Matt Marinkovich’s weekly At Sea Diary entry is a popular feature of the National Fisherman Web site, and now you can post your own reflections on Matt’s experiences fishing in the Pacific Northwest and North Pacific.
April 5-6, 2007 — So at 4 p.m. on Thursday, April 5, the Discovery crew was headed off toward Anchorage in our economy rental car. It was a tight squeeze in that ride. George, Brett and I were crammed in the back like three past-due peas nestled inside its shrinking husk. It's a 2 1/2-hour drive, but Mike was on it so we made it in 2 hours. I pointed the direction to the big hotels downtown, where the action is. George and Roald wanted to get a hotel room by the airport for some reason; those guys just don't know how to live.
We wound up staying at the Hilton, and then going to "Thursday Night at the Fights." There were seven fights billed, but one was called a No-Contest because the guy was too big of a wimp to put up his dukes and fight. There were a bunch of military dogs, and a first-time 19-year-old fighter who won his match, and a couple of chick fights. They had babes waving the "Round 1" signs (up to round 3), and the promoter was out there in the ring before the match building up anticipation and excitement.
I had a blast at the fights, and so did Mike. Brett was hoping for Anything Goes fights, where they can kick each other and knock each other down, etc. George and Roald said they thought the fights were boring. Perhaps they should have gotten a room at the hotel by the airport and they could have stayed back there and looked at each other. Maybe that would have been more fun.
Roald kept mentioning he was starving at the fights, so we made a beeline to the nearest acceptable-looking eating establishment. They chose, just because it was the first thing they happened along, an extra-fancy steakhouse.
It was a nice place, and expensive, too. Meals were served a-la-carte, with extra sides ordered being served family style. I ordered the Cajun-spiced rib-eye, which was damned tasty. There came with the steaks a fancy salad, which was just a quartered head of iceberg lettuce with a tasty blue-cheese dressing drizzled over the top. I saved my salad to eat after my steak, which was a good thing because the "family-style" side orders, which we were supposed to all share, were barely big enough for one of us.
Everybody gulped their food; I ate slowly, but still rushed, and nevertheless took my time to enjoy my meal. As I was on the home stretch of my 20-ounce hunk of feed-lot steer, George was out the door, in anticipation of getting out of there. What the hell was the rush? I should have let him go, but I hurried down my last chomps, and rushed out of the fine steakhouse.
As I suspected, there weren't any greener pastures out there, and I would have enjoyed myself in the relaxed ambiance of the overpriced steakhouse. But after slumming around at a dive bar for a couple of hours, we all headed back to the hotel.
The morning brought George in charge of the agenda, which led us to the food-service fancies of the Hilton breakfast bar (yum yum... yuck!). After that, it was back into the pea pod, and on the highway back to Seward. It was like we drove all that way just to rush and complain. Well, I had fun at the fights and enjoyed my meal, albeit rushed. I still would have rather just stayed in Seward and wrote, but it was an enjoyable outing, so what the hell.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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