I Remember Fishing
I remember the first fish I ever caught. No it wasn’t
exactly a “lunker” and no I didn’t use very advanced
methods for catching it. In fact, I’m not entirely
sure my technique was even legal. The reason I’m a
little blurry on the subject is because I caught my
first fish at the age of 5. I was lucky enough to have
a grandfather who, although unable to do too much
fishing himself, loved taking us boys. I was his first
grandchild, and I can imagine his excitement in
helping me catch my first fish. I don’t remember where
we were, but I do know that the pond was small enough
to see the other shore. I though that old tree on the
other side was a moose for sure! I was amazed at how
clear the water was. Adding to the daytime Kinkade was
near perfect weather and a wonderful alpine backdrop.
With all these natural distractions, it’s a wonder I
found any time to fish. I might not have, if Gramp
hadn’t been helping me with every step. OK, the fish I
could see swimming around helped too. He rigged up my
worm and bobber, cast it out for me in that perfect
spot, and gave express instructions to PULL HARD if
and when that float went under. After an absolutely
eternal 5 minutes, dive it did. The deeper the bobber
went into the water, the higher my heart went into my
throat. I hauled her in like a natural, and to this
day I am still amazed at the colors and patterns I saw
on its bronze, red-speckled body. I was so proud of my
6-inch brook trout that I soon lost grasp and
accidentally dropped it back in the water. I think
that secretly Gramp was even more proud than I was,
even if the pond WAS artificial lures only.
Along with his son (my uncle) we went on to have
plenty more adventures. More than once a trip to visit
relatives was an excuse to go fishing. More than once
those rods we kept in the back came in handy trying
the little creeks under many an unknown bridge. We
went on week long camping trips to sporting cabins “up
north” and spent countless hours trolling for those
spring salmon, and casting for Maine’s famous
smallmouth bass. Of course, we gave all waters a fair
chance, even doing more than our share of mackerel
fishing in the Atlantic. My grandfather owned a marine
supply business, so we had access to plenty of “secret
spots” down in the harbors that scallop the Maine
coast. We would go out selling, then at the end of the
day stop down by the wharf somewhere and haul in
bucketfuls of those oily, silver-blue fish. The rest
of the night would be spent watching Gramp clean all
those fish for the freezer.
I think it’s those memories that make me so value the
times I can spend fishing now. My grandfather died of
complications from diabetes when I was 16. His son
spent much of the next year trying to take over the
business he had left, and that left almost no time for
fishing. The boat didn’t get registered for two years,
and the only fishing we did was a little bit off the
public landing when we heard the mackerel were running
good. I regret not being more active back then, but
I’m sure Gramp will forgive me.
This summer, he had a little more time on his hands,
and I decided to make the most of it. I wanted to
spend as much time outdoors as I could before I left
for college. We made a trip up north, visited the old
stomping grounds, and had a few adventures of our own.
At one point, we ended up in a loaded canoe at the
windward end of a long lake in the middle of a summer
thunderstorm. That was interesting, and believe it or
not, we stayed dry. On a few occasions, we took the
canoe and went out to some local ponds during the
evening. The calm summer nights I experienced were
beyond words. Sometimes, we didn’t even catch any
fish, but that didn’t matter. The true beauty of the
sport is how it puts you into nature, forces you to
experience it firsthand. Catching fish is just a
bonus. Once, I laid on my back in the canoe and
counted 8 or 9 shooting stars in the clear night sky.
I’m thankful for the legacy Gramp left me, and I hope
I will be able to do the same for my grandkids. Many
of those hours on the water were spent wondering what
he would think if he could see me now.
-------------------------------------------------------
How To Want More
Your name is John. You are a very interesting
individual, just like everyone else. In second grade,
you want to be an astronaut when you grow up. In
fifth, you try skateboarding but aren’t that good at
it. Spend hours in your driveway learning to ollie.
Once you can do that fairly well, bring your deck to
school and show all your friends. Be loud on the bus
ride home and try to draw attention to yourself. Get
beat up and called a punk skater boy. This will help
you realize that going with the flow is sometimes
easier than swimming against it.
