September 1994. Time for our second Denver Fly Tackle Show. This time, we didn’t need to book a booth for Fishy Pete’s — Fred Claghorn from Versitex was representing us, and he already had one. So Terry and I flew out again toNew York, then caught the train to Spring City, Pennsylvania, where Fred was incredibly hospitable. He gave us a full tour of his factory, then invited us to dinner and put us up for the night in his lovely home, where we also met his charming wife.
The next day — if memory serves — he drove us all to New York, where we caught our flight to Denver and checked into the good old Ramada Inn. I forgot to mention it last time, but the Ramada was a bit of a dive. Still, when you’re on a shoestring budget, you take what you can get.
Our saltwater flies took up a small section of Fred’s stand, but if I’m honest, the main reason I’d come this time wasn’t for exports. Our two retail tackle shops back home in South Africa were doing so well, we could barely keep up with the local demand. I wanted to explore potential new agencies — tackle brands we could represent — to feed our expanding retail business. The export game, especially at the margins R3 Baits was offering, didn’t really excite me anymore.
One agency I did pick up was from a Korean manufacturer of carbon fiber rods. They didn’t really have a brand — they simply offered to print your brand on the rods. That appealed to my burgeoning ego. Plus, they performed beautifully. They called them the HM Series — short for “High Modulus.” And I knew a good rod when I cast one. We agreed they would brand them in Korea with the Fishy Pete’s logo and ship them to us directly so I placed the first of what would be many orders.
I picked up a couple of other small agencies too — tippet materials and so on. But then, something unexpected happened. I had my laptop with me and was logging into the local CompuServe network. Back home, I’d rigged the computer at Fishy Pete’s for Pete to login to, so I could send updates from the road. I got an urgent email from Pete saying he had just received a call — from someone claiming to represent Rapala.
Now, a few months earlier, we’d done a 10,000-piece tied treble job for Rapala, via Ron. He’d told us it was a success — but at six cents per tie, the job was barely viable. So hearing that Rapala had now reached out to us directly? Equal parts exciting and unsettling.
Exciting because — well, Rapala!
Unsettling because it suggested they might be going behind Ron’s back. And that didn’t sit right with me.
Pete had sent me the contact details: a man named Kari Takkinen. I phoned him in Vaaksky Finland from a payphone at the Denver show. He was extremely polite and his English was perfect. He really liked our quality and delivery speed. I asked how he’d found out we were the supplier. He didn’t say — just that they preferred not to deal with middlemen anymore. They’d been fine working with Ron Rigger when he had his own manufacturing in Haiti, but now that he was just a broker, they wanted him out.
I was playing international businessman — a bit of a joke in hindsight. But I trusted my instincts, and they told me this was the right direction.
Kari asked me to quote for 100,000 tied trebles — a huge order by our standards. But of course, I had no idea what Ron was charging them. I asked Kari to give me time to return to South Africa and talk with my partners. I promised I’d send him a formal quote once I had.
After the show, Terry and I flew to the Twin Cities of Minneapolis–St. Paul, where I hired a car. I had a plan: drive up to Moose Lake to meet with Ron Rigger from R3 Baits, lay out the numbers, and try to show him that we couldn’t survive on the prices he was offering for the Lightning Bugs.
So, after Denver, Terry and I hired a car and drove north from the Twin Cities to Moose Lake. I called ahead from the hotel — they said, “See you in three hours.” We arrived in two. They couldn’t believe it. I was a speed demon by then, honed by years of spotting speed traps in South Africa. I scoffed at the Americans dawdling along at 70 mph while I zipped past them at 90.
Of course, that ego would soon catch up with me.
But first, the meeting. I sat down with Ron and went through the numbers. He was prepared to raise his offer to seven cents per unit. Still nowhere near sustainable. I thanked him politely and said I’d talk to my partners and get back to him — but in my mind, I already knew we were done. I just didn’t tell him about Kerry.
It was a damn shame. We had all those spin-casting machines in South Africa, bought specifically for Rapala production. Now they’d likely gather dust — another lesson in inexperience, hubris, and entrepreneurial growing pains.
From there, Terry and I headed for Chicago. My mom had spent several childhood years there, attending school and living in Lake Forest — a story I touch on in my parents’ backstory — and I wanted to see the city for myself.
We hit the road.
About half an hour in, we stopped at KFC, loaded up on chicken, and got back on the highway. I'm driving, cruising at 90 again, nibbling on drumsticks, when I hear a sound:
“WEEEEE-oooooo, WEEEE-oooooo.”
Flashing lights in the mirror. A cop. Damn.
I slow down, and suddenly this booming voice from a loudspeaker bellows:
“PULL OVER!”
Then,
“NOT ON THE BRIDGE!”
So I continue a few hundred meters and pull over again. I’m panicking.
“Get out of the car! Hands on the roof!”
I comply — heart pounding. I glance sideways and see this six-foot-five officer in full Ray-Ban glory, hand on his gun, approaching. He barks:
“License and registration.”
“They’re in the glove compartment, sir.”
“Where you from?”
“South Africa.”
“You know you were doing 95 in a 70 zone?”
“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. We work in kilometers per hour back home…”
He wasn’t amused.
“You’re weaving. All over the road. I’m going to breathalyze you.”
He let me bring my hands around. I hadn’t had a drink since the night before — thank God. As he tested me, I caught a glimpse of his badge.
I kid you not:
Sheriff McCoy.
The real McCoy.
After the breath test, he delivered the line that dropped my stomach into my shoes:
“95 in a 70 zone? Son, you’re going straight to jail.”
By this stage, Terry was in tears. Full-on sobbing in the passenger seat.
I begged. I pleaded. I explained. Somehow, he relented.
“Alright. $600 fine.”
Six hundred dollars. In 1994.
I didn’t have anywhere near that on me. So out came the old manual credit card machine — the kind that goes whack-whack — and in went my Nedbank card. It was linked to my South African checking account, and I honestly didn’t know if there was even 600 rand in there.
But I figured: “Old machine. No instant check. I’m probably safe.”
Then came the killer blow.
“I need to get authorization on that amount. Calling your bank.”
He radioed through. They phoned my bank in South Africa.
We sat on the side of that Wisconsin highway for an hour and a half. Terry in tears. Me sweating bullets. Sheriff McCoy, calm as you like.
Eventually, authorization came through. The payment was processed. I wasn’t going to jail. But I was thoroughly humbled.
Lesson learned.
For the rest of the drive to Chicago, I stuck to 55 mph. Maybe less.
In Chicago, we went up the Sears Tower, spent the night at a hotel, then flew back to New York and finally home to South Africa.
But the Rapala story?
That… that’s for the next chapter.