iPad. Honestly, I might’ve paid for her college.
I’m lucky to be here, able to share these stories. For that, I thank lady luck. But I’ve learned. These days, when I hear thunder, I don’t wait around—I reel in and head for shelter. I won’t wear waders in the surf; I’ve heard the stories of anglers dragged out by the undertow, waders full and unforgiving. I made my own wading staff out of a broomstick handle because I’m a big guy who’s snapped factory-made ones like they were dry toothpicks. (And I picked up some smarter wading habits from Dick Galland’s excellent piece, The Art of Wading Well, in the Spring 2025 issue.)
“Live to fish another day” is my current mantra.
If you’ve got your own cautionary tale, drop it in the Comments. I promise I won’t try to re-enact it. Although… I am this close to figuring out how to fish the Pit from a float tube this summer, so… hold my beer, please, while I flutter closer to that mesmerizing orange glow out on the Playa.
It’s so beautiful, man!
