When Did He Become a Better Fisherman Than Me?

When Did He Become a Better Fisherman Than Me?

By Timothy J. Stewart

I meant to be there for all the important events in his life.  I was there when he was conceived.  I was there when he was born.  I was there for his first step and the first time he rode a bicycle without training wheels.  Then, I got busy..

I don’t remember the first important event that I missed (probably because I wasn’t there), but once I missed one, it seemed like I was missing them all.  It wasn’t like I planned to miss his birthday.  I had commitments I had to complete.  After all, I gave him nicer presents when I missed something, so why should he mind.

Then came the day when I realized how busy I had become.  I looked at my thirteen year old son and it hit me.  Here was a commitment that I had been overlooking for some time.  I had better take some time for him before it was too late.

“Son,” I said.  “Would you like to go fishing?”  I had been an excellent fisherman growing up and knew that this was an art I should pass on to my son.  I wanted to be there when he learned how to fish.

“Sure , if you have the time,” he responded unenthusiastically.

“Well, I am making the time right now,” I announced.  “Let’s go.”

“Dad,” he started off slowly.  “You always said that things like this need to be planned.  You would get mad at me if I just walked up and said, ‘let’s go fishing’, without a plan.”

“I’ve got a plan,” I fudged on the truth.

“Well,” he said as he stared at me waiting to hear the plan.

“We grab our poles, we buy some bait and we go to the big water and catch fish,” I proudly stated.

“Dad,” my son began sounding like I must have whenever I would start to lecture him.  “You haven’t been fishing in ten years.  The lines on your poles all need replacing.  You don’t know what kind of fish are biting in the ’Big Water’ so you don’t know what type of bait to buy.  And as for going now, didn’t I hear mom say something about a dentist appointment this morning.”

“How’s next Saturday for you?” I asked.

“Fine, Dad,” he said.  “Is there anything I can do to help get ready?”

“Sure,” I responded.  “Here’s ten dollars.  Would you buy some line for my poles and get them ready, please.”

“I need twenty, and you need a license,” he stated with an authority that belied his age.

“I knew that,” I said as I gave him the money and escaped the room with what was left of my self respect.

I was dumbfounded.  I didn’t know whether I should go back in the room and chastise him for insubordination or do what he said.  Unfortunately, he had been right, so I did it.

I spent the next week finding out where and what kind of fish were biting.  I went to the bait shop and got my license.  I went to the library to refresh my memory on fishing knots and other technical data.  I spent as much time preparing for this fishing trip as I had for any of my recent business meetings.  By Friday morning, I was ready.  The plan was all in place.  My son had taught me a valuable lesson.  Be prepared.

The workday was almost over when my supervisor stepped into my office.  “We need you to fly to Baltimore this weekend,” he stated and started to leave.

For a moment, I couldn’t find my voice.  I had to say something before he was gone.

“I can’t go!” I shouted.  I was dead.

He turned around, with a smile on his face.  “I know,” he said and motioned for someone to come to my office.

My thirteen year old son stood there with this sheepish grin on his face.  Set up by a teenager.  When did my son get a personality?  He had never done anything like this before.  Why didn’t somebody tell me he was growing up.

I am glad that I decided to take this time to spend with him.  At least I would be the one to teach him how to fish.  Wrong again.  I am going to summarize the trip like this.  My son informed me, through actions instead of words, that he was going to grow up whether I was there or not.  He caught fish after fish.  I lost two expensive lures before he tied the knot for me.  He directed me to the hot spots and looked away when I missed strike after strike. 

When did my son become a better fisherman than me?  When did he learn to tie a knot and cast with an open face reel?  Was it when I was in Toronto learning about software or in Mississippi closing a deal?  While I was putting in overtime, was he putting in quality time; without me?  Was I too late?  Was he too early?  I’ve got to catch a fish.

Then, it happened.  The strike of a lifetime.  The pole didn’t bounce like a bass or a trout.  It went down, all the way down.  And, stayed there.  The line started spinning off my reel.  Thank God my son had me turn down the tension on the brake.  The line kept going and going and going. 

Finally, as I thought that I was going to run out of line, the monster began slowing down.  Then, it stopped.  ‘Keep the tip up and tension on the line,’ I thought to myself over and over.  I had lost all focus on everything but this fish.  I had to land this baby.  I began to slowly reel the fish in.  It took the better part of an hour to get the fish to the shore.  I survived many other runs before I was looking at the largest Musky I had ever seen in my life.  As the fish lay on the shore, sides heaving, lidless eyes staring, I caught my breath.

My son looked at me.  “What do you say we let him go?” he said quietly.

“Let him go!” I almost yelled.  “Son, that is a trophy.  He should be hanging on the wall.”

“Dad,” my son looked at me.  “That is a wonderful fish.  But it is so much more than that.  It is something for us to share.  It can be our secret.  So many people tell so many fish stories, that everyone knows that none of them are true.  This can be our fish.  Our secret.  It’s something that we can have between us and no one else.”

“Can I at least take a picture of it?” I asked with pure admiration for my son.

“Sure, dad, but you can’t show anyone for ten years,” he said.

“Deal,” I said as I reached for the camera.