From the beginning, I was adamant that fishing was not my thing. Despite repeated attempts by my six-year-old grandson to entice me to join in his new passion, I was steadfast in my refusal to even pick up a rod. I’m sure Caleb thought it odd, since I’d always been such a willing sidekick to every adventure he cooked up; all he had to do was mention it, and I was game. But not this time; not fishing. I encouraged him to seek involvement from others, as I was sitting this one out.
It had all started over the July 4th holiday when my brother-in-law bought starter fishing rods for the kids. It had become an annual tradition, and after a few days they usually lost interest – probably because they didn’t catch any fish. A tangled mess of broken rods always ended up shoved to the back of the storage room on the dock and forgotten.
But this year after his cousins left, Caleb’s interest didn’t wane. Without the older boys around, he turned to mom, dad, PopPop and the myriad of other adults that frequented the lake house over the summer for guidance. But sadly it didn’t take long to hit the limits of their collective knowledge. He wasn’t one bit deterred and began studying YouTube videos, learning everything he could about the fish swimming out our back door and how to catch them. He’d drift off to sleep mumbling about some new casting technique he’d just learned and then jump out of bed in the morning eager to try it. For weeks it consumed his brain, but when I saw it begin to fill his heart, I knew I had made a mistake. This was something I needed to be part of.
I was cautious at first because nothing had changed about the fact that fishing didn’t interest me in the least. So, I decided that equipping my little fisherman with the right gear might be more in my wheelhouse. A couple weeks ago we took a trip to the sporting goods store where we bought a new rod, hooks, bait and some other little trinkets. I doubted any of these new tools of the trade would make much of a difference, but I enjoyed watching the seriousness with which he made his selections and I was happy to have found a way to contribute to his new pastime.
Have I mentioned he’s never caught a fish? Months of effort and not a single fish to show for it. That’s what puzzled me most about him sticking with it this long. Besides me, he’s about the least patient person I know. I guarantee if he’d spent more than five minutes shooting free throws and never hit one, the basketball would have probably ended up in the lake. But what I’m coming to understand is that he doesn’t see fishing like sports; he keeps no stats, there’s no scoreboard.
I’ve enjoyed watching his little rituals develop. As soon as he casts, he always says, “And now we wait.” But he never waits. He immediately reels the line in so fast I doubt a fish could even catch it. Then he casts again and again…followed each time by the same phrase. For weeks, we’ve all tried to convince him to slow down and give the fish a chance to bite.
It finally occurred to me that he wasn’t quite ready to hook one. He’s watched enough videos to know that once he reels the line in, he’s responsible for that fish’s fate. I suspected his six-year-old-heart may not be ready for that weighty life or death decision just yet. And even a catch and release strategy has taken time to get his head around because he’s troubled by how much the hook will hurt.
But he’s getting closer. This past weekend he made the move to live bait…bait we caught ourselves. We were sitting on the dock Saturday morning untangling a snagged line when he started pitching his newest idea. He pleaded his case for a casting net to catch minnows. A what to catch what? Live bait was what he was after but I resisted. “I wouldn’t even know what to ask for,” I told him. “I’ve got it, gMa, you don’t have to say anything. Just drive me to the store.” His confidence tickles me; he always forgets he’s six.
True to his word, he marched right in and talked to the three guys hanging out in the fishing section like they were his buddies from out on the lake. I just stood back and proudly watched him explain what he was trying to do and the type of fish he was trying to catch. After a little give and take, he carefully considered his options and we walked out with a wire cage type minnow trap instead of a casting net – $13 instead of $54 – thank you, kind fishermen.
We dangled our new trap off the dock and checked it an hour later assuming it would be full of minnows. Empty. We moved it to the other side of the dock and an hour later the same result. Caleb had been watching the swimming pattern of the minnows and suggested placing the trap on the rocks along the shoreline. But there was nothing to attach it to and the Tennessee game was about to start so I persuaded him to just relocate it to the back of the dock. When he pulled it up at halftime and it was still empty, I gave in and we climbed out on the rocks and wedged it in just below the water line. Ninety minutes later we retrieved the trap and there they were – the dozens of flip flopping tiny fish we’d been stalking all day.
Chaos ensued; triumphant screams brought everyone out of the house as we scurried to ready the rod. Neither of us wanted to touch the captured minnows, but adrenaline pushed us through our hesitation and before I knew it our four hands worked together to get the bait on the hook. I’m not sure which of us actually skewered the little dude and maybe it’s better that way. Kind of like how a firing squad protects the conscience of the one behind the kill shot.
As Caleb cast, he looked up at me with the satisfaction of a kid living a dream. A smile stretched across his face as he said, “And now we wait.” And this time he did. After just a few seconds he felt a tug. His eyes opened wide when he realized his catch was running with the line. As he frantically started reeling, the line stretched and the rod bent, and he screamed for help. Then inexplicably, with the line still taut, the fight stopped. After a few minutes, it seemed likely the line had hooked something on the bottom. Caleb would have none of it, he was certain the foe on the end of that line was a fish.
Finally, he surrendered the rod to his dad, and despite a few more minutes of twisting and tugging there was still no movement. Cutting the line seemed like the only option. But as Caleb reluctantly retrieved the scissors, the tension on the rod released and a fish flew out of the water in one direction and the bait popped out in the other. It was all so startling we never got a good look at the fish, but the crafty little devil had indeed been on the end of that line.
I had expected Caleb to be devastated that we lost his fish, but instead he began jumping, fist pumping in the air, celebrating the success that had eluded him for weeks. “That was so cool, I knew it was a fish,” he screamed. “It felt just like I thought it would. I knew real bait would work. I told you.”
Yes, he did; he knew. And the fact that we weren’t standing there with a fish in our hands in no way dampened his spirit. His perseverance had brought him to this point. After weeks of study and practice, trial and error, this big step forward today was his victory, and his alone. And savor it he did.
I had tears in that moment, and several moments since as I’ve relived the joy of that Saturday evening on the dock. And to think I almost opted out. I somehow thought this was about fishing, when clearly it was so much more. He’s learning a lesson some never do: when passion meets hard work and persistence, anything is possible. Most importantly, he had refused to put the achievement of his dream in the hands of others. How could I have not wanted to be part of this?
I just dropped the minnow trap into the lake. I’m planning to load up the gear and drive into town this afternoon and surprise him with an after-school fishing excursion. Whether this is a lifelong pursuit or a passing fancy is really beside the point. For me, it’s all about something far more significant – stoking his initiative and spending quality time with a kid I adore.
