BY MIKE STEVENS
In August of 1994, I hit Lake Skinner in a rental boat with three high-school basketball teammates thinking a triple-digit daytime high in August would be the harshest element we would face, but at the end of the day it didn’t crack the top three.
Knowing it was going to be hot and we’d be there all day, we did what any 17-year-old might do and filled a cooler with nothing but a case of Mountain Dew. Hydrating in extreme heat with one of the most sugar-bombed gut-wrecking sodas on the market really should get credit as a near-death experience on its own, but we’d power through that as well. If we brought food, I have no recollection of it.
The day started out like any other summer day on Skinner: blue skies, hot and only a light breeze. The fishing for largemouth bass was outstanding before all hell broke loose. I was crushing them split-shotting Reapers (bass vets know that was drop-shotting before it arrived, as in, what you did when all you cared about was getting bit) wherever we went. At one point, bass were hitting them on top as I skated them back to the boat before the next cast.
I also remember that being the first time I saw a striper boil as the entire cove we were in erupted in whitewater for about 20 seconds which was not enough time for me to tie on a Krocodile which stood as the one thing I had that I figured a striper might eat.
Shortly after that scene, some dark clouds moved in and we heard thunder in the distance. Then we were hit with that, “oh it’s about to pour” feeling (if not smell) and big, fat summer drops started hitting the water. In no time the bluebird skies gave way to cloud cover as thick as the heaviest marine layer. At that moment, even four punk teens decided it might be time to head back to the barn.
We left the cove and hit the main lake where we were greeted by heavy winds, 2-foot waves and punishing sideways rain. Lightning came next, and we saw at least three bolts hit the ground and start fires that were quickly squashed by all the other elements. The combination of four high-school athletes in the cheapest rental available resulted in a gunwale that was at times mere inches from the surface of the water depending on the wind chop.
Every other boat in the lake was aborting their run to the marina and just tucking into coves or driving right up on shore just to ride it out. Some of these guys were waving and yelling at us to do the same to which my dude, Burke, screamed, “No! We can make it!”
Thankfully the wind and waves were at our backs for the bulk of the trek across the lake. As the man on the tiller, my eyes were trained on that gunwale just waiting for the boat to dip enough to take on water, as in, lake water. It was already filling up with rain.
Eventually, I had to make almost a 90 degree turn to get to the final stretch to the marina, and that put us perpendicular to the wind and the boat started to really tip to one side. I told the guys to slide to the other side to balance it out and we dodged the bullet.
I kept the boat close to shore so we could swim for it should we end up in the drink, and we hugged that bank all the way into the marina. Those who made it before took gave us a round of applause as we putted in.
When I got home, I had about 10 messages on the answering machine from family and friends who knew we were heading out there because apparently the area was under an official Tornado Watch, and it was all over the news.
That story still comes up with those guys, although these days it’s usually a group text message between us. It was still one of the best days on largemouth I’ve ever had right up until the point Lake Skinner turned into a portal to hell.
I like to think none of us ever drank Mountain Dew again.
