Hooked

When my dad died suddenly at the age of 38, he left behind a pregnant wife and a one year old. He also left behind two boats, a basement full of various kinds of fishing rods and reels, and drawers full of fishing tackle. Mom promptly sold the boats, kept the one year old (me), eventually had my brother and, for sentimental reasons, I think, kept the rods and tackle. I grew up thinking everyone's basement had a complete set of split bamboo rods - a surf rod, boat rod, spinning rod, a long, butt-less fly rod that came in two pieces - jumbled together with assorted fiberglass rods.

My father had been an avid fisherman as had been his father before him. The presence of the old fishing paraphernalia provided my brother and me with a connection to the man he never knew and I didn't remember. When Mom's parents moved in with us, my grandfather, who had enjoyed fishing with my dad, was instrumental in nurturing in two young children what turned out to be a strong hereditary disposition to fish.

What I would look like if I were blond and lived in Montana...

We grew up on the south shore of Long Island, two miles from the bay, six miles from the ocean. Grandpa would take us crabbing for blue claws in the canals off the bay and fishing for snappers with cane poles and bobbers. On weekends, Mom and Grandpa would take us to the fishing piers at Jones Beach State Park. We each had our own fiberglass rod with a simple boat reel. It was fine for pier fishing – perfect for dropping spreaders, weighted with lead sinkers and baited with bloodworms or clams. Sometimes we would be rewarded with a blowfish or small flounder. Most times we would pull up a starfish or a searobin. But we fished. We learned to bait hooks, unhook fish, untangle line. We learned how to be outside by the water and love it. We learned how to be patient and, sometimes, not to be patient. Driven by some mysterious, yet natural, blood tie, we became fisher(wo)men.

Soon, however, dropping bait straight down into the water didn't do it for me anymore. I wanted to cast. My first spinning rod and reel forced me off the piers and onto the beaches and shorelines. It also lightened my fishing. Gone were the spreaders with the heavy sinkers. Now I fished closer to the surface with lighter tackle, various bobbers and split shot. Live spearing on a hook would bring in snappers (small bluefish) and worms or dough on the same rigging would be be equally attractive to panfish in the brackish freshwater ponds nearby. There was a new excitement seeing that bobber dip below the water when an interested fish finally got serious about the bait. They were hooked. I was hooked. I added a surf rod and reel to my collection. I started studying knots. I taught myself how to wrap new guides on some of my dad's old rods, still in the basement. I fell in love with fishing and all things related to fishing.

My brother and I continued to fish through our teenage years. His purpose in learning to drive was so he could trailer a boat. I was always up for going fishing with him and his friends. I still loved it, but life was getting busy. College was coming up and all the distractions that came with it. Shortly before I left for college, I broke two of my spinning reels. Both reels snapped off at the stem, both on different rods, only a few weeks apart. Leaving home, leaving the ocean and going to school upstate in the mountains, I saw no need to replace them any time soon.

Fast forward 20 years. I was now a stay at home mom with three kids living in the Midwest. Our house at that time was across the street from a small lake filled with bluegills and largemouth bass. Fishing suddenly seemed like a good idea again. With the kids in school, I went out and bought myself a new spinning outfit and some rubber worms. On my first cast in 20 years, I pulled in a largemouth. All the fishing excitement of my youth came flooding back. I was hooked again...

Of course, the kids and husband all got rods and reels, and mom tried making fishing the family sport. They were entertained for a while, but none became the true heirs of the family obsession. I, however, continued to fish. My brother, still fishing and living on the east coast, started encouraging me to try his obsession, fly fishing. For him, “bobbers” were now replaced by “strike indicators”. (Frank, they're still bobbers!) Suddenly one day, it just made sense to try fly fishing for myself. I got a fly rod and reel and started to teach myself how to fly cast in the backyard. When I was sufficiently confident that I didn't look like a total fool, I headed for the lake. The bass and bluegill and crappie did not disappoint. They were more attentive to my new mode of fishing then they had been to my spinning outfit. I became a fly fisher. I started tying my own flies, and the satisfaction of fooling a fish with something of my own making was addictive.

I still fish, mainly fly fish. I now live in a house that backs to some small ponds with bluegill, crappie, largemouth and an apocryphal northern that someone manages to catch every now and then. Sometime in the late spring or early summer, I'll be at the kitchen sink, looking out the window, and see a bass jump in the pond. And then it starts. I just have to fish! Some evenings, I put dinner in the oven, a timer in my pocket and go out and cast a few before dinner. Other times I go out after dinner and fish until the dark or mosquitoes drive me inside. It's who I am. I like to think that my father would be proud...

God does not charge time spent fishing against a man’s allotted life span. - American Indian Proverb