And All The Resources Of Disney Were Placed At His Disposal

Bill is a design engineer who spent years working at Walt Disney World in Florida, designing hydraulic systems for the Epcot Center. He was the one who told us that EPCOT means "Every Person Comes Out Tired," a truism coined by some unknown wag of a Disney employee that can be verified by any visitor to the park at the end of a merrymaking day.

Bill's avocation is fishing. He does it every chance he gets and has trophies to prove his love. The last time I saw him, he invited us to visit him in Orlando any time, "And I'll see if I can get passes so you can visit the 'Mouse House' again."

You've gotten us in there twice, Bill," I remonstrated. "The next time we come to Florida, I'd rather spend a day or two fishing with you on those unspoiled lakes you keep talking about."

He has taken the trouble to scout every promising body of fresh water in central Florida. He carries a snapshot taken on one of these lakes: a waterscape framed by palmetto grass, royal palms and live oaks hung with Spanish moss. One look at it is enough to hook anyone who enjoys spending time in the natural world, fisherman or not. That picture captures everything that Florida was in the early part of this century, and even as late as the '50s. It's still a paradise, if you just know where to look.

The employees of Disney World formed a fishing club years ago in order to capitalize on their exclusive access to the well-stocked lakes and ponds on park property. Bill earned his share of honors and awards in the competitions regularly held by these men, and soon gained a reputation for knowing the best fishing holes in the park. Thus, it was not unusual for him to be asked to serve as a courtesy guide for visiting VIPs—usually executives from the California office—who wanted a good day's freshwater fishing.

One of his charges was the late Frank Wells, the CEO who guided the company after the death of Walt Disney. Mr. Wells was at the helm while Walt Disney World and the Epcot Center were built, and Bill will tell you that he was possibly the best boss he ever had, a kind and generous man.

They fished all one morning with little success. They continued past noon, ever hopeful. Mr. Wells was sure that they just hadn't found the spot where the fish were yet.

"I've got to get to a meeting in about an hour," he cautioned, checking his watch. "What do you say we try over there?" He pointed toward a likely place. Bill agreed and directed the boat "over there." Still no luck, until Mr. Wells announced, "One more cast, then I'll need you to run me back to my car."

With that announcement, he cast . . . and let go of the rod.

The men watched speechlessly as the rod quickly sank in 30-some feet of water which, although fairly clear, had a bottom of long weeds gently waving in a perpetual current.

They had to leave. Uttering profuse apologies, Mr. Wells assured Bill that he would make good the loss—for the tossed rod belonged to Bill—but he could not afford to miss the imminent meeting.

The next morning, Bill passed the lake on the way to his office and noted with puzzlement the presence of a rowboat and not less than four divers at work in the area where he and Frank Wells had made their final casts.

About midmorning, park security called Bill and said that they needed him to come down and identify lost property. Bill went to their office and picked out the tackle Wells had lost—one of Zebco's less expensive reels on a discount-store rod—from a collection of soggy objects lying on a table: two more fishing rods, one reel, several shoes, pairs of sunglasses and spectacles, and a watch.

"Four divers! How must did that little salvage operation cost?" I cried.

Bill joined me in laughing as he ruefully shook his head.

"I'll never know, but it was a heck of a lot more than that rod and reel was worth!"