Freshman year, fall in love with the hottest girl in
homeroom. Realize that she doesn’t know you exist.
Write pathetic songs about it, and show them to your
brother and your two closest friends. Make corny jokes
about the “Dear John” letter you didn’t even get. Feel
rejected all around. Feel like you were meant to be
there, but wish you could leave. Run away from home.
Make it to the corner 2 blocks away, and get picked up
by your aunt. Get the lecture from your parents that
you were actually trying to avoid. Wish they could
understand you. Hope that someday you will meet
someone who can.
As a sophomore, try to make new friends. Meet a girl
named Jeanne, who dresses in black and listens to
Pantera when she’s at school, and cries when she’s at
home. Decide that this is who you want to be, and
start to fall in with her group. Go to Hot Topic
regularly, and buy every band shirt you can find. Buy
Jeanne a maid’s dress and some rainbow tights. Come
across a shirt that says, “You laugh because I’m
different. I laugh because you’re all the same” and
wear it all the time. Ignore the fact that all of
Jeanne’s friends have that shirt. On her birthday,
help her host a basement party. Play lots of Slipknot,
Slayer, Avenged Sevenfold, Pantera, and other hardcore
bands whose names start with S. Stay until the early
morning, when all of Jeanne’s friends are gone. Get
sucked into something that you’ll regret later. Decide
that this is not what you wanted the first time to be
like.
Going into junior year, try to avoid the Goth scene.
Be thankful that Jeanne has transferred to a private
school. Wonder at her parents. Meet someone named
Billy. Decide that he’s a nice kid. When he goes to
football practice, sit on the benches and make small
talk with his cheerleader friends. Try very hard, and
spend lots of money to be accepted. Go to the prom
with Danya, Billy’s sister. Impress her with your
rental tux. Later that night, when Danya asks about
the creepy doll tattoo you have on your thigh, start
to explain last year. Expect sympathy from her, but
receive apprehension. Lay in bed until 11 the next
day, frustrated with life. Wonder why the second time
was no better than the first…
As a senior, feel like you have a little more reign
over the school you have been going to for four years.
Try to make some friends in the lower grades based on
your newfound seniority. Resolve not to get into any
weird relationships this year. Make new friends again.
Look for Billy. Remember that he was a grade ahead of
you. Run into his cousin Ron. Come to the conclusion
that Ron doesn’t know you knew Danya. Decide to make
friends with him. Meet his other friends. Wear their
polo shirts, listen to the local rock station, and
talk about college. Fantasize about spring breaks,
fraternities, and keg parties.
When spring rolls around, begin to wonder where Jeanne
is these days. Apply to the same university that Ron
goes to. Also apply to MIT. Get accepted at both, and
decide to go to the state school. Hear the news about
Jeanne. Ponder your own life. Get over it, get a
summer job, and try to build up a bank account. Wonder
how long $2,355.46 will last you in college. Once
you’re finally there, study accounting. Otherwise,
have a great time. Get a great job in your field, fall
in love with your secretary, and have great kids who
are challenging but rewarding. At night, think about
Jeanne and Danya. Realize those really were the best
days of your life. Wonder if you really could have
made it in robotics.
When your 401k isn’t enough, be thankful you had a
private retirement fund. At your wife’s funeral, wish
you could have died first. See Ron there. Spend the
rest of your days fishing together, and leave
everything to your oldest, William. Wasn’t that
gratifying????
I am 58 years of age. I am flipping through an extreme sports magazine. A teardrop lands amid pictures of fast bikes, white slopes, and big airs. I look over at the beat up skateboard in the corner, down at my beat up knee, then up towards the ceiling and beat myself up inside. I glance at the picture of my grandson on my desk and wonder when he will be over to pick up the gear he left here last weekend. Attempting to return to my spreadsheet, I am distracted by the deformed black lines under the hair on my wrinkly forearm. I take a minute and pray that he will have the guts to follow his dreams before I finish April Taxes and Fees.
