My Love Affair With....Fishing

I like to fish. No, wait. That isn't exactly true. I love to fish. Adore it. If I were to go up to the lake and spend the entire weekend fishing, that would be just fine with me. My cousin thinks I'm crazy. We talked about it on a recent visit up north. She lounged in a chair, book in hand, while I tapped my foot and glanced at my watch, waiting for the men to ready themselves. You know, gather the poles and load up the tackle boxes...and grab the cooler full of beer.

"What on earth can you possibly find enjoyable about fishing?" She was not coming with us. No way, no how.

"What do you mean?" I demanded, my eyes wide. "What isn't there to love?"

She stared at me. "Hmm, let's see...baiting the hook?"

I grimaced. No, actually, I hated that part. We fished with all kinds of bait -- minnows, night crawlers, beaver tails, leeches. I tried to bait my own hook...I really did. I could get as far as taking the lid off the Styrofoam container of leeches. But touch them? I got shivers just thinking about them attaching, vacuum-like, to my fingers. No way. And the minnows -- well, it was sympathy that prevented me from scooping them out of the water-filled plastic bag and skewering them on the fish hook. I mean, they watched me with their massive, bulbous eyes and I could almost hear their tiny voices shrieking, Nemo-like, "Not me! Not me!"

I was slightly better with night crawlers and beaver tails (both worms -- betcha didn't know that, huh?). These I could actually dig out from their nest of brown earth and hold them in my hand. But pierce them with a sharp metal object? Nope. Couldn't do it.

So my choices, if I wanted to fish and hold out any hope of catching something, were limited to two: (1) suggest in a hopeful voice which bait I'd like to try and wait for Dad or some other brave male to offer BAS (Bait Assist Services) or (2) settle for the fake bait -- you know, the neon pink gelatinous blobs that resembled worms and reeked of fish guts. I could put these on with ease; the trouble is, and contrary to popular belief, fish are smart. They know when you're trying to pull a fast one...and they usually don't bite on smelly gummi worms.

"OK," I conceded. "I don't like to bait my hook. So what? I still love to fish."

She gave me the stare again, this time incredulous. "And when you catch a fish? You like taking them off?"

I chewed my lip. No, I didn't relish that part, either. I thought of the tiny sunnies and crappies that were drawn to my bait like bees to honey, too big to keep as bait themselves and too small to fry up. If left to me, they'd die a slow and painful death, gulping deadly gill-fulls of suffocating air as they waited for me to work up the gumption to wrench the hook free from their mouths. And the keepers? The larger pan fish, the bass and the elusive walleye (I'm convinced there is only one actual walleye in each of Minnesota's lakes) that, when you click your heels, clap three times and wish for a fish, magically appear on the end of your line? Yeah, I couldn't get those off, either. And don't even get me started on Northerns, which I know would, in fact, bite me with their razor-sharp teeth if given the chance. Don't even try to tell me otherwise. Vile creatures.

"OK. I don't really like that part. But -- "

She interrupted me. "And you get seasick, Beth. Even on the lake."

She had me there, too. If I could get sick on my honeymoon cruise, green in the face on an unsubmerged submarine and violently ill on a massive Navy destroyer, a pontoon bouncing over the wakes of speedboats and jet skis was bound to make my skin turn green and my stomach roll. And, if the wind wasn't blowing and the sun was too hot and the water was either too still or too rough, I did.

"Yeah..."

My cousin frowned. "So, what's left? What exactly is it that you love about fishing?"

I pondered this. What did I love about fishing? Clearly, it was not the mechanics of bait on, fish off. I wasn't much of a caster, either. I spent more time untangling my line from all of the obstacles I encountered -- boat cushions, the anchor, and the weeds I thinned from the bottom of the lake -- than casting out. I was slightly better at reeling in, except when there was a fish attached. A nibble that caused my bobber to disappear under the water created a knee-jerk reaction in me; usually, I reeled in too quickly or jerked on my line too hard and the fish would slip off, a close call averted.

So, what was left? I thought about this as the guys hauled the massive cooler across the lawn and shoved poles into the back of the truck. I closed my eyes and pictured me on the boat, sitting in the sunshine, looking out on the blue water of the lake, a blue so vivid it almost hurt my eyes to look at. I thought about my bobber dancing rhythmically along those blue waves, a slow, beautiful waltz. Fishing for me was calm. Peaceful.

Time stood still on the lake. I didn't have to remain focused on any one particular thing. If my gaze strayed from my bobber, a tug on the line would tell me a fish was nibbling. My mind was free and, like the bobber in the waves, I could dance from thought to thought, idea to idea. There were no demands on me, there was nothing I needed to do or respond to or think about. I could just be. Exist.

In those surroundings and in that frame of mind, I could fall in love with anything. Even fishing.