A few years ago, a friend who always seems to be buying or selling one boat or another sidled up to me with a deal he said I couldn’t refuse.

At least, that’s the way I remember it.

“Psst,” he may or may not have said. “Wanna buy my 14-footer?”

Being a sucker for a good deal, and seeing as how I’d been trolling in a downright scary 12-foot Jon boat that shuddered against even the smallest waves with a jolting, bobbing lurch … I leaped at the chance to upgrade.

The upgrade: A 1967 aluminum craft that I’ve taken to calling the S.S. Minnow, mainly because I wasn’t feeling too original that day, and because a neighboring camper on Beech Hill had already claimed “S.S. Smelt” for his own (bigger) craft.

Since then, the Minnow has proven to be well worth the investment, even though it’s nearly as old as I am. It handles waves comfortably. It has plenty of space for me and my heftiest fishing buddies … which is saying something.

And even though the 4-horse trolling motor I’ve chosen to strap to its rump can’t make it plane (picture a buffalo trying to waterski, and you’ll get the general idea), all in all, I’m quite pleased.

Well, I was until this year.

This year, things have changed. This year, instead of fishing on my own time, and occasionally writing about it, I’m fishing on company time, and writing about it regularly.

And this year, the Minnow is still high and dry … sitting in Brewer … awaiting the first togue-trawling adventure of the summer. The Minnow is legal – she’s got her registration and man-eating plant stickers already attached. Unfortunately, I haven’t found the time to launch my trusty craft.

The reason: Unless I choose to write some multi-part, first-person epic a la Old Man of the Sea, the concept of one fat guy sitting in a boat, ruminating about life and its travails, isn’t what most would consider “engaging column fodder.”

Therefore, I fish with others. In their boats. At their convenience. Where they want to fish.

I know, I know. You’re not shedding tears. I get to fish … and The Boss never yells at me when he finds out that’s where I’ve been.

And it’s certainly a better gig than spending a summer delivering pizzas, or hefting 300-pound blocks of ice, or waiting tables, or muscling size-seven sneakers onto the size-10 feet of ornery looking housewives who just bought a membership to a gym they’ll never visit (all of which, by the way, are jobs I’ve filled in my younger years).

Still, the more time I spend fishing on the company dime, the more I realize that there’s something special about hopping into your own boat, heading out onto your own lake (or, at least, one you feel is your own), and fishing places you’re familiar with.

My lake of choice, for instance, is Beech Hill Pond. I know that to get to the togue-ing grounds, I’ve got to plow water (remember, the underpowered Minnow tends to wallow) for a mile before easing up on the throttle, taking a break, and preparing my bait.

I know where my favorite troll starts … and where it ends. I know which “magic” camp to aim the bow at, and exactly when to steer into a hard left turn that will take my bait to the perfect level.

I know that most times, I can perform that little piece of water ballet, count to 10, and (more often than not) end up with a togue on the end of my line. (I also know that I spend a lot of time telling you what an unsuccessful fisherman I am, and you won’t believe this. That’s fine. Just don’t follow me around the next time you see the Minnow out on Beech Hill).

In the Minnow, I am comfortable. I can lean back and relax. I can lean forward to the cup-holder I haphazardly attached to the aging wooden seat, grab my icy Coke, and take a sip. I know where my various fishing tools go … and where they have gone on the frequent occasions when they ends up missing. (There are, after all, only so many hiding places on a 14-foot boat).

My tackle boxes have their own spots, which are non-negotiable … even if a couple buddies come along (in those cases, the boxes double as a convenient hassock).

I know where the rocks are … and where they’re not. I know how long it will take me to get off the water, and how long it will take for a threatening sky to turn downright ugly.

And when I’m out there, and wind dies down right before sunset, I know I’m where I belong.

No matter how much you fish … or where those fishing adventures take you, there’s something special about that.

Brent Oliver checked in this week to share the results of the Hogan Tire/Greater Lincoln Bassmasters tournament, which was held recently in Lincoln.

In all, 11 teams entered the event, and Oliver reports 116 pounds of fish were caught … and released … during the tourney.

The $400 top prize went to Curt Chandler of Orono and Joe Legassie of Presque Isle, who boated fish totaling 12 pounds, 9 ounces.

Second prize ($200) was the team of Glen Faloon of Howland and Ed Totz of Enfield. They ended up with a 12-pound, 4-ounce total. Third place ($100 was the team of William Franks and Glen Sanborn of Lagrange, who boated fish weighing 11 pounds, 9 ounces.

The tournament was held on the Penobscot River, and teams averaged more than 10 pounds of fish per boat – a hefty total, according to Oliver.

If you’re interested in giving tournament bass fishing a try, you may want to mark this date down: Aug. 9.

That’s when Oliver and his pals will stage the Cole-Whitney Ford Medway Open. The tourney will run from 7 a.m.- 2 p.m.

For more information, you can contact Brent Oliver at 794-6540.

And for those who’ve seen bass tourneys on TV and think they can’t participate unless they own a gleaming 150-horsepower bass boat, don’t worry.

Owning a $20,000 boat is not a requirement for entry.

The Quest: Although I initially made this query a few weeks back, anglers have apparently been too busy fishing to e-mail with their best fishing story.

Perhaps a fish actually jumped into your boat as you tried to net it (If so, I’ll believe you. Really).

Perhaps you ended up catching more than you’d hoped for. Or maybe you’ve just got a really good “You should’ve seen the one that got away” story.

If any of these scenarios sound familiar to you, please feel free to send a letter or an e-mail recounting your favorite moments on (or in) the water.

Though response has been spotty thus far (which is a polite way to say it’s been nearly nonexistent), I know each of us has a story to tell. I’ve spent enough time listening to stories (and telling my own) to know that every angler has a few doozies up their sleeves.

The only requirement: You’ve got to dare to share your story with a hundred thousand of your closest friends.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.