Had you seen our nimble quickness in reacting, you would have sworn we, The Three Amigos, were in our early twenties!

“Remember last year, when I caught the biggest red snapper of the trip? Probably weighed at least 20 pounds! He sure put up a fight!” I was bragging loudly as we boarded Captain Chad Kinney’s Bamm Bamm Charter 46- feet Bertram at his Port Mansfield, Texas dock.

“No! Don’t remember you even catching a fish!” replied Rick Lambert.

“Huh? Whatdidyasay? Fish, yeah, I got my fishing license! And you’re right, I really do hope they’ll bite!” added Jim Zumbo.

“Welcome aboard!” said Chad extending his hand of greeting to each of the self-proclaimed Three Amigos. “Good to have y’all back! Also, good to see things haven’t changed!”

He continued, “You might want to get comfortable inside the cabin.  We’re going out a way but staying in State water. Red snapper season is open in Texas waters but not federal waters. Because of the wind it’s going to be a bit rocky, but once we get where we want to fish it won’t be all that bad.”

Then turning to Mike Snyder who had set up the trip, a smiling Capt. Chad said, “Mike why don’t you come on top with me. Then I’ll get you go down to wake up these guys when we get where we’re going. I know seniors need their sleep.” Zumbo raised the better part of a fist.

I had scarcely sat down and gotten comfortable when I glanced at Rick. His eyes were opening and, mostly, closing. His head was slowly bobbing.  Jim was stretched out, eyes closed, really quiet and still. We had not even left port. Must have been the Dramamine!

Breathing a loud sigh, I got no reaction from my companions. Smiling, I recalled a previous trip to celebrate Zumbo surviving open heart surgery with a Texas Rio Grande turkey hunt and a fishing trip with Capt. Chad.  (www.bammbammfishing.com)

This year we were back celebrating Rick’s survival! On an African Cape buffalo hunt Rick contacted “tick fever.” The illness initially went undiagnosed. Meanwhile, the virus effected part of his heart. By the time Rick’s health problem was diagnosed and then controlled, he had experienced various other serious maladies. But now, thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, he was fast approaching and exceeding “normal”.

The night preceding our fishing excursion we had eaten too well, thanks to Mike. We too, had imbibed in several wee drams of golden elixir “safe water” while Rick strummed his guitar.  For three hours he, and we, recalled many of the country/western songs the three of us had grown up listening to and loved. These included a few songs Rick had penned and even some he had co-written with his talented daughter, Miranda, one of the finest and most “awarded” music entertainers of all time.

As I recall, the last song of the night had been an interesting version of the old Mac Davis song, “Oh Lord, It’s Hard to Be Humble!”  With our rewritten lyrics, the tune has become our theme song –  “The Three Amigos” – sung by Zumbo, Lambert and Weishuhn, with some help from Snyder!

Initially I forced myself to stay awake as we headed toward Capt. Chad’s snapper “hole.” But, with the other two sound asleep, there was no one to talk to. I grew tired of hearing myself talk to the reflection in the mirror, and the waves were a “bit tall” and rough to attempt to crawl up to where Mike and Chad were. Finally, I too nodded off.

“Get up!” The voice kept getting louder. Roused awake, my dream of fighting a record sailfish faded.  “Will you old guys, wake the hell up!? Or, did y’all decide to sleep and let me catch all the fish?” queried a laughing Michael.

Lambert smiled. Zumbo mumbled obscenities he must have learned as a youngster in New York. Had to have been from there, because I had not previously heard such words from native “Wyomingers.” Maybe, I simply misunderstood what he was saying.

The three of us followed Mike out the door to the back of the boat. Capt. Chad handed out spinning rods rigged with a weight and hook to which was attached a chunk of cut bait. “Drop it over the side and let it sink to the bottom. We’re in about 75-feet of water. When you hit bottom, crank up two turns. When a fish hits, set the hook and reel!”

Rick was the first to have his bait grabbed. “Fish on!” he shouted.

“Got one on, too!” proclaimed Jim, who then cautioned, “You stay over on your side of the boat. Rick, don’t you let your fish get tangled with mine!” Both cranked hard. Rods bent severely.  “I can almost taste those delicious snapper fillets!” Jim added, “If mine’s bigger than yours, Ricky, you’re gonna be the cook and dishwasher!” I started giggling. “Weishuhn, you gonna fish or just stand there holding your rod in your hand?”

“Just respecting my elder, Mistah Zumbo!  Besides, I’m letting you two clear out the bait, so I can catch the big’un.”

I then dropped my own baited hook to the bottom. Before I could complete my second crank on the reel, I felt a hard jerk and immediately set the hook. It felt like I had hooked the reef we were fishing. The fight was on. I reeled furiously when I could gain slack. My rod was bent nearly double. I held on! Little by little I gained line. When I was about to question if I really wanted to catch a big one, I could see a flash of red orange, then the entire fish. Chad slid a net under the red snapper and brought it aboard. I was not certain how much it weighed, probably close to 12 or more pounds, but it was longer than my arm! I expected a comment from Rick and Jim, but noticed they both again had fish on.

The boat rocked severely with each swell. Bracing ourselves against the sides we baited our hooks and continued fishing. We only reeled in when we had a fish on or had a substantial strike that might have taken our bait.

Before leaving “Chad’s spot” we made a couple more passes over the reef. We soon had half of our legal limit of four snapper per fisherman, five fisherman including Mike and his nephew Levi Newell. We released several under or near the legal fifteen-inch minimum.

“Jump inside the cabin! We have three more reefs I want to fish, unless you finish your limits sooner. It’ll be a bit of rough going to the next spot,” warned the captain.

At the next reef we caught all but two of our limit. These fish were bigger than the ones we had caught at the first place. The third spot we stopped was over eighty feet deep. Jim and I fished since he and I lacked one fish each. We had fish on before bait reached bottom. Our two snappers were easily eighteen to twenty inches in length. Limits completed, we three amigos crawled into the cabin and assumed our previous positions for the six-mile trip back to port.

We were about to doze off when Mike stepped into the cabin with four glasses in one hand, and a bottle of Pappy van Winkle in the other. “Any of you seniors interested in a drink to celebrate this glorious occasion?”

Had you seen our nimble quickness in reacting, you would have sworn we, The Three Amigos, were in our early twenties!