Okay, you're probably wondering why my testicles are in my neck. We'll get to that soon enough. For now, allow me the indulgence to describe what led up to them being lodged a few feet higher than normal.
Alabama has received its Godly share of rain thus far in 2019. So much so, that our backyard, two acres or so that I normally spend significant time mowing, flooded--and remains flooded as I type this. Now, our problems are first world problems, and I readily admit that. We own a house on a long, narrow lake, built by the Army Corps of Engineers in the mid-1960's to help ease flooding further downstream, and to allow for a method of irrigation for farmers in the same area. Several years ago, a local farmer got the bright idea to bring his John Deere to the spillway and rip the water control lever from the concrete control mechanism because he didn't feel as though his cows were getting enough water (oh, how I would like to meet this guy today).
Three years ago, we had torrential rain and the same area flooded, so we knew the risk, but proceeded to have a forty foot pier put in so I could fish without having to drag my boat to the launch and do all things required of a fisherman intent on hauling in the big one. The pier formed the top of a "T" at its farthest reach into the water, a design element brought to life by Cathy and one that I quickly grew to love.
Once again, Alabama was pummeled by rain and wind, the former pulling our pier from its muddy sediment and the latter pushing it down the lake like a child's paper sail boat in a rain gutter. I awoke this past Saturday to my neighbor explaining to me that "your pier is gone."
"What do you mean 'it's gone'?" I asked.
"Gone, as in ain't there no more," he replied.
Sure enough, our pier had drifted down lake like a space aged monolith in search of a different form of life. Atop it sat the bench I had bought and placed two years earlier, unbolted and just riding along for the pure enjoyment. My neighbor, Danny, and I hopped in his boat, me with 100 feet of rope in tow, and headed toward the pier which now floated on the opposite side of the lake some quarter of a mile from its original perch.
As soon as we tied off the pier, Danny began having engine trouble on the boat. He attempted to crank it several more times, but to no avail. This is where I made my first critical mistake.
We decided to drop the trolling motor in the water so he could take his boat to the shop. Instead of tying the pier to a nearby tree, I simply tossed the rope on top of the pier and we rode off.
He called me a couple nights later to tell me his boat was fixed and that we could try to fetch it the next day. Remember that mistake I made?
We dropped the boat in the water and headed east where we left the pier. It was gone! The water was murky due to all the rain, and we both assumed it had sunk. We cruised around that end of the lake in search of my pier, but couldn't locate it, so we turned west and headed back for the boat launch.
I happened to glance further west and there it was--my pier! Instead of it being a quarter mile from our house, however, it had drifted about a mile. Here's where things started getting tough. We tied the 100 ft. rope to two legs on the pier, but due to the weight of the floating monolith he could not steer the boat.
I sat on the deck of the boat, rope in each hand, braced my legs and would pull one side then the other, which would cause the rear of the boat to turn. It also made the pier weave back and forth as we trudged along at half a knot per hour. For what seemed like forever, we weaved west toward my property, my arms screaming every time I pulled the rope to help steer the boat.
Finally, after two long hours of tugging and steering, and after feeling as though my arms would dislodge from my shoulder sockets, we made the turn toward our part of the lake. This is where I made my second critical mistake.
We pulled the pier as far as we could until one of the 4 x 4 legs got caught in the mud. I grabbed Danny's bamboo push stick and began feeling around in the water, checking the depth. At last I found a spot that was about three feet deep, about waist high on me.
I checked to make sure my rubber waders were secure then hopped into the water. Remember I said "second critical mistake?"
Apparently, when I was checking the water depth, the bamboo pole must have hit a tree stump. What are the odds? I landed in water about neck deep and screamed a line of unintelligible expletives as cold lake water rushed into my waders and rose quickly up to my chest. My testicles began clamoring for warmth and landed somewhere around my earlobes. My butthole puckered as I involuntarily squeezed my butt cheeks together. Obviously, my body assumed doing so would somehow warm it up; it was wrong.
As quickly as I could, I tied the pier to a nearby tree the drug the boat to shallower water so I could get back in. Do you have any idea how heavy waders are when they are filled with water? I almost capsized the boat trying to haul myself back in, and when I finally made it, I laid there exhausted. Danny laughed all the way back to the boat launch. I wanted to punch him, but couldn't lift my arms. My teeth were chattering and my testicles hung from my earlobes like two shriveled earrings.
And that is my pier retrieval story.
