The day I decided I didn’t like fishing was the day my dad
took me fishing for the first time. I was three years old. I was so excited to
be going on this special trip, just he and I. I can’t remember where we went or
whose boat we borrowed. All I know is we were at a lake surrounded by the
tallest of trees that offered a nice reprieve from the summer sun beating down
on the water. (Not that my little three-year-old self cared about such things. I
was of the age when the heat would plaster my ringlets to my face, sweat
dripping in my eyes, and I wouldn’t mind one bit.) I remember looking down at
the boat from the dock. It was small, just your typical rowboat. I stood on the
dock waiting for my dad to put all the fishing gear onto our tiny boat. After settling
everything in its spot he took me into his arms and placed me on the wooden
seat across from him. I mustered all my strength to hold on to one side of the
boat as he rowed away from the shore, my body engulfed by my life preserver.
But I didn’t mind, the anticipation of catching my first fish was killing me. I
had no idea though that most of fishing is waiting.
