OP-ED: Wendy and I took off over the weekend for some fishing in Grapevine Lake. The 100+ temperatures damn near fried us in our little 12-ft. Porta-Bote with no canopy. We caught four largemouth bass. Wendy took the prize with a huge eight pounder.
That one really put up a fight, and it got me to thinking. “You know,” I said to Wendy, “that fish is really like President Trump. It’s got a big mouth, and you’re like the Mainstream Media — no matter how hard he flips and flops and raises hell, you’ve got him totally hooked.”
She agreed with that and asked me if I really thought Trump had made American great again yet. (She won’t admit it, but I think she voted for Hillary due to anatomical politics.) I told her maybe not totally great yet, but definitely greater. It takes time to achieve total Greatness. She considered that and asked, “When do you think we’ll get there?”
“Where?” I said.
“To total Greatness.”
“You mean you and me, or the country?”
“Both, I guess.”
I was mulling that over when strong wakes began to rock the boat. A superyacht was motoring to our starboard at what must have been close to full speed — one of those huge triple deckers with an instrument tower that looks like it came off an aircraft carrier. In a war, these babies could be drafted by the U.S. Navy as battle cruisers in a pinch.
A lot of people were on board, including some fine, well-tanned women in bikinis. They were smiling at us — or where they laughing? Hard to tell. I held up our catch on a gill line and waved it, signaling my thought: “Yeah, but can you do this, fatcats?” Something to salve our humiliation as the stronger wakes sloshed over the gunwale, damn near swamping us. They really should have slowed down for a humble little tub like ours.
One of the bikini girls stood at the rear stoop, waved a bottle at us, and tossed it overboard in a big underhanded loop. Then she air-kissed at us and they were far away. It took us half an hour to bail the boat out and get underway, but we found that bottle — Veuve Clicquot Rosé champagne! Which neither of us had ever heard of or could pronounce. We popped it open, about half of it spraying all over the largemouths, but enough left to enjoy. It tasted pricey.
And I made a toast to Wendy: “That’s you and me someday, baby. Trump’s rising tide is going to lift all our boats, and when it does, we will know total Greatness without the IRS anchoring us down. You don’t ride a yacht like that in Venezuela or Finland. They’d confiscate the motor and you’d have to row the damn thing!”
Wendy took a final slug from the bottle and began to sing: “Aaaaanchors awaaaay, my boys, anchors awaaaaay!” We tried to follow that yacht to thank them, but our 5 hp Nissan was not the Little Engine that Could.
Wendy had a final inspiration. She scribbled a note, stuffed it in that empty champagne bottle, recorked it, and tossed it overboard as she saluted the little stars and stripes fluttering on our pole. The note said: “Sorry we drank it all. Now it’s your turn to full-FILL the American Dream.”
I’m really not 100% clear what she meant, but we were both quite choked up all the way back to the dock. Only a rocket’s red glare could have it made a more perfect moment.
Know your ropes,