For the past 10 months or so (ever since I decided to burn my last week of vacation with five months left in the year), I have counted the days until my next week of butt-sitting, golf ball-hitting, fish-outwitting leisure rolled around.

Now, I try to be as modest as I can. But I’ve got to tell you, there are a few things in this life that I’m very good at. Like hot-dog eating? I’m a pro. Sleeping? Can’t beat me there, either.

To that list, you can add vacationing. You heard it here first: I am a Nearly World-Class Man Of Leisure.

Nothing gets me down when I’m on vacation. Even when the fish aren’t biting. Even when the sun doesn’t shine. Even when I can’t find anyone else who has any free time to join me in my pursuits.

I figure, if you enter vacation with the right mindset, no matter what you do, you’ll have fun.

At least, that’s the way I used to think. This year, I’m not so sure.

Slowly, mysteriously, things have begun to happen to me as my magic week neared. Bad things. Vacation-wrecking things.

Like the other day, when I was out golfing, and my finely honed hacker’s swing went from moderately undependable to completely atrocious in the span of two minutes.

Old ladies hid. Squirrels ran scared. My playing partners said polite things. For awhile. Then they gave up.

I quickly shrugged off my new case of the shanks. I had, after all, lived through three years as an every-ball duck-hooker. I’d survived several more years with the yips, during which I’d made a total of about five putts from outside six feet.

Vacation was nearing, I reasoned. And a Nearly World-Class Man Of Leisure can’t let a few errant golf balls stand in the way of a good time.

And besides, there are still plenty of other options.

Like volleyball! On the beach!

And as a Nearly World-Class Man of Leisure, I’ve got just the equipment for the job: It’s a super-nifty, completely portable, easy-to-set-up net system.

Think that isn’t cool? Try this: Go to any beach, and you’ll find a few very popular people. The ice cream vendor. The cutest girl.

And the guy with the volleyball net. That, ladies and gents, is me.

But as I started to plan my week of sun, fun, and beach volleyball, something else dawned on me.

My net – the ice-breaking, friend-making summer staple I’ve carted around in my truck for years – is in Glenburn. On a friend’s lawn.

And apparently she’s become quite popular, too, because I haven’t been able to get in touch with her to set up a time when I can repossess it.

Still, I’m an optimist. And I figured that when you can’t hit a golf ball straight, and you can’t even use your own volleyball net, it’s time to get back to basics.

That means fishing.

So the other day, Fishing Buddy and I headed to Beech Hill Pond for the long-awaited launching of my intrepid 14-foot 1960s-vintage boat.

After manhandling the S.S. Minnow back into her natural environment, we decided (on the spur of the moment, mind you) to go out for a short troll.

Coincidentally, we were able to scrape together some rods, tackle boxes, and a fish-finder. How they got into the back of my truck, I don’t know.

We attached the motor. Loaded our gear. Applauded ourselves at our foresight … and got ready to fish.

On pull number five, the starter cord broke.

It’s nearly enough to make a Nearly World-Class Man of Leisure cry.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter. His e-mail address is jholyoke@bangordailynews.net