RED RED EVERYTHING RED By Ray Lentine

It was early spring of 1978. I was thumbing through the best fishing magazine in print, “Sports Afield.” (Remember, it was 1978.) As I was turning the pages I came across an ad that would cost me a wife, cost me a few friends, give me some great friends, make me several enemies, give me a radio and TV show, win me a few dollars and eliminate April through October weekends from my calendar – it read;
“Win Money Bass Fishing - $500 1st place prize.”
It was an ad for a tournament to catch bass. “1st Place $500.” It was some organization called Northern Bass Anglers Association (NBAA) . “1st Place $500.” There was a name, “Al Langer, “ and a phone number. “1st Place $500.” This was a national publication, but it had a 617 area code, which meant it was local. I dialed it .All the time thinking, “1st Place $500.”
Al Langer was a 19 year old BU student running his own tournament trail. His voice was friendly. He was Mr. Public Relations. He told me about NBAA and the first tournament of the year to be held on Lake Lillinonah in Connecticut. He said I would be a “non boater” and that I would be fishing with another fisherman who owned something called a bass boat. The drawing for partners would happen the morning of the tournament. He told me to be at the ramp at 4:30 A.M.
That $500 was mine.
I was lucky enough to have parents that made me and my six brothers believe that we could accomplish anything. Winning was just a mindset. Therefore, I believed winning that Lillinonah tournament was going to be as easy for me as just showing up.
My tackle box was full of Rapalas, Al’s Goldfish, red and white Daredevils and Mepps Spinners. My $25.00 spinning rod combination, that I bought new at Sears, was full of 4 lb. test mono. What would I spend that $500 on?
The alarm went off at 3:30 in my motel room. I had gone to bed at 3:30 A.M. a few times, but not since Navy boot camp and a Coke bottle being banged around inside an empty steel trash can have I had to get up so early. 3:30 A.M. is an un-Godly time. No birds chirp. 1978 was before cable, so there was nothing on TV. As I drove to the lake I looked for a place to get coffee – forget it.
I was coming down a steep grade and started to go over a steel bridge. To my right and on the far side of the bridge, I could see a long line of car and trailer lights. I passed them all and pulled into the parking lot. I parked and waited. At exactly 4:30 I grabbed my maroon fishing rod and my tackle box full of winners and looked for Al. A man standing beside four tackle boxes and five black rods pointed to him. Back then Alex Langer had a few less pounds and a lot more hair. He was running around trying to coordinate efforts and making things ready for the partner drawing.
“Hi Al, I’m Ray Lentine. I called you a couple of weeks ago.”
“ Oh. Hi Ray. Welcome. Stand by we will be having the partner drawing in just a moment.”
The drawing went quickly, as the boaters drew the names of non-boaters. I was the eighth person drawn. I heard my name being yelled, “Ray Len-teen.” My last name is pronounced Len-teen-e, but I knew it was me.
“Right here.” And I held up my hand.
This was it. The guy yelling my name was going to take me out for my first bass tournament, I went to the outside of the crowd. I said my name out loud . I felt a tap on my back, “Ray?”
I turned around and standing before me was a man about 6’4” and skinny as Manute Bol. He was dressed in red. I do not mean just his jacket. He had on a red jumpsuit. His hat was red. His sneakers were red, with red laces. Sticking out of his pocket were black lens glasses with red frames. He wore a watch with a red band. His hair was bright red.
He stuck out his hand, “Hi Ray, my name is Bill but friends call me Red. I thought to myself, “Really. No kidding.” I shook his hand and said, “Hi Red.”
He pointed to the water’s edge, “My boat is right over there. Go ahead and put your stuff in it. I will be right with you.”
He was pointing to a line of boats. Boats like I had never seen before. These were bass boats. As I scanned the lineup I knew exactly which boat was his. It was bright blinding red. As I walked to it, still in almost total early AM darkness, this boat was a beacon of red glare. As I walked closer I noticed that the carpet was red, the seats were red, a handmade steering wheel cover was red leather, several rods were on the deck and they had “Red” painted on them. On the back, 150 hp Mercury was painted the brightest red that Dutch Boy could have manufactured. Across both sides of the engine, written in red with a white border was one word in quotes “Red.”

I WAS GOING TO DIE!

