Close Encounters of the DNR Kind

This story marked the end of my criminal career, and the birth of a new outdoor writer.

Author’s Note: This was my first story to be published in South Carolina Wildlife magazine. After that, the sky was the limit for this Southern humorist. Many thanks to SCW Editor David Lucas for giving me that first shot.

You can call it a habit born from years and years of ill-bred, backwoods raisings. Or call it a guilty conscience. But anytime I have a close encounter with wildlife agents and law enforcement officers I break out into a cold sweat and try to bolt for the nearest pickup truck. Once, I spotted a game warden closing in and dropped the fish I was holding to sprint for the parking light, which puzzled everyone in the Piggly Wiggly seafood market that particular day.

My latest encounter was certainly no exception. As I loaded the fishing poles into the boat at dockside, I spotted a S.C. Department of Natural Resources boat coming around the bend. It was like they knew I was coming. Like maybe the wife and kid had tipped them off. And it was at that exact moment I remembered that my fishing license had expired on June 30 of a previous year.

Now don’t get me wrong, the DeWitt family has come a long way from our early days as notorious poachers and moonshiners and hog rustlers, when a man had to bend the rules a little to put food on the table and survive. Some of us actually have a healthy respect for the law now. Or, rather, a healthy fear of jail.

But a few of us around still suffer from a certain hereditary poor judgment in the heat of fishing fever, as well as a bad memory for little things like seasons and legal limits and hunting restrictions and fishing license renewals. I guess old habits die hard.

As the DNR boat chugged by our lakeside cottage, one of the officers waved. My son waved back from the dock.

“Put your hand down, kid,” I told him in a panic. “Don’t make eye contact. Put that pole down and get back in the house, quick!”

It was kind of hot anyway, so I decided to casually ease back inside myself and have a cold glass of iced tea, and give the wildlife officers a chance to get well downstream before we hit the water. But wouldn’t you know it, right about dark they caught us coming back in from a productive fishing trip. I knew it was a DNR boat from the way the hairs were prickled up on the back of my cold, sweaty, guilty neck.

It was only then that I remembered the new, current registration decal that I was supposed to stick to the boat when it came in the mail a month ago was still sitting on the table back at the lake house, right beside the application form for a fishing license. I had stopped counting fish when I surpassed the legal limit, and then there was that puny, undersized, illegal and possibly endangered species striped bass flopping around between my feet that I was planning to use for cut bait.

I could see the headlines now: “Newspaper editor charged with multiple felony game violations, cops a plea and rats out entire family.” Rather a lengthy headline, to be sure, but then again so was my game and fish rap sheet and, likely, the sentence I was facing.

Yes, I would sing like a canary if only they didn’t take me to DNR jail (which in my imagination would be a small, cramped place full of stinky, sweaty fisherman with no fishing poles, all being forced to sit around staring at a fish tank full of bass, which of course would be put there just to torture us.) If it would save my hide I’d tell them all about Uncle Harold, and Cousin Perry, and I’d even give up the location of Granddaddy’s old fish traps. I’d lead them to the grisly remains of dozens of poached deer and alligators…

But all too suddenly, the game wardens were coming right up the middle of the channel, headed straight for us.

“Quick, honey, put your fishing pole down. Steer the boat over there to the edge, so I can jump out,” I said, while trying not to make eye contact with the officers. It would take a few years, but I could start a new family somewhere else, far away. I was debating on whether or not to throw my brand new fishing pole over the side or let them seize it for evidence. There was no time to throw the fish back. I put my foot on the little striped fellow so he wouldn’t flop around.

We almost slipped by them. They just glanced our way and were going to pass on by when: “Hey, look, I caught a six-pound catfish!” yelled my son to the wardens when they got within earshot. I almost started crying in front of my wife and child as the scary green boat drew closer and the loose-lipped lad started telling the wardens the whole shameful story, because I just knew that any minute now the kid would start making fun of his Daddy for catching “that puny little funny-looking bass with all the stripes on him.”

Luckily, these guys were more concerned with running lights and life jackets than licenses and live bait, and for having his Spiderman lifejacket on they even gave the kid a coupon for a free Frosty at Wendy’s and a T-shirt that proudly proclaims “I got caught wearing my lifejacket!” My how times have changed. Back when I was coming up the warden handed out tickets and jail time. Nowadays they hand out T-shirts.

As the wildlife police motored on past us, no doubt to harass the next boater into a cardiac arrest, I thought about joking to the guys that maybe instead of T-shirts they should hand out clean underwear at every stop. But I quickly thought better of it.

I guess there are a few lessons to be learned here. Obey the law. Remember to keep your fishing license and boat decals current.

And never trust a kid who looks good in a DNR T-shirt.