“Go get in the boat,” I told my twenty month old son, Adam.
I finished grabbing his lifejacket, toys and the snacks out of the car. I caught up to him just before the dock.
“Do you need help up?” I asked him, stooping down to his level.
He replied by lifting his arms up. We walked down the flimsy dock with me balancing everything and stopped when we reached the boat.
“Will you help him into the boat?” I asked my mom.
“Sure,” she responded and alley-ooped him over the side. I handed my armload in and sat down in my seat. We were off to find us some fish.
“Dad!” I semi-screamed over the roar of the motor, “What bait should I put on my hook?” I was getting my rod ready so I could be the first one to cast out.
“I’d try a leech,” he retorted. “If that don’t work, we’ll put on a worm.”
So after I manipulated my way into him putting on my leech, I had a line ready to go into the water. Now I’m not one of these people who adore fishing. In my younger years, I didn’t have the time to fish. It’s only been ...
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