As a teenager, I took several week long drift fishing trips down the long Massachusetts’ Ipswich River. They started in a town called Reading and ended 30 miles away at a dam just before the ocean. Many fine trout were caught and eaten. That canoe, with two people paddling, could really fly.
This Red boat that I was climbing into was, after all, just a fishing boat- just like my canoe was a fishing boat. I never once asked myself what this boat could do-or could not do. It was a fishing boat and I only thought of how I was going to win $500 from these hotshots.
The sun was still nowhere to be seen. Some stars were still in the sky. There was a pink roseyness to where the sun should be minutes from daylight.. There was still a mist and fog over the lake. Al told everyone to start their engines and meet him out in the middle of the lake.
We all slowly moved from the shore. The lake was calm, even with the sleek boats moving. As I looked around I could see the competition appear and disappear through the mist. It was peaceful. It was just the way I expected and hoped it would be. I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world, but right here sitting in this nice red fishing boat.
All the boats lined up in a straight line across the width of the lake. Al was alone in front of us. He was in a beat up little boat. He stood up and said a few words about time and a few other things that I didn’t understand – something about off limits. Then, from his pocket he took a gun. I thought it strange. A gun on this peaceful morning, but the thought didn’t have much time to stay with me……..
“BANG”
It startled me, but the thought of the gun disappeared as the red boat seemed to stand straight up in the air. My first thought was that the boat was going to keep right on coming into my face and we were going to flip. The entire lake disappeared and all that I could see was red carpet. I thought for sure it was going to sink – rear end first. I looked over and Red was trying to make the boat go faster, Yelling, “Come on come on.”
All of this happened in an instant. I had no time to react. I didn’t know what was happening, but then the boat came down. In front of us were several boats and 5’ high boat wakes. Red turned a little to the right and we were now airborne. I caught my rod in my left hand before it flew by me. Within seconds we were going faster than God wanted us to go.
In front of us was a wall of fog and two boats. Just as the two boats disappeared we were in the fog behind them. I couldn’t see a thing. Trains on tracks are allowed to go this fast in fog, but boats. I looked over at Red, but as I turned my sunglasses were ripped from my head. I realized that my hat was gone, but I must have lost it when we were getting flight clearance. Just as I was about to say something the boat took off again from the top of another wake. Now I knew why the boat was red. This was the boat from HELL. Red, was the Devil himself. The fog we were in was the gate to my doom. This was my death ride of no return. I was going to die!
Then, as if God had heard my concerns, the boat was zipping along like a Rolls Royce on a smooth road. The fog was gone. The cold air against my face made my nasal drip freeze hard to my moustache, but it was OK, I was going to live.
We were going along for another 5 minutes. I looked at the speedometer and saw we were going almost 70. Then red turned the boat to the left. He was heading for the far shore. The speed was still near 70. The shore line got closer. I looked for my tackle box. Then looked up and saw the shoreline getting closer and closer. We were about 500 yards away. I looked at Red, but his expression hadn’t changed since we took off.
Hard ground was now 400 yards away. Still we were going almost 70 mph. 350 yards and still full speed. 300 yards and Red was still full throttle. 250 yards and I could see ducks along the shore and acorns in the oaks. We were now just 200 yards from shore and just the prop was in the water.
I was certain now that Red’s wife had left him for another man. He was going to commit suicide and was taking me with him. I was about to take my tackle box and hit him with it and take over the boat. We were just 100 yards from shore – it was kill him or he would kill us both.
Just then he pulled the throttle all the way back to stop. From 70 mph to zero in 2 seconds. The boat stopped as if Red had thrown out an anchor the size of a Buick. Red got out of his seat, just as a 2’ wave came crashing over the back of the boat. It soaked me from head to knees and to my “Fruit of the Looms.” As water receded, Red turned back at me, “Aren’t you going to fish?”

Two Livewells

Ten minutes into my first tournament and I came within a whisker of dying three separate times. Ten minutes into this contest, with 8 plus hours to go, I sat freezing with my feet in water deep enough to keep a 3 pound bass alive.
I got up and the water in the seat of my pants ran down my leg. I picked up my rod and went to the rear seat. I flipped my bail and was about to make cast #1 with my Mepps. Just as I was into my swing I heard, “Were out of here.”
My Mepps just kept on going. Forgetting that I just made a cast, I watched Red pull up the electric and sit down behind the wheel and start the engine. I turned my head back towards shore. My line went from the tip of my rod to one of those oak trees. It was about 20’ up. After saying a few words under my breath Red yells, “Break it off.” The words came at the same time as he went to warp speed. Within a New York second the boat would be standing straight in the air. I had to get to my seat. My lure, still caught in the tree.
I leaned over and screamed, “You say friends call you Red, is that right Bill?”
That’s the way it went – all day. He had a full livewell by 8 A.M. My livewell never opened.
I don’t remember any part of the 3 hour ride home. I had no idea what happened to me or my day. I was damp, cold and tired. Oh yea, I was also defeated. Totally beat. Fish were on “beds” and everyone caught fish – except this hotshot, but, you know something, I wouldn’t trade that day for any day of my life.
Thanks Red – where ever you are.