Fishing. The handling of slimy icky creatures from the depths of the waters. Worms and crickets are their food of choice. Catching them is quite the challenge. That is unless your father has taught you to be sly and avid at this sport ever since you were in diapers. And so it was with me, my dad would often take me out to catch the big one. I baited my own hook, with worm guts under my fingernails, crickets squirming and kicking but in the end I would come back home with a prize catch. I can recall once when he took me to a location in south Alabama which the locals called Dead River. I was quite young I don't remember how old. We took a small aluminium boat and paddled it to a secluded cove. There in the water was a menagerie of felled Cyprus logs and drift wood. I could just imagine the snakes which lurked underneath. As I cautiously scanned the area I could see blackish green turtles with their long necks sticking out while basking in the early morning sun. They were agile and would slide effortlessly into the water at the least movement perceived as a threat. What my dad forgot to tell me was that this day would be different. This day we would be fly fishing. Fly fishing is an art in itself. You take an artificial fly or a popping bug which is what we used and with one fluid motion you flip the fly to the back then to the front making it land in the exact position where the fish are. Horrified I sat as that little boat lurched and rocked back and forth with each flick of the rod. I knew that any moment we would surely capsize. I screamed and cried and I am sure my dad was ready to tie me up by the end of our trip which ended long before he wanted it to. I don't think he ever took me fly fishing again. To this day I am a little leary of the water and I attribute it to my day spent in a small aluminum boat at a place called Dead River in the back woods of southern Alabama.