FISHIN' FOR JOY - FOR PEACE OF HEART
I cannot remember a time when I was young that 'vacation' did not mean 'fishing'. We always went to a lake somewhere in Wisconsin, and swam and dove and lazed-around, and, went fishing. My dad was a fisherman...wait, he was a Fisherman, capital F...that wasn't his job, but, along with golf, piloting planes, driving cars for hours and hours, and napping on porch swings, Fishing was probably his favorite occupation! Dad would fish with a worm on a hook, but fly fishing made him happiest, I believe.
My poor dad had four daughters. He did not have a 'son' to wake at 5 AM to go out in the boat, to 'fish' with, so he woke up his "Gehls" instead! My mother did fish, and very patiently and happily enough. But, from early on, it was clear that my younger sister and I were going to be out on that boat with him as often as he could get us there. We were going to be Fisher Women, and that was that....
I think it is fair to say that my sister hated fishing. Being in a boat in the middle of a warming morning out in the sun and dealing with worms and hooks and nothing much to do was Not her cup of tea. Just guessing, here, but she certainly didn't seem very happy. Often, she got out of the deal altogether. I was a little, o-let-me-please-you-daddy type of girl, so I always went along and learned what he wanted us to learn. I can't say I was thrilled about fishing at first, but it grew on me, bit by bit by bit....
I had cleaned fish too often with my mom to be devoted to actually bringing in a fish and taking it back to the kitchen to eat. I would be the one to have to scale the little dead thing and cut off its head and gut it out and stuff. I would do it, but not happily. My idea was just to sit and throw in the line and reel it in and throw in out and reel it in, pretty eternally...dad had bigger plans. casting.
But first, a word about worms. The huge earth worms my dad preferred were in our backyard. they were lured up to the surface soil during the night by keeping the soil wet with a dripping from the hose, and putting corn meal at the surface that had been soured in buttermilk. This was an old Southern recipe, I believe. Certainly, by 5:15 AM these worms were milling about doing something wormy, and were ready to shovel up. This was one of my jobs. We had a worm pail with a tight lid with tiny punctured holes on the top. in went our "bait". I still have my little metal worm shovel. It was often on the windowsill near my desk...putting worms on the hook was a skill I didn't mind, seeing that there wasn't any blood and all. Threading them on gave me a sense of fisher woman accomplishment. Then the quick flick of the wrist, and overboard they flew...
So, you would wait, making as little noise in the boat as possible, of course, so as not to "spook" the fish....my dad would putt-putt around at about 3mph, cut the engine, and try other "holes" that guys had told him about over cards the night before. He had endless, endless patience. Little talking was ever done. mostly we'd just hear the whir of the line reeling out, the click, and the reeling in. Of course, often dad would catch a fish, which was always heralded by "got 'm." Then the usually painstaking and cheery task of reeling "m" in, netting the guy or gal, removing the hook carefully, and plopping "m" into the pail of cool water. it was my job to refresh the water every half hour or so. my dad liked his fish as fresh as possible. Occasionally, I too, much to my surprise, would catch a fish. I copied all my dad's moves with as much grace as possible. over time, it was second nature. I thought maybe I looked like the son he wanted to have, if you saw us from the shore...
Years later, I asked my dad if he had wished I was that son. Turns out he had liked me fine, being a girl and all. My sister had been a tomboy, but he didn't "cotton" to her as much. That's what he said! He had kind of hoped one of my other two sisters had been a boy, though. He told me that too... he was honest - if not tactfull...I don't think they went fishing with him, but I may be wrong about that....
Casting. There are books and very expensive classes to teach you casting. I'm here to tell you that the only way to learn casting is to go out with a very, very patient perfectionist like my dad and cast about a million times. Maybe, then, you might be a fair-to-middlin' caster. My right wrist was the cause of many a plop. But there were times that the line with its colorful, feathery lure just sang out over the water like a startled bird in flight, and hit the water with the satisfying snap of an insect's wing. I got to the place where I caught my breath with happiness the few times that happened!
I cannot recall my dad either praising me or scolding me one way or the other about it. He would nod his head if it was a good one, though, and say, "Now raise the tip, reel-in slow, make the bug work for you." things like that. The few times I caught a fish while casting on any of these trips, was a real victory. I had been an insect on the water for a few minutes, and some fish had bought the illusion. I was a Fisher Woman!!
I stopped fishing with him as a teenager. Teenagers don't like sitting in boats with their dads for hours. Their hormones are drawing them to other fish to catch, I guess!....
I didn't stop fishing though! Casting in deep creeks in Wisconsin with my kid's dad...bait fishing in Mill Pond in Portage, Wisconsin...that was all fun...it was always a fun skill to have...Then, my dad sent me his old tackle box...
He had refurbished all of his fishing equipment, and sent me the older flies, and bobbers, and weights, and lines, and lures. I was thrilled! At that point, I was in California. I went fishing in reservoirs and lakes all over Northern California, casting away! and, of course, sometimes even catching fish...then, one day, I loaned the tackle box to a school teacher I knew, for him to use to teach the kids fishing on a three-day camp out. That generosity turned out to be a big mistake. ..
What he said was that the tackle box was "lost"...what is suspect, is that he kept it. People's eyes are such give-aways....
Somehow, I didn't go fishing again.... One husband just didn't. The boyfriend after that did not... My present husband and I were given fishing poles and tackle as a Christmas gift, but we never did go fishing..... Eventually, I passed my new gear to two grandsons over time. After my dad died, I got two of his poles. I gave one to my son-in-law, who I love dearly. He fishes, quite a bit. He displays it nicely in his collection of old gear...the other, I gave to my Dear One, who, being from the Midwest, loves to 'go fishing', and has, all of his life...I will go with him, when I can. He brought me my own gear, as a present....
What do I remember most about the Feel of Fishing?...I remember being happy fishing. I felt...joy... just sitting on the water, or in a folding chair by the side of a lake. It was a Heart feeling....
I remember feeling peace...Peace like a River. the need to do very little. the need to do nothing at all....
At the school where I work, I took Japanese Sword lessons, on and off, depending on how my back was doing. I'd been doing OK with the sword strokes, but, one day, my Teacher asked, "Do you know how to cast, like in fishing?" I answered "Yes, Why?" He advised, "Just do the wrist action for a cast. Then you'll have the downstroke right..."
In almost a trance state, without hesitation, I cast my right wrist just so...
The sword lept through the air like a bird rising from the water in startled flight...
"Raise the tip now. make it work for you!"...
The satisfying snap of an insect's wing....
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