Fishing

There’s a lot about fishing I don’t like: 

The pounding of the boat as we make our way out and back in;

• It’s often cold;
• The possibility of seasickness
• Disappointment (when we, especially my son, don’t catch any fish or we lose a fish before landing it)
•  Boredom

But I have to admit that, even though I never actually fish, on balance, I like going fishing.  This is probably why, when my husband and son go fishing, I almost always join them.  So what do I like about fishing?

• Being on the water
• The excitement when someone actually catches a fish
• Watching my son do something he loves and about which he has developed a certain level of expertise
• Boredom

My whole life, I have loved the salt water, and can’t truly imagine living too far away from it.  I love the smell, I love its beauty, I am in awe of its power.  Out on the water, you are away from land (obviously) and its cares and responsibilities.  Instead, you have a solitude and a sense of you and nature, and you against nature.  It can be scary, exhilarating, breathtakingly beautiful, boring, tedious and even miserable.  But regardless of the circumstances, when you’re on a boat you’re limited in what you can do (I think it’s sad that big boats now have internet connections – a cell phone seems like plenty and way more than we used to have when a radio was the only communication to land).  But there are also always things you have to do.  You have to pay attention, even if you’re not driving, and this requires you to focus. 

Once we get to our fishing grounds, I drive the boat.  Here’s where I like the boredom.  I drive the boat slowly in big ovals, back and forth over a wreck, back and forth past a green can.  I have to pay attention enough to keep us on course, and very occasionally to avoid other boats, but mostly I am free to think.  My mind wanders freely, usually about work, but sometimes about projects for the house or planning meals or a party.  The vast ocean spreads out to horizon.  Depending on the weather, we can see the Rhode Island coast, but to the east, the next stop is Ireland.  It’s usually a steely blue and somewhat choppy, though sometimes gray and sometimes there are waves of several feet (in which case we don’t stay long) and sometimes it’s even quite calm.  But it’s always there, breaking on the deserted beach  where sandy colored cliffs rise to meet the sky.  The cliffs slope down to a point that disappears into a bar hiding under the waves.  A stone light house has warned mariners of the dangers for 144 years, but countless ships have still failed to heed the warning, only to run aground, often with grave consequences, especially in winter.  Always there extending to the horizon – you can understand why ancient sailors thought they would fall off the edge of the earth.  Sometimes I just keep driving in those slow ovals, watching the electronic chart and thinking, listening to my husband and son talk about lures and rods as you listen to someone speaking a foreign language, until it gets too late and we have to head back.  More often than not, at some point, suddenly the fishing line will start to hum.  A fish is on the line!  I put the engine in neutral.  The person’s whose rod it is picks it up and goes through the rhythmic process of reeling the fish in, bring it in, let it out, bring it in, let it out, the rod rises and falls, the fisherman straining amidst general speculation about the size of the fish, and as it gets closer to the boat, the variety.  They always hope for striped bass; a bluefish, despite the sport of the fight they put up, is always a disappointment (though, to be honest, I’m not sure why).  Once the fish is by the side of the boat, the person without the rod leans over to grab its mouth in the boca.  The fisherman takes hold of his prize, we note the weight on the boca, and as it flaps desperately we document the catch with a photo.  Then someone carefully removes the hook and throws the fish back into that endless expense of deep blue sea, to swim for another day.  The fisherman returns home triumphant.