The Agony Of My Feet

Here is a picture of my foot with a hook in it.

I got it stuck in my foot on the last night of a fishing trip at Lake Amistad along the Texas/Mexico border. It had been a long day. I’d caught a lot of fish, gotten some sun, and had a good time with my buddies. I had just showered and was getting ready to put on some clean clothes when I stepped on a hook buried in the shag carpet of the cabin I was staying in. It was a large hook and it embedded itself deep into the muscle of the ball of my foot. It hurt like hell. Try as hard as I could though I couldn’t move the hook forward or backward and there was no way in hell I was going to let my buddies touch it. I did however let them drive me twenty miles into Del Rio, Texas to the emergency room to have the hook removed by a trained medical professional.

The medical professional in charge was a very young, attractive physician’s assistant who swore to me that she had removed plenty of embedded fish hooks from feet. To be honest, I think she was just impressed that I had full insurance as the three people before me did not. To further impress her I told her how I was an outdoor writer, how I worked for several different magazines and had even penned a few books.

“Like Hemingway?” She asked as she gingerly pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

That’s right babe. Just like Hemingway.

As she cleaned my wound I told her about hunting in Africa, the dangers of my career and of the terrors found in the depths of the neighboring lake.

“Oh yeah, the alligator gar in the lake can rip a boat in half,” I bragged.

“I’m going to inject a pain killer into the ball of your foot. It might be uncomfortable.”

“…that’s fine….AWWWWHHHHH…jeeze…crap….3 EXPLETIVES  DELETED…..God….AWWWWWWWW.”

As I tried to hold back the tears of pain welling in my eyes she delivered the second of three shots.

“Crap…7 EXPLETIVES  DELETED…jeeze…AWWWWWW.”

My big-chested outdoor writer ruse was up. She now knew I was a wimp.

“Are you ok?” she asked. “You suddenly look very pale.”

“I’m fine,” I lied through the nausea.

“Are you going to faint?”

“No,” I grimiced before she injected me the third time.

“AHHHHH …crap….3 EXPLETIVES  DELETED…..God….2 EXPLETIVES  DELETED.”

“You’re covered in sweat,” she announced as she handed me a barf bag.

I quietly laid back on the table and tried not to faint.

God, please don’t let me faint in front of this gal.

Or puke.

Please.

If you mixed Ernest Hemingway, Robert Ruark, Hunter S. Thompson, and four shots of tequila in a blender, a “Gayne Young” is what you’d call the drink!

Visit him at gaynecyoung.com

And on Facebook

And Twitter

Get his book, And Monkeys Threw Crap At Me: Adventures In Hunting, Fishing, and Writing HERE


North American Fisherman Top Stories