Oops, I did it again.

A few months ago, Carol decided to go fishing with me at Poverty Point reservoir. I was looking forward to spending some quality time together, and the last thing I wanted was for her to witness one of my infamous “Terry moments.”

After launching at the ramp, I parked the truck while Carol stayed with the boat. When I got back to her, we noticed there was water pooling around the seat. I remembered that I had had some difficulty getting the boat plug to fit snugly and figured that it must have come loose and fallen out.

I quickly explained to Carol what had happened and jumped in the boat to run it around the lake to drain the water out before I put it back on the trailer. Unfortunately, there was so much water in the boat that it wouldn’t get on plane. I was sinking.

Quickly returning to the ramp, I ran to the truck and managed to load the boat back on the trailer. When I parked and walked back to the motor, the first thing I saw was the plug—in the livewell hole, not the drain hole.

It was the fourth time in my forty years of owning a bass boat that I had made the same mistake. I don’t know why I can’t distinguish between the livewell and drain holes, but Carol says she is going to paint an arrow toward the latter so I don’t do it again.

The first time I screwed up was when I bought a new Bass Tracker and was taking it out for the first time with my cousin, Clay Scoggin. We launched at St. Maurice to access Red River and after awhile noticed water pooling around our feet.

I quickly motored back to the ramp and loaded it on the trailer. While working feverishly, I ranted about how my new boat must have a cracked hull and that I was going to have to take it back to the dealer.

A man nearby asked if I was sure I had put in the drain plug. “Yes,” I fumed, “I know I put it in.” “Did you put it in the right hole?” he asked. Right hole?

Sure enough, when we pulled up the ramp, there was my drain plug sitting snugly in the livewell hole.

Thirty years passed before I did it again. This time, I launched in the Saline-Larto complex and had stopped to fish in Saline Lake. Only a few minutes had gone by when a loud pop from behind startled me. Swinging around, I saw that my PFD lying in the bottom of the boat had automatically deployed. I was momentarily puzzled, but then realized it was floating in about an inch of water.

Thinking I had once again plugged the livewell, I rushed to the stern only to see my plug still attached to the tie-down strap. In my haste to launch I had never even put it in. I quickly ran around the lake to drain the water out, and then lay on my stomach and was able to reach far enough down to put in the plug.

My worst incident occurred last year. It was late spring, and I put in at Lake D’Arbonne’s Stowe Creek landing for some white perch fishing.

After parking the truck, I returned to the boat to once again seeing water on the deck. I was positive I had put in the drain plug and thought it must have fallen out (you’d think I would know better by now). I lay on my stomach, reached way down into the cold water and finally felt the plug—in the livewell hole.

I pulled it out, put it in the drain plug and turned on my bilge pump. The pump wouldn’t come on, however, so I backed the trailer down the ramp, loaded the boat and pulled up enough to drain the water. Now, it was time to go fishing.

When I fish alone, I tie a fifty-foot rope to the boat and my truck so I can pull the boat to the bank or dock once it clears the trailer. As soon as I saw the boat slide off the trailer in my rearview mirror, it dawned on me that I had forgotten to retie the rope to the truck. My boat just kept on drifting out into the lake.

There was no one fishing nearby to yell for help and there was nobody in the parking lot. The only thing I could think of was to go get it myself.

I emptied my pockets, dove in and swam out to the boat. I thought of using the motor as a step to climb in but realized if I couldn’t do it the wind would push me even farther away from the dock.

So, I grabbed the rope and towed the 17-foot Xpress back to the ramp. Despite my embarrassment, I was thankful my 69-year-old body could still rise to the occasion and relieved that at least there were no witnesses to this “Terry moment.”

Dr. Terry L. Jones is a professor emeritus of history at the University of Louisiana at Monroe. For an autographed copy of “Louisiana Pastimes,” a collection of the author’s stories, send $25 to Terry L. Jones, P.O Box 1581, West Monroe, LA 71294.