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Chip, who you can tell
by now was the quieter one, and I would run (again) back to the car and
wait for Gramps to catch up. In retrospect, I wonder why we raced to the
car in the first place. We always had to wait anyway.
The ride back to his
house always seemed faster. I think it’s because my mind would race
with thoughts about catching fish as fast as my feet skipped across the
ground. Maybe there was a monster-size perch or snapper that lived in
the lagoon? Or perhaps even a shark?
It was a quick walk
from grandpa’s driveway to the garage to get the bamboo rods. That’s
right, we fished with bamboo (no graphite or carbon fiber here) and a
string tied to the end with a red-and-white bobber. I didn’t know
bamboo from Shimano, all I knew was, I was fishing!
While I was chattering
a mile a minute, Chip was quietly tying his line while grandpa helped
me with mine. I’d bait my hook and then walk over to a piling that
supported the bulkhead, toss in my line, and start fishing. And then something
amazing would happen: I’d become quiet. (I sometimes wonder if that’s
why grandpa took me fishing.) I’d sit on the head of one piling with
Chip on another, while grandpa walked a few feet back to his picnic table
to watch us. The three of us would sit there, occasionally looking at
each other, but mostly just looking out to the water. Sometimes we’d
catch perch and snapper. Once in a while, grandpa would offer some advice
about setting the hook or feeling the bite, but eventually my dreams of
catching monster fish faded and I was content to just sit there with my
line in the water, enjoying the silence with my family.
By the time I was nine,
grandpa was gone, and so were the days of fishing on the quiet bulkhead
with a bamboo rod. But they are as fresh in my mind today as the day I
had to stand up on the back seat to grab that stubbly gray face and tell
him I wanted spearing. He still smiles back, even if it’s just in
my memory.
So yes, Kevin has a
bib that says “Angler in Training,” a fish mobile, and squeezable
fish bath toys. And when he was just two weeks old, I took him onboard
my boat for his first taste of salt air. And when he’s ready to start
fishing, we’re going to go to the store, get some spearing and a
bamboo rod, and go down to the pier. And I’ll watch him fish, because
it’s the time together that this tradition is really about.
At two weeks old, this
fourth-generation angler-to-be gets his first taste of salt air.
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