AS SEEN IN THE SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 2006 ISSUE

Trimming your nose hairs with fly-tying scissors is a very bad idea. Not that any experienced angler would ever use a specialized fishing tool for such a mundane task. Only a complete idiot would stick a very sharp pointed instrument up his nostrils to chop follicles. In fact, that’s what my wife asked me when I walked out of the bathroom with the red-stained Kleenex on my nose - “Are you a complete idiot?”

Toes go first: As a transplanted tenderfoot from the Midwest, I still need to wear my Sperry Top-Siders on deck. They fit well, but my feet still get shoved back and forth inside my footwear. Many fishermen along the Gulf shed their shoes, preferring the non-skid surface built in by evolution. I tried that a couple of times. In my case, barefootin’ turns more pinkies into purplies than I care to remember. Without shoes, I would end up with fewer toes than a stranded Mount Everest climber caught in a severe storm. One good thing has emerged from this slip-sliding around. It has forced me to trim my toenails more often, and that change of behavior alone has probably saved my marriage.

Next stop, shins: I know perfectly well that my truck has a trailer hitch. I clearly watched them install it. So, explain to me why I continue to whack my shins on the afore-mentioned hitch every time I walk around the truck. In shorts, I look like a blind man fumbling around in a room full of coffee tables.

Knees are good things. My knees have only suffered occasional knocking, but the backs of my knees are a different story altogether. I have matching horizontal scars from trying to learn how to throw a cast-net. What’s that again? Look, I was trying to add a twist of power to my fling. Instead, I managed to rake the weights behind my legs. Hey, those lead pieces are sharp. I know it doesn’t sound physically possible. I tried to document my scars on film, but I couldn’t get that arm twist right either.

Let’s look at my backside. I’m guessing the man who designed boat seats for the modern era was a hunch-backed sadist, and all his uncles must have been chiropractors. Nobody, and I mean nobody, gets his butt slammed up and down more often than a Gulf fishermen. Eventually, we move up the financial ladder and obtain vessels with padded seats that comfort our spinal columns. Until then, we all have to face the prospect of becoming a little shorter with each passing year.

My Speedo zone has taken a beating too, because I neglect to wear a fighting belt. I own one, but putting it on reminds me too much of my hernia operation. Hence, whenever I fight a fish of any consequence, I come home with sub-dural hematomas on my hips. During a recent physical, my doctor quietly alluded to the possibility of spousal abuse. “Is your wife jabbing you with a broomstick?” he asked. I had to burst out in laughter. My wife is way too smart to beat me with something that leaves evidentiary marks.

Close to my bellybutton is a one inch scar from a pocket knife. No, it didn’t happen in a bar fight. (Don’t I wish it had been something that manly.) In my boat, on my lap, was a cutting board. I was chopping up a baitfish with my left hand. A redfish suddenly doubled over the pole I was holding in my right hand. Honestly, I am not sure what exactly happened next, but I ended up with more red spots than the fish had black spots

Hands down, my fingers have suffered the most. As you know, fishermen can actually lose digits if they are not careful, and not just from obvious predators like sharks. Last year, I was extracting a hook from a palm-sized snapper when he lunged forward and nipped the tip of my finger. Ouch! My irrational verbal response was directed to the fish, “Why did you do that? Can’t you see I am trying to let you go?”

Not all my fishing injuries are related to razor sharp encounters. Right off the top of my head, the hair is being slowly microwaved away by Florida’s oven hot sun. My hairline is receding quicker than the polar ice cap, and is adopting a glacial color scheme, too. It can’t just be advancing age. My eyebrows, facial hair, arm hair, etc. are all turning white. Say, do you know if ‘Just For Men’ works on ear hair?

Some of my run-ins are downright milk-up-the-nose hilarious. I had to hop out of my canoe one day to un-wrap some line from my prop. (For once, it was somebody else’s line.) Anyway, I stepped over the side and caught my swimming suit on an oarlock. I was stuck half in, half out of the craft. One foot was in the marl, and one armpit was in the canoe. I must have looked like a chum bag with a green ball cap. Luckily, the seam on my shorts ripped before I died an embarrassing death in only a few feet of water.

My favorite saltwater fishing injury actually occurred just last week. My little outboard was having trouble starting at the boat ramp. After numerous yanks on the starting cord, all the lessons from my anger management class were thrown out the window. I reared back and gave that motor a starting pull it would never forget. It didn’t fire, but somehow the returning cord handle got hooked on the clippers dangling on a shoestring around my neck. Vengeance is mine sayeth the Merc.

I was suddenly cheek to cheek with my motor. No real harm was done to the outboard- but the jerking string left a vicious circle around my throat. I can finally call myself a true redneck. Want to see the proof?

Someday, I will look back on these injuries as the price of admission to become a true saltwater angler, if I live that long. You know the joke: What do you call a one-armed fisherman? Answer: A true professional.

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