I do not enjoy fishing.
I have never had a burning compulsion to stand on the shore of a placid lake, bait my hook, and launch into the aquatic mirror my rivulet-causing projectile. This endeavor always seemed a waste of time. All of the time spent anticipating the hypothetical tension when hook makes purchase with slimey mouth seems wasted.
Yet, I’ve heard many arguments supporting the exhilaration of this hunt, this pursuit of these aquatic phantasms.
“It’s in the excitement you receive when you finally land that fish!”
“It’s about the camaraderie you experience when engaging in the process!”
“It’s about the event surrounding the fishing. It’s about driving fifteen hours to get to that remote place where we can hang out and be men!”
“It’s about the stories you can tell when finally getting that big one!”
“It’s really about making memories!”
For recruitment purposes, these ideas may carry some validity. But to make fishing something in which I would willingly engage, I must see it another way, and I do.
Fishing is about being weak, and hopeful, and desperately willing that ones small influence in a great volatile lake, pond, or ocean, will take hold. Fishing is a desire for an offered part of you to be wanted by another soul, if indeed the fish may be representative of the acquiescent creature. Fishing is about letting loose our tensions, with hopes that when we must retract, something beautiful and sustaining is at the end of our line.
Fishing is about finding peace, and though I loathe the physical process, I seem to engage in the process on the digital seas quite liberally.
Ergo, I conclude, that I am likely, a fisherman.
Goodnight fellow sailors and fisherman, and blessed be the winds, shoals, and shores that provide the catches that feed your souls.