I’m always moved when I hear of someone’s indroduction to fishing.  If they tell me in person, I note the dreamy look in their eyes as they’re transported across time to another place that stirs their heart.  If I read it, I envision the same and can see the feeling in their words.

Most often, it’s dad.  They remember that first outing, how dad was the wisest fisherman that ever lived, the advice he gave that “to this day…”

My dad was not a fisherman.  But when it was blatantly obvious that I was passionate about it, and as a teenager with which no parent knows what to do, I was impressed when my dad wanted to fish with me.

I helped him pick out out a little spinning combo, got him a license, and off we went to one of my favorite places to fish as a high-schooler.

Not a bang-up day, as far as fishing goes.  I caught a few, don’t think dad caught any.  But now, as a father of my own teen, I see what that was really about, and it damn near makes me cry every time I think about it.  And I salute him for it.

So there you are, a suave young fella with plenty of dreams, and you become a father.  Oh, the joy!  Your work-filled days of butt-busting are vanquished in David-n-Goliath manner when you come home and laugh at the antics of your growing child.  Carry her around like a horse, pull her out of the cupboards, re-create epics with action figures and dolls.  How sweet life can be!  Late in the evening you ponder the possibilities of your son or daughter, what they’ll be in professional, spiritual, moral capacities.  You tuck them away at bedtime, keep them safe, go to work the next day.

I’d heard, didn’t hear, that those early years pass so swiftly.  You feed them and change their diapers, carry them to bed and read them stories, meet their teachers and help them with their homework, lecture them on dating and “how the world really is.”  It happens that fast.

Suddenly, they realize they are their own person, with the ability to think for themselves and make their own decisions.  Your say in the matter?  Nil.

I remember that day dad went fishing with me.  It meant a lot to me then (which is really saying something since I was a teen at the time), and it means a lot to me now.  I struggle with my teenage daughter, trying to stay connected.  But I draw on that one single act as a great example of how to make a difference and have some influence.  At times, of course, it’s tough and seems hopeless.

But you can have an influence, which is what I try to do.  My dad did not share my passions, but I recognized his attempts at making a connection.  And that sticks with me to this day.  His example of being a kind, courteous, and caring man made an influence on me that I still try to emulate.

My dad’s about 5’2″ tall, well rounded, and now quite gray.  He’s a fine example of someone who cares for others, thinking of himself last, doing what he can to help anyone.  He’s a little big guy.

His brother, my uncle, loved to fish.  The first fishing excursion I can remember, my uncle and his friend took us (me, my brother, my cousin) to a collection of impoundments stocked with all manner of warm-water species… plus northern pike.

My brother was a mess, in every way, shape, and form.  I’ll leave it at that.

My cousin… you could always count on him to fall in the water at some point.  It was just a matter of time.

We stopped at the “club bridge” to admire the large stocked trout available only to members, salivating over possibilities.  On to the lake.  Our fishing success was so-so.  Some small bass, us kids pestering the ‘gills.  I learned to unhook fish that day, mainly ’cause I was catching too many and my uncle and his friend were tired of doing it for me.  I remember watching those fish mill about the roots of shoreline trees, teasing them with my lure, dancing it so they’d attack.  I remember dragonflies and the tall grass on the islands out in the middle of the lake.

My aunt had packed ham-n-cheese sandwiches, wrapped in aluminum foil.  To this day, thirty-some years later, I haven’t had a better lunch than those sun-baked ham sandwiches and the ice-cold root beer from the cooler.

After lunch we resumed our fishing.  My cousin fell in the water and there was a pause to determine the best way to dry him out.  Ya know, thinking back on it now, that was a long day!  We got there in the morning, paused for lunch, and didn’t quit till dusk.  But at the time, I was in my element.  I studied everything.  What the fish did, what worked, what didn’t, what my uncle and his friend did, the light, the bugs, the trees, the wind.  It was the kind of day you hope never ends as a kid.

We were packing up.  Stow the rods, gather the gear, clean up, etc.  My cousin was “playing around” with a floating black frog from his dad’s tackle box.  Sure, why not, let the kid have a little fun. 

I remember noting how the setting sun seemed a hue paler on the smooth water than in the sky as I watched the frog lure make wakes across the pond.  Then the frog exploded.  Water went everywhere.  My cousin let out a cry as his Zebco combo bent under heavy weight.  The gods of the Underverse saw fit to bestow upon my cousin the pleasure of being attached to a toothy predator of the underwater realm.  He’d hooked a northern pike.

Now, you should know, that even though northern pike were stocked here, they were seldom caught, and often grew quite large.  So throughout the region, to catch one was something the old-timers talked about over coffee or beer at the local radio club.  This was a big deal.

My uncle helped land the pike, his friend netting it when they got it to shore.  Now that I’m older and approaching wisdom, I wish I hadn’t been so jealous.  I’m sure it was a beautiful fish, with lots of fine green trails on a golden backdrop.  But at that moment, at that time, it was ugly, but it was big. 

They unhooked it and folded it into the rootbeer cooler.  Hasty preparations for retreat were executed and we were on our way.  I was mad as hell.  This kid, who fell in the water, didn’t give a damn about fishing, got the prize of the day.  Just by goofing around.  What the…?!

We stopped on the way home at the radio club to show the fish off to my grandfather and his radio buddies.  It was quite a spectacle.

I’m sure that wasn’t my first day of fishing, but it’s the earliest one I remember.  Self-absorbtion aside, I salute my uncle for including me.  Things I remember and learned from that day still reside with me.

My uncle is a bit shorter than my dad.  Perhaps a bit shy of 5 feet tall.  He’s just as wide and strong as an ox.  He chauffeured me into his world, and I’m forever greatful.

He’s a little big guy.

to be continued…