1991, No TSA, No Rules, Just Vibes: The Fishing Rod Incident
Let me take you back to 1991. The year of Desert Storm, grunge music, and the absolute wild west of air travel. A time when you could smoke in the airport, bring a pocketknife in your carry-on, and check an entire cooler full of bait if you felt like it. A time when my father—let's call him Alan, because that was his name—walked into an airport terminal holding a 6-foot fishing rod he had bought at Walmart, and no one batted an eye.
Let me repeat that: six feet of fiberglass and lies, straight through security like it was a bouquet of roses.
The Setup: A Simple Walmart Stop
We were in Fort Lauderdale, We had spent a few days cleaning out my Great aunts condo after she had passed. My dad, always one to get an idea and follow through before anyone could stop him, decided he needed a fishing rod. Not for any other reason that there was a canal behind the condo and it looked fishy—just because we were in Florida, and the call of unnecessary gear was strong.
So, we stop at Walmart, where he finds a $19.99 rod-and-reel combo that looked like it was manufactured during Reagan’s first term. He held it out in the store like Excalibur and declared, “Perfect.”
We cleaned and fished for a few days, and then he threw it in the rental car minus the reel which he threw in his carry-on
I asked, “You’re gonna bring that on the plane?”
He just grinned. “Watch me.”
The Story Gets Better at the Gate
Now, I need you to picture this: my father walks through the Fort Lauderdale airport like a man with a mission and a full-sized fishing rod in hand. No case. No tag. Just the raw rod.
And then… the moment of genius.
We get to the gate, and the agent—probably not paid enough for what happened next—asks about the rod. My dad leans in slightly, lowers his voice like he’s about to share state secrets, and says:
“This was given to me by President George H.W. Bush. Very rare. Presentation rod. It’s got to be hand-carried and delivered at the gate in Newark.”
The gate agent, who surely sensed the insanity but also wanted to go home on time, blinked twice and said, “Yes, sir.”
That’s it. No ID. No paperwork. No questions. Just... okay.
The Arrival in Newark
Now here’s the kicker. We land in Newark, and I’m ready for the fishing rod to be half-crushed, stuck in a bulkhead, or simply missing. But nope. We get to baggage claim and two airline employees in uniforms hand-deliver the thing to the luggage belt like it’s a baby being returned to royalty.
They walk it over—walk it—holding it horizontally, like a fragile heirloom.
“Sir, here you go. Handled as requested.”
My dad, dead serious, gives them a nod like a man burdened by presidential secrets. Then he hands the rod to me and says, “You see? All it takes is confidence and a straight face.”
The Moral of the Story?
You can’t pull that off today. You try bringing a 6-foot mystery stick through security now and TSA will taze you before you hit the food court. But back then? Back then you could walk through an airport with a fishing pole and a lie, and get valet baggage service.
Every time I fly now—with my shoes off, my laptop out, my liquids bagged like contraband—I remember 1991, that Walmart special, and the quiet swagger of a man who convinced an airline that he was carrying a presidential fishing wand.
Stay adjusted, stay caffeinated, and if you see someone in baggage claim holding a fishing pole, treat them with the respect they’ve clearly earned.
If this was your first ride with Alan, there’s a whole stretch of road behind us.
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