It was the most exciting day of my life. I don’t know why my mind kept wandering…
She wanted to fly to Hawaii. I had wanted to take a boat – can’t feel safe at 35,000 feet. Eventually I gave in, thinking it would mean more time on the islands. The flight left at 7:20 am, not a hard time to make at an airport less than 10 miles from our apartment. Hard when you don’t fall asleep until 4 am though. In LA traffic, we didn’t arrive until 7:15. After 2 hours of pleading with officials, we had tickets for the next day.
No, we made it on the right plane in plenty of time.
Everything was going fine, zero turbulence, a tailwind, and lovely flight attendants. I wasn’t, I WASN’T looking at her backside. REALLY. My eyes led me to a man fidgeting slightly, open laptop on his tray table. Looked like some kind of plan, bulleted, from what I could see two rows back. Screams, panic, the nice attendant’s a hostage on Flight 488 to Honolulu. Everything happened so fast, killed the pilot and instructions are missing from their laptop. I knew we should have taken a cruise. Co-pilot was new, didn’t know enough to stop us from going down, down into the azure waters 100 miles off the coast of Maui.
No, we touched down safely.
The man packed up his laptop and headed for the baggage claim, joined by two nice looking Hawaiian ladies. Wasn’t looking at them either. That’s an awfully big ring though. Wonder if he bought her that? We followed them to our luggage. I noticed one of the suitcases he picked up looked pretty heavy, for being so small. Another seemed too light. I lost his trail when we stopped for the restrooms. She took forever. That was normal but I started to get worried. Then the screams came. I tried to stop the masked man but he got away. Security took him down and I retrieved my wife’s purse. That was all I had left of her.
No, bathrooms were busy but she was fine.
We met the trio again near the taxis. Tension in the air, something wasn’t right. The man was fidgeting again. This time the small heavy suitcase was open in place of the laptop. He was bargaining with someone a little overdressed for a cab driver. His nervous mood and dark hair was mirrored in the car window, and in the driver. They could almost be brothers. Looked like guns in that case, 3 or 4 of them. Suddenly another car pulled up, a black Chrysler. They slowed down, tinted window down, the man with the laptop and the women and the suitcase went down. Those two ran, and the cars took off in either direction.
No, the trio got in the cab and took off.
She hit me for staring. That woke me up a little. Didn’t matter, I couldn’t sleep anyway, not until we got into the hotel. She had a shower, and I had a nap on the queen sized bed. I awoke to screams. In the bathroom I found her, how many times had I told her, HOW MANY TIMES, she was going to get herself hurt, it wasn’t safe to dry your hair standing in the shower even without the water running.
No, she was fine; I woke up when she joined me.
We made our own dinner on a secluded beach, complete with romantic campfire, warm breeze, and relaxing surf. I was wishing I could have bought her a ring like the one I saw today, she was probably thinking the same thing, but you couldn’t tell that from our smiles. We were too caught up in each other to notice the boat offshore, or the trio walking the shoreline. I was easing her down onto the oversized towels in the soft black sand while the boat was easing closer to the beach. The trio saw the fire, signaled to the boat. That I noticed. Flashlights they had were bright, unfortunately I understood the blinking as Morse code: PAIR FIRST. THEN DEAL. Running wasn’t easy in the soft sand that was suddenly sided with the enemy. Small rocks cut my feet; her dress was a thing of the past as we made a break for it. Two shots, I wasn’t hurt, she went down and I kept running. My dark suit was harder to see than her white skin. Finally they gave up pursuit and I hid behind an outcropping, watching. I saw the gleam of the big ring, and recognized the light suitcase. Where was the third woman? I turned around in time to see the gleam of metal, hear it cock, and smell the perfume I enjoyed this afternoon. “Sorry you got involved” was all she said before dealing me two to the shoulder. I’ll never know why she spared my life. I woke up in the hospital and called our families. My wife of two days was dead.
No, NO! This time …it was real.
It wasn’t the honeymoon I imagined. It was much, much worse.