Skinny-Dipping at Monster Lake by Bill Wallace Read Free Book Online Page B

string long enough so it dangles loose on the bottom.’ ”
    I rolled my eyes. Ted sighed and stuck the can back under his chin.
    â€œAt way e atfish can et it all in eir outh.”
    â€œHuh!”
    He glanced up at me and moved the can once more. “That way the catfish can get it all in their mouths. When they try to swim off, they end up hooking themselves.”
    He started to stick the can back against his shoulder, then stopped. “You ever help your mom carry glasses or drinks to the table?”
    â€œSure.” I answered.
    â€œOkay,” he said with a grin. “Hold the worms with the thumb and first finger of your left hand.Now hold the cut bait with the thumb and finger of your right hand. See? Got six fingers left over. Here. Hold the shad gizzards.”
    Ted threaded the cut bait onto the hook, then sloshed on toward the next pole. Following him, I felt like a circus clown trying to juggle stuff. It was hard to hold all three containers. If I tripped over a submerged branch or so much as slipped in the mud, I’d drop the whole thing. Most of our bait would be gone. Nothing more than a free meal for some fish.
    But that wasn’t the worst part.
    When boys are skinny-dipping—especially in the dark—there are certain parts of our bodies that we like to protect. Well . . . maybe not like to . . . maybe it’s more we feel like we need to protect. I mean, there could be fish or snakes or turtles down there and . . .
    Anyway, with the Styrofoam carton of worms in one hand and the tin can full of cut bait in the other, with the shad gizzards trapped between—my hands were pretty well tied up. Sloshing around made me really nervous. It was a creepy feeling . . . like I needed to at least wave my hand around—to chase away anything that might be too close.
    â€œI got an idea,” I said when we reached the next bank pole.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhy don’t we pour the shad gizzards in with the cut bait?”
    Ted frowned, thinking about it for a moment. “Good idea. When we come back out to check for fish, we’re gonna need a flashlight. That way, one guy’s got a free hand to hold the light, while the other’s getting the fish off. Smart thinking, Kent.”
    He took three minnows out of his bucket and threaded them on to the hook on the second pole. After he let the line go so it would sink back to the bottom, he took the tin can from between my fingers. He didn’t dump it into the cut bait can. Instead, he poured the shad gizzards into his minnow bucket. Sure they were all out, he filled the can with water and let it sink.
    We weren’t supposed to litter. But there was no way I was going to dive down and try to retrieve that can. I was just glad to have it out of my hands so I could “protect” myself while we waded to the third bank pole.
    Having at least one hand free to wave around down there from time to time . . . well, it just made me feel a lot more secure. Ted was right. It really wasn’t so bad, after all.
    Then again . . . coming back out here . . . when it was really dark . . . holding a flashlight . . .

9
    T he rest of the guys had already started cooking hot dogs by the time we put the bait up, pulled on our underwear, and walked back to the campsite. Ted and I put our jeans on but didn’t bother with our shirts. After being in the cool lake, the warm evening breeze felt pretty good.
    Jordan handed me a clothes hanger. “It’s almost done.” He nodded toward the frank on the end. “Depends on how you like your hot dog.”
    I squatted down beside the fire. Daniel came up and sat next to me. Pepper sat across from us. He had three wieners on his coat hanger. The thing was so heavy he couldn’t keep them out of the ashes. I found a place where the coals glowed almost white hot and held my hot dog