I went fishing

    I hadn’t fished in ten years.  And by I hadn’t fished, I mean, I’d fished exactly one time in the last ten years.  Somewhere east of Los Angeles, in a shit pond.  Where ducks go to die.  Where fish choose to charge full boar into the banks, hoping for a painless end.  Most of them aren’t granted their wish.  Swimming through the thick sludge, they can only muster enough speed to daze themselves on the shoreline.  Eventually, the bottom rung of scavenger birds will spot them and peck them to death, eyeballs first.  This has been my fishing experience over the last ten years.

    Flash forward to a couple days ago.  I bought an Oregon fishing license.  There was some resistance.  I thought about the shit pond and the dead ducks.  I thought about those little kamikaze gnats that aim for the innermost part of your open eyes.  I thought about a thin, green layer of film on the water.  A protective coat of sorts, that should be removed with a stick before fishing.

    Later that day, I was at a lake.  I was wearing waders.  If you don’t know what waders are, think rubber onesie pajamas, if you cut them off right under the nipples.  I was also wearing flippers.  I felt part penguin, part jackass.  But I was floating in something like an inflatable Lazy-Boy recliner.  There were three Bald Eagles performing a choreographed air show, fighting over a fish.  The water was blue.  Three separate, hopefully inactive, volcanoes posed like linebackers to the west.  This was fishing.

    I killed a mealworm with a hook.  I stuck the hook in its head and threaded it through his thrashing body the way you’d delicately maneuver a rogue drawstring back around the face of a hooded sweatshirt.  I said something like a prayer to whatever gods mealworms believe in.  Then I casted this poor, half dying thing into the lake.

    This was fishing.  I reeled him in slowly.  Checked his general health, and flung him back out.  I repeated this.  The whole time, getting direction on proper speed, a little jiggle to the rod, not too much, just a little.  I cast again.  I cast again.  And more.

    Then the line went taunt.  I caught something.  I set the hook and made a noise, half pig-squeal, half holy-fuck.  I reeled until I could see what I’d caught.  It was weeds.  A deadlock of green algae covered plant-mater.  I shook it off.  My mealworm was unresponsive.  I took a deep breath and repeated what I’d learned.  Cast.  Reel, steady, slight jiggle.  Keeping my back to the wind, navigating the water with my flippers, I continued fishing.

    This went on for a while.  I cast and I cast and I became a fisherman.  I became an expert.  I could catch any underwater shrubbery in this particular lake.  Not only that, I could do it consistently, with ease, all with a single mealworm and a lure that looked like an unhappy, four-legged squid.

    By this point Tommy, the man who was teaching me, had caught at least two, probably more.  I imagine he’d thrown a couple back without my knowing, to keep an illusion of equality.  That fact was, Tommy was a fisherman.  I was a mostly clueless man in waterproof pajamas and flippers.

    I started watching Tommy.  I watched the rhythm his rod made.  I watched the speed, direction, focus.  Every few minutes he’d shout some advice, or spout some enticing words to the fish he was after.  Tommy was fishing.  I started to mimic him.  I sacrificed another mealworm and cast again. This time I talked to the prey I was after.  A record book, big eyed, shiny-scaled thing.  “This is the one.”  I announced it for accountability purposes.

    But that wasn’t the one.  The one didn’t come for another twenty minutes.  I caught something that felt stronger than the weeds at the bottom of the lake.  I set the hook.  I reeled.  I did my best to stay stable in my float tube.  The thing at the end of my line jumped.  Algae doesn’t jump, I knew this for fact.  There was silver and fins.  It was a fish.  It was hooked through the lip.  I was a fisherman.

    As I brought it closer to myself, almost within arms reach, the fish did a back handspring.  As suddenly as it had arrived, it was gone.  A pierced lipped fish, swimming somewhere underneath me, taunting me with tiny “fuck you” bubbles.  Was I still a fisherman?  I no longer knew the answers.  

    Eventually, I caught one.  A rainbow trout about a foot long.  I reeled him in close enough and took Tommy’s advice, using a net before I pulled him all the way out of the water.  He tired the back handspring move too, but I grabbed him before he could pull it off.  He was dinner.  And I was a goddam fisherman.

    The final score:  Tommy caught somewhere between six and twenty fish, keeping only three.  I caught the one.  At least three Bald Eagles witnessed my fishing experience.  Another bird of prey swooped down within ten feet of Tommy and scooped a fish out of the water.  The volcanoes didn’t erupt.  No ducks died.  I caught plenty more weeds.  I caught the dock once.  And serial killing mealworms became normal.

    All and all, it was a good day.  I won’t say I’m a fisherman.  But out there on the lake, in a tube, with waders on — I was fishing.  And when I got home, you better believe I cooked and ate my catch.