I was 772.09 miles from my front door, when I saw my first palm tree.
It was in a mall parking lot. A mid-mall, in front of a "Nails Done — No Appointment" joint. I did a ueey (U-turn) into the parking lot, drove right up to the palm tree, and got out and hugged it.
A full on, both-arm hug.
Just ask the lady in the "Nails Done — No Appointment" joint. I left as soon as I saw her pick up the phone. Don't know if it is a law or not down here in South Carolina, but I supposed when you see someone just cross four lanes of traffic and screech to a stop to hug the tree in front of your shop, dialing 911 might not be out of the question.
So I left, prompt like, but I had made it to South Carolina and the Bassmaster Elite Carolina Clash after driving 14 hours or so through some weather so bad in Jersey that they closed the Jersey Turnpike to any car pulling any type of trailer, boat, lawn mowing or roofing stuff.
So when I saw sun and a palm tree, I couldn't help myself. If by chance you are reading this and happened to be in the above-mentioned nail painting joint, I apologize especially if your nails turned out with all squiggly lines. My bad.
I Just pulled into another parking lot with no palm trees, just bass-boat trailers and painted-up trucks. In front of me is Lake Murray. In truth, it's just a small slice of the lake, seeing that it's a man-made, 47,000 acre pond with 600 miles of shoreline. The dam that made the thing is over a mile and a half long. You can walk it or drive over it. I drove, which comes out to exactly 76.5 cents in IRS mileage money. Impressive.
A few yards past one end of the dam is a brown dusty gravel parking lot for a low, one-story white building and a large black dog. The building: Lake World Bait & Tackle. The black dog: Shelley. The guy sitting in the rocking chair on the porch: Vic Breedlove from "up the road in Gilbert (S.C.)" a longtime guide on Lake Murray, and part-time "helper and talker," in the store.
I was doing just a tad under 55 mph in a 30 when I saw the sign that said "Fishing Licenses," and down at the bottom, "Boiled Peanuts."
I hit the brakes, steadied the large sweet tea in my hand, and pretty much 4-wheel power drifted into the gravel parking lot, sliding past Vic, Shelley, and three cement minnow tanks.
No one said anything. I take it I'm not the first to enter that way.
"Howdy." That was Vic.
"Sniff, sniff." That was Shelley. Up to a minute or so ago I had a cheeseburger in my lap now I have Shelley's nose.
"You sell fishing licenses here." That was me. Four feet to my left is a huge sign advertising the fact that they have FISHING LICENSES FOR SALE.
"Yep."
"Snifffff "
"What's a boiled peanut?"
"Come inside." I did, as did Shelley, who frankly was freaking me out, seeing that she was a very nice BIG dog who, I knew in her dog mind was thinking this must be her lucky day — seeing as a bald cheeseburger just walked into her house.
Behind the counter, the mom of the mom-and-pop run store, Dona Hall (BASS Editors: don't think I was drinking some heavily-spiked sweet tea; She really does spell her name D-O-N-A but says it just like all the other Donnas out there).
"I need to buy a fishing license ... and what's a boiled peanut?"
Behind me, Vic says, "It's a goober, used to call them goobers."
Dona is just looking at me, Shelley is waist high and drooling on a shoe of mine that has never been drooled on before, and I have no idea WHAT a goober is, or if in fact I may be the goober.
Dona reaches below the counter, and all I'm armed with is a BASS notebook and three lint-covered Altoids in my pocket.
Up from below she lifts a baggy filled with dark peanuts, "Try 'em." She opens the baggy, and nods her head up in the universal sign that means, "Eat this, go on now."
So I reach out my left hand to steady myself at the counter, as my right hand swipes my pants in the best etiquette way I know of getting someone else's dog's drool off it. I dive into the peanut baggy only to find my fingers in WET MUSHY PEANUTS.
Not the kind of peanuts you crack open at the ball park the kind that crunch when you stand up for the seventh inning stretch these are the kind you left out in the rain and find days later.
Dona: "They a Southern delicacy. We boil them in salted water, and when they 'bout done we use a boat paddle to scoop them out of the tub and let them sit up on the paddle a bit before you bag 'em. Go ahead, EAT IT."
So I did.
You kind of squish them open soundless peanuts with the shell just kind of sticking to my finger like melted chocolate, and in what seemed like slow motion, put two of the three nuts in my mouth.
Vic moved around to look at me, Dona stared right into my eyes, and Shelley turned her head sideways and looked at me with her good-dog eye.
I'm in South Carolina, what, maybe two hours, both Vic and Dona had mentioned I was a "long way from 'Ke-net-ta-kit' and I have in my mouth that same taste that you get when you do a header into a pond and come up with the bottom of the pond flooring stuck between your wisdom teeth.
I say nothing, in fact I'm afraid to move ANY mouth muscle fearing an involuntary swallow, either going down, or coming up.
And then Dona reaches under the counter AGAIN. "Here," she says while handing me a rather large paper towel "they an acquired taste."
Seeing that I actually ate one, they invited me to stay a bit, a pity interview if there ever was one, and we talked about the bait shop. It's been there 70 years, and Dona and her husband been the recent owners for the past 24.
Sounds of gravel grab everyone's attention as another car slides into the parking lot, in walks Jared Shoultz and his three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Chloe.
"We came in for some bait — and for advice," Shoultz said. "Taking my daughter fishing here, with her new pink Barbie pole."
The advice they got, "Anything Green." Which I was told would also be good advice for the Bass Elite guys. "Anything that has green in it as a color. Green Senko worms would be your best bet."
Vic also added, "Fish by the towers those stacks that are the water inlet for the dam."
By that time Dona was finishing writing out my fishing license while pointing to a dark computer monitor behind her, saying the state wants her to "use that contraption, but until they take these paper licenses out of my dead hand I'm not switching. We may be the last ones in the state to write it out by hand."
A handwritten license I will save for a much longer time then the seven days it gives me to fish South Carolina.
db
Don Barone is a member of the New England Outdoor Writers Association. Other stories of his can be found on Amazon.com. For questions, comments or story ideas you can reach him at: db@DonBaroneOutdoors.com