What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor?

My father paid the man at the dock for the row boat. Unsteadily, Scooter and I climbed into the bow of the small craft. Old Swill lounged at the stern and my father took control of the oars. He steadily paddled his way out to the middle of Lake Hamilton and pulled up the oars.

“This is the spot,” said Lucius Van Dyke II. “Let’s catch some dinner.”

Scooter and I cracked open our tackle boxes as my father and Old Swill cracked open the bottle of Wild Turkey. Scooter rigged up his new lure and I went with my old reliable small rubber frog dipped in bacon grease.

I caught a couple of carp with my greasy little frog. My brother had a couple of nibbles on his fancy new lure but none of the big bass he was hoping for had chomped down. My father and Old Swill passed the bottle of Wild Turkey back and forth while reminiscing about drunken nights at O’Hooley’s, busty babes they used to know, and, finally, to the finer points of fishing.

“Scooter,” said my father drunkenly. “Let me see that thing.”

Scooter handed over the fishing pole to my father.

“Ya gotta tease ‘em,” he said as he cast out the line. “Watch this.”

He gave the line a quick little flick and then reeled in the slack.

“Make’s ‘em think they got real food there.”

He flick the line again when the line suddenly became taut.

“You got one!” screamed Swill.
“Sure do!”
“Dad! Let me!” said Scooter.
“Hang on a sec.”

My father cranked the reel as he drew the rod up.

“C’mon Dad. I wanna.”
“All right. Here you go. Now hold on tight, he’s a big one.”

Scooter took the rod from my father, grasping it firmly in his hands. My father, no longer having the pull of the fish to counterbalance his drunken stance, stumbled backwards, tripping over Scooter’s tackle box, and fell against the gunwale of our rowboat.

Old Swill started humming the tune to “What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor” as my father attempted to right himself. As my father struggled to get up Swill sang:

Old Swill stood up and started doing what can best be described as some sort of jig.

And with that, Old Swill put his foot right through the bottom of the boat. The four of us looked at that hole for about thirty seconds before it fully registered in our minds. The boat quickly began to take on water, sinking into the middle of Lake Hamilton.

“Get your life jackets on boys, we’re goin’ in,” said Lucius Van Dyke II.

Scooter and I grabbed the orange vests and strapped them on as best we could as the little row boat slipped below the surface of the lake. We floated there as my father and Old Swill treaded water. Suddenly, Swill sank below the surface.

“Swill! Swill!” my father screamed before diving under the water to reach him. My father splashed back up to the surface with no sign of Swill. He dove back under for what seemed like an eternity, rising once again without Old Swill. A moment later, the water began to bubble, Old Swill bursting from the center.

He gasped for breath, “I couldn’t… leave… the bottle…”

He took a swig of the Wild Turkey.

“at the… bottom of the lake.”