Series: Recovering Desire
I am not a fisherman. But my son, whose grandfathers have both enjoyed taking him fishing since he was old enough to hold a kid-pole, loves it. So, I have pushed myself into a new hobby, conquering my squeamishness of dirty, bloody worms and wriggling, slimy fish. Now that we have been doing this together for a few years, it is quite enjoyable. I only bring one rod. Nolan (my son) gets all the casting time and I sit in my chair enjoying the day, often with a cigar and a beer… not too shabby. I wait until the line gets snagged, or he needs a new worm or gets a fish on the line. It is a great moment when the bobber plunges beneath the surface, the end of the pole bends, and the great fun of reeling in a fish begins. Then it is my turn. I get out my pliers and tentatively (still) grab the fish, trying not to get stuck by the sharp barbs of its back fin, and pull the hook out. We get to admire the catch and maybe take a picture with it, but then we throw it back into the water to watch it swim away again.