July 8, 2013 – Two of my boys and some friends started a summer contest: the most fish caught by August 12, and the winner receives a new fishing rod along with the Twitter handle, “@TheAngler.” The one rule is they must all be fishing together for the catches to count. No one owns a boat, so all fishing occurs on the banks of neighborhood lakes and private ponds. They’ve adopted Twitter handles such as: “The Strike King”, “Mr. Abu”, “Bass Assassin”, and “Master Caster.” Several mornings and nights each week they stuff their rods in a car, search for the nearest puddle, toss in shiny new tackle, and return home, reciting stories of bass jumping on their lures, clearing the water, snapping its head around to get off the hook. Then, they’ll click on the TV, watching Jeremy Wade on River Monsters land a gargantuan man-eater, and they dream. The other morning, they even went to summer school… “Techniques on Fly Fishing” at Bass Pro Shops.
Obsessed? Yes. Alone? No.
There’s something about fishing that possesses a person. It’s parodied in quotes like, “Give a man a fish and he has food for a day; teach him how to fish and you can get rid of him for the entire weekend,” and songs like Brad Paisley’s, “I’m Gonna Miss Her.” Paisley sings of a wife who gives the ultimatum to her husband: choose her or fishing. The husband recalls his love for his bride, even considers begging her return, but then notices his cork, “Oh, lookie there, I’ve gotta bite.” Around the house, my boys have skipped chores or did them “half way” so they can rush out to the pond, and it’s nearly impossible for me to lower the hammer cause I’d like to be with them. Entire paychecks are spent on rods, lures, and tackle boxes, and for them, a visit to Bass Pro is like an invitation to the Vatican.
Maybe it’s the mystery, like an other-worldly form of hide-and-go-seek, that makes fishing so addictive. You approach a body of water with no idea of what lies beneath. You hope there’s fish, but what kind and how many is anybody’s guess. Then you spot a cove or a stump where one may lurk, but then who knows what it looks like under the water line, and if there is a fish, what will it eat? Worms? A minnow? Crawfish? Is nothing there or is it just stubborn, waiting in the shadows?
And WHOOSH!
Your line snaps tight, the rod doubles, and “It” breaks the surface, wiggling, slapping, splashing. You reel and yank it away from anything that may break your line, and you hope it’s strong enough to hold the swimmer. It fights, you fight, and finally, with a little persistence, a “monster fish” slaps in your grasp—the ending to a story that will grow at each retelling.
Which is another reason so many play a little hookey from work or church to do a little angling (not me, never); there’s the possibility of greatness anywhere, at any time, for anyone. You don’t have to be Bill Dance, a gifted athlete, or have a talent of any sort, and yet, at the right moment, you’re grinning on Facebook like the Cheshire cat as Moby Dick lops and hangs over your cradled arms. Heck, just last month two world records were caught by a brother and sister (both under 15) on the same day just off the coast of Argentina. What are the chances? Glory awaits at every cast, just remember, if you catch that world record buster, and you called in sick, or went to “the church on the lake,” you may have to get quite creative in the telling.
Fishing is all about adventure and hope, it’s candy for the imagination, and a guy like me loves that kinda candy. My entire life has been about experiencing new opportunities and longing for greatness. I mean, I can’t even go to the mailbox without that small twinge of hope that I’m going to open an unexpected check or receive a blockbuster book contract. So, I guess when I drop a line in the water, I’m living out my life’s philosophy. Which explains why my boys and their buddies crawled out of their beds again at the crack of dawn (when most teens are comatose) and headed to the water. They can’t help it. They’re hooked like me and as the old saying goes, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” (or “The fry doesn’t swim far from the cove.” Sorry, I couldn’t help it…)
READ MORE FROM SCOTT GILL
Summer Vacation for the Man in Debt
Tossing Small Stones: A Father’s Day Confession
Old things ain’t so bad afterall
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