Friends and Fishermen
There is one thing better, claims the old saw, than having a boat: Having a friend who has a boat. My friend with a boat is named David. I've only been aboard David's boat one time, when he recently invited me for a morning of fishing at a local lake. It was a wonderful day. I don't remember how many we caught. Not many. But that's completely irrelevant. I love to fish, I love the water, and I love David's company. Those are the true components of a great day fishing, as any fisherman worth his tackle would tell you. I look forward to many invitations from David in the future. If they do not come graciously, I look forward to inviting myself, using whatever means of annoyance necessary.
There was a time in my life when I didn't care much for boats, or fishing. My earliest exposure to both came atop the backdrop of hot, windless summer days on a pond behind my grandparent's house. When I was young, my grandad loved to fish. And I loved my grandad. So I couldn't say no anytime he suggested we spend the day on the pond aboard his 10-foot rowboat. And he was from the wait-'em-out school of fishing. As in: All day. Grasshoppers buzzing, and the occasional quiet notes of a red-winged blackbird singing behind the cover of dense summer cattails were the only sounds, as I watched my cork sit motionless for sweltering hours on end, floating atop the mirror-smooth water.
He didn't talk much, and never complained, so I stoically did the same. You never changed bait - or quit - if they weren't biting. "Give it a few more hours", he'd say, "they'll get hungry eventually." When the midday sun began to bubble the skin on my face, and my pores ran dry from lack of water, he'd offer me a swig of lukewarm coffee from his trusty old green Stanley thermos. Never the thirst-quencher I was craving, but I'd take it, as much for the chance to shift position on the bare-aluminum bench seat, as to meet his gesture with courtesy.
As much as I loved being with my grandad, the best part of those days was always the ride back up to the house. Visions of a bottomless glass of sweet tea from my Grandma's pitcher would sit foremost in my thoughts as I relaxed into the soft passenger seat. Cigarette smoke swirled in the cab following the metallic "clink" of his Zippo lighter, and he'd offer assurances about the next time we'd go out, when the fish would surely be more thankful for the worms we offered, a lit Winston bouncing from his bottom lip as he talked.
Much later, not long after I was married, we moved to Tennessee. We'd hike shaded trails through the foothills near Reliance, about an hour from where we lived. We'd see fisherman standing in the rushing current of the nearby river, water misting off of great loops of line as they waved their fly rods like rocking metronomes in the cool early-morning light. The scene was always captivating, and it wasn't long before I wanted to do the same. It was there, knee deep in the rushing water of the Hiwassee river, at twenty-four years old, that I fell in love with fishing for the first time.
Flyfishing is a pursuit developed mainly for catching trout. Trout feed on insects which begin life among the stones and pebbles in the cold water at the bottom of fast-moving rivers and streams. As they hatch, the larvae rise to the surface, and become winged insects - often beautiful - like very small and fragile butterflies. As they pause on the topwater to unfold and dry their wings, they unwittingly cue often-frenzied feeding among the trout below.
Fly rods are very long - often 9 feet or longer - and have round, simple reels which contain a thick floating line. Attached to the end of that line is a small section of clear line of the kind we are used to seeing on regular fishing reels. But instead of "throwing" a heavy lure out and retrieving it back with the reel, fly rods allow the use of extremely small and light - almost weightless - "flies", which are often handmade, and are very convincing replicas of the actual insects they represent.
Before casting, the fly line is pulled by hand from the reel and allowed to lie at your feet on the bank or in the water. The big sweeping "loops" one sees when watching a fisherman cast a fly rod, are actually the result of the inertia of the moving rod pulling the line through the guides of the rod a little at a time, the loop growing with each swing, until enough line is traveling through the air that the fly on the end can be gently set down at long distance, in precisely the right spot which will allow the current to drift the fly over the feeding fish, as quietly and naturally as the real thing.
As any fly-fisherman will be quick to tell you, one of the benefits of the sport is that trout live where it's beautiful: In cold, clear water, usually in or near mountains. Hatches themselves are amazing to behold. Typically occurring in the misty golden first light of morning, or the purple-blue silence of the last light of day, the flies leave the water and fill the air like a blizzard; snowflakes traveling a reverse path, from water to sky. Trout sip the surface all around you, sometimes jumping clear of the water to catch the flies as they take flight. To find yourself among one of those hatches, is to be helplessly overcome with reverence and awe: Standing alone in the water, beautiful landscape in every direction, watching a scene unfold that very few ever witness. The catch becomes secondary, as you're absorbed into your surroundings. It's absolutely magical.
Over time, such circumstances begin to imbue the fisherman with other things: A love of the water. The patience to stop and watch the passing of great blue herons overhead. An appreciation of the peaceful fog as it drifts lightly among the trees on the bank, and the buzzing in your hand as the water gently unspools line from reel. And woven through it all, the hope and challenge of catching the next big fish.
And fishing, in my case, led me to still other things. One of the most treasured of those, is a common interest with my friend David. The one with the boat.
He's the kind of guy you want to be around. The kind who, even when he is the one suffering most, somehow eases your suffering without even talking about it, though yours is only light and momentary in comparison. And he has suffered much recently. He's my example for grace under fire. For looking for ways to love others. For enjoying the moments as they come, one at a time, and being thankful for each one. He's told me about his flaws, and he has had struggles in his life, just like me and everyone else. Which is why I trust him. Most people are honest about their successes. But the difference between a friend and an acquaintance, is that a friend is honest about his shortcomings. Which allows you to be honest about your own shortcomings in return. It creates a space for trust that cannot be carved in any other way.
David demonstrates by the way he lives, that a life can be lived under the same sense of wonder brought about by quiet mornings on the river. He knows that life is not a block of time, but rather a series of moments - each one to be savored individually. On the way to the boat, one can notice the tall grass as it waves gently on the bank. One can stop and pick up a stone, for no other reason than to contemplate its story. It may have been thrown there by a boy hiking 40 years ago. Or it may have lain there for 200 years, pushed up the bank and back down again by the waves of generations.
I have resolved to do everything possible, whether I'm fishing or not, to experience life as the fisherman: I'll be looking for the catch. But in the meantime, I'll notice the wonder in the world around me. The same dragonfly will not land on the edge of the same log in the same way tomorrow morning. The same clouds will not float across the sky. The conversation of today will not include exactly the same words and feelings tomorrow. I want to hear them today, as they're said. There is a reason for them. I'll make time to hear the crickets and locusts and crackling birds as what they really are: A miraculous cacophony of sound which will never echo across the grass in precisely the same way. You'll never experience this day again. Not ever. But rather than wistful and nostalgic, we should feel privileged: This moment will never be replicated exactly, and you were chosen to be here for it.
And as I live like the fisherman, there's always hope of the next big fish. But it is truly the best kind of hope. Because I really don't care if I catch that fish. The hope isn't in the catch. It is partly in the pursuit itself. But it is also among the things that surround us. The things we overlook, and forget to be thankful for that are no less than miraculous. We need to guard ourselves against becoming jaded. The fact the miraculous is actually very common, should not cause boredom and cynicism, but rather even more profound thankfulness, for the fact that we experience the miraculous with such immense regularity.
The pursuit, and life lived in the midst of it, becomes hope itself. Hope that, even unfulfilled, doesn't leave disappointment behind.
It leaves only more hope.