September 16, 2002

Greetings from the bank,

If you live in the Great Lakes state of Michigan, you likely have been fishing.  There are lakes and creeks and rivers of all sizes packed with fish of all sorts.  The roads are filled with people dragging their boats, often past one another, to the best fishing spots.   You'll find anglers on bridges, in boats, wading in creeks, and on the shores of any body of water large enough to support life.  You'll find them fishing in all seasons, including the winter, when all you have to do is cut a hole in the ice to get at the fish.

In more than four decades of Michigan living, I might have been fishing four times.  Evidently, I do not have the fishing gene in my DNA.  So, I made a little moaning noise when I learned that this week's Cub Scout adventure included a trip to a small pond to go fishing. 

We came to our little fishing expedition relying on the kindness of strangers, since we don't own any fishing equipment.  Our preparation to fish included putting on bug spray, and sharpening sticks to roast marshmallows on.  The only way we were going to catch fish is if I could talk them into giving themselves up, or lure them ashore with a toasty marshmallow.

The other fathers were men with knives on their belts.  Somewhere at home they have nets and waders and hip boots.  They have hats with lures stuck in them, and they know where to buy a license in what season.  They know where to go to find the fish, and how to tempt them out of the water.  They know how to cast, how to twitch the rod to make the line jump for the fish.  They know how to clean the fish so there is something edible when the job is done.  Standing in their company, I am an imposter.

  I watched them open their tackle boxes, with the little fold out drawers, filled with sinkers and bobbers, hooks, line, spoons, plugs, dipsey sinkers, spinners, snubbers, barrels, and all manner of colorful lures.  I listened as they talked about rigging: split shot, Texas, wacky, trolling.  All I could hope was that no one would ask me about wacky rigging.  I'm pretty sure I missed that in driver's education.

Our Scout den took pity on us, and loaned us a couple of poles, pointed us toward the pile of tubs containing the worms we would use for bait.  Since I am the Dad, I was nominated to handle the slimy work.  I followed the example of the seven year old kid next to me.  Cut the worm in half, (using your fingers, you sissy).  Impale it on the hook.  Try not to shred the worm to tiny pieces while doing this, or it dissolves when it hits the water.

Once you are prepared with your hook baited, however tentatively, you must now cast your line into the water.  That's where the fish are.  Waiting for the fish to evolve enough to walk out of the water is not very efficient. 

In the company of men, one never asks for help, it just isn't done.  If I was going to show my sons how to catch a fish, it was going to be using the tried and true Smith method: Wing It.

You probably have seen movies of people fly fishing, casting graceful loops of line over the water, placing the hook neatly in the places fish are likely to be waiting.  This was nothing like that.  It was more like watching someone having a sneezing fit.

I stood at the bank, watching the others cast their lines.  I shadowed their moves as best I could; hold the rod back over my head, push the button down on the reel, fling the rod forward just as you release the button.  Perfect.

The first cast goes straight into the mud bank.  The second cast loops back around the pole.  Then I cast into the weeds. Caught two little yellow flowers.  Cast into the grass behind me.  Didn't catch anything and the worm escaped.  Worms are not smart, but this worm knew I was embarrassing myself, and didn't want to be a part of it.

Before long, the boys were flinging their lines into the water with the natural ease of those who aren't trying too hard.  Catching fish in this little pond was not a problem.  The fish were more than willing to give up a little time in the water in order to provide sport for our boys.  No sooner did the line hit the water, there was a fish waving his fin at us to reel him in.  I suspect the fish have heard about my prowess as an outdoorsman, and were taking pity on me.

The boys caught fish after fish, giving out the appropriate whooping scream at each strike.  Some fish were so small, it was a close battle between the worm and the fish.

Once you have the fish, you must take it off the hook, so you can throw it back in the water to catch it again.  Since my job was to handle the slimy work, I released the fish.   After a few, I was actually pretty good at getting the hook out without hurting anyone, other than the minor insult to the fish.  I threw a lot of little fish into that pond.  I swear one of them looked at me like "You again?" 

We made our way back to our car in the fading light, the boys running ahead with their pals, mighty hunters, hollering boy stuff to each other.  They were exuberant, filled with pride over their new accomplishment.  We have conquered fish, and the fear of failing to fish.   Another adventure, another memory that will stay with us, long after I get this smell off my hands.

Hope this finds you getting a nibble,

David

Copyright (c) 2002 David Smith