Two years ago my daughter made a critical error in judgment. She suggested we go fishing.
I hadn't fished in years. My fishing rod was buried beneath something in the basement. I didn't even know where my tackle box was – did I still have a tackle box? By now my hooks must have been rusted through.
But sure enough, they were there... waiting. Little did my daughter know that I was a recovering fisherman – or to be politically correct, fisherperson... or fisher... My point is, once that passion is re-awoken, there's no turning back.
That summer we drove... and drove... and drove... 'Til we found a lake where you could actually catch fish from the dock. We were boatless at the time.
My first cast brought forth a fighter like I've never seen – so vicious that it took off with my hook and leader. After a sufficient bout of yelling and yes, cursing, I promptly revisited my knot-tying technique. The next one wouldn't get away.
Maybe it was an hour later – I can't really remember, time tends to blur when fishing – but I caught a second one. A huuuuge two-pounder. But oh, did it fight!
I was doing it for my daughter, of course, so I held the flapping creature up to her face with glee. She was aghast. Particularly when I had to end the little guy's life. She was equally displeased to watch, while holding a flashlight in a stench-filled filleting station, as I butchered the little pike into the semblance of two fillets.
On that point, let's be clear: I don't fish for sport. I fish for food. Catch-and-release is highly over-rated, especially when you're not used to catching anything. But it's very important that you actually have some meat leftover after you fillet the fish.
This is where Youtube became invaluable in the offseason. And a long, sharp knife. So long and sharp that one might slice open one's finger upon its first use.
And so began the fishing season of 2017. With a heavily bandaged index finger, I laboriously gutted a four-pound jack (hey, that's a monster in my world). It was all worth it.
Most importantly, my daughter caught her first fish. Technically, her second fish, if not for another poorly tied knot. Upon bringing this one in, her eyes lit up. While she refused to watch its savage beating, she still enjoyed the thrill of the catch.
Had I awoken her inner fisher? There were definitely early signs of obsessive fishing behaviour, although by the third day on the lake, she had had enough. You can only push a child so far.
There must be a fishing gene and I dearly hope she has it. My grandma, who is now 95, was a passionate fisher. She would spend hours on the dock, casting without a care while my grandpa relaxed in the cabin.
When my daughter caught her first fish of the season this last weekend, I thought I saw a glimpse of my grandma in her face. She pulled it out of the water like it belonged to her. (Okay, I pulled the fish out, but you could sense the passion in her screams.)
The second fish brought out even more emotion, as we nearly tipped our canoe in 40 km/h winds. The fish made its appearance on the opposite side of the boat and then was gone. I wanted to try another cast, but my daughter persisted that we venture to safety. I believe her exact words were: "Get me outta here!"
We tend to get riled up when fishing, as my wife will attest. There's yelling, complaining, and sometimes crying (although I'm getting better).
For a true fisher, nothing can compare.
