Fishing Boat Etiquette
From ramp disasters and gear worship to tournament heartbreaks and “scientific” moon-phase theories, this book drags you through every glorious misstep the weekend angler can make. You’ll meet the friends, the rivals, the snacks, and the delusions that power a thousand empty coolers.
The Bluetooth speaker crackles to life, blaring a song about freedom that feels preemptively ironic. The boat hums, vibrating underfoot—a mechanical drumroll for my leadership.
“Gentlemen,” I begin, “according to the U.S. Department of Overconfidence, authority increases 67% when holding a steering wheel and beer. Therefore, our mission is simple: control the vessel, defy the odds, and possibly learn which way is north.”
Trevor raises a hand. “You have GPS.”
“Yes,” I say, “but the map is more of a suggestion than a truth.”
I launch into an unsolicited lecture on hand signals. A raised thumb means “trim awareness.” A finger circle denotes “affirmative snack readiness.”
Two fingers crossed in the air? “Hope.” None of this is standardized, but neither is leadership.
Dave turns the music up. “Can’t hear you, Cap’n,” he says, which is the most accurate rebellion I’ve ever witnessed.
I throttle forward. The bow lifts. We surge out of the marina with cinematic confidence. “And we’re off,” I declare, voice booming over engine noise.
Immediately, we’re aimed at the wrong side of the channel marker.
“Left!” Trevor shouts.
“You mean port?” I counter.
“If that’s where the water is!”
The GPS chirps, displaying what looks like a polite suggestion to stop. I mutter, “Navigational prejudice,” and ease the throttle. The speaker drowns me out with a chorus of pop optimism.
The cooler lid creaks open behind me—a slow-motion protest. Ice clinks. Morale is secured but focus is not. I raise one hand in an authoritative salute, forgetting that I’m mid-turn. The boat veers like a distracted dog.
Dave clutches the console. “You might want to—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “I’m testing responsiveness.”
We skim past the marker close enough to read its graffiti: You’re doing great, Captain. I choose to believe it’s sincere.
The sun glare turns the GPS screen into a mirror, and for a moment I’m staring at my own reflection—sweating, grinning, unqualified. The kind of face history forgets for everyone’s safety.
Trevor adjusts the playlist mid-speech. Something aggressively cheerful replaces my monologue. The down-beat thumps like applause for the coup. I sigh, salute the rebellion, and mutter, “Aye, aye.”
Then remember to steer.
The boat lurches, beer spills, and my sunglasses slip down my nose. The crew cheers—not for survival, but because I’ve stopped talking.
Power granted by horsepower, revoked by laughter.