I Fish No More

I went fishing once.

Actually, when I was very young, between four and seven, I went out on rare occasions with my Grandpa Martin, but I remember very little about them. except that he smelled funny (probably because he was the only drinker I had been around) and nobody talked much.  Sometimes my Dad would be with us, and then there really would be no talking, and Grandpa sipped less from that strange little metal flask.

We went ice fishing.  There was a little hut out on the ice, and we would put our rods down into this hole in the ice.  We weren't the only little hut out there.  There were dozens of others.  It was very cold, but I don't remember Grandpa complaining. I think he had something special with him to keep him warm.

What I don't remember was catching any fish.  We must have, but I don't remember that part.

I only remember catching one fish.  When I was an early teen, in that uncomfortable range between twelve and fifteen, my father decided to try me one more time at fishing.  We had a travel trailer, and we would camp at one lake or another sometimes on summer weekends.

One time we were at Lake Cadillac, and my father insisted I try one more time.  I didn't quite understand it.  It seemed rather boring to sit out in the middle of a lake and not do much of anything.  The sun was bright, it was difficult to red (and I don't think my Dad would be happy if I brought a book), the insects were often more happy to see me than I was to see them, and the stretches of silence almost reached the level of a sensory deprivation tank.

But I was willing to try.  It was an opportunity to get out and bond with my father.  So I got into the boat, and my Dad searched for the right spot.

How he decided where too stop the boat was beyond me.  It looked like any other spot.  But my Dad seemed convinced that where we were at was ideal.

I put my pole out, wondering how long all this might take, regretting that I didn't bring a book.  I tried to get into it.  It was very pretty, the gentle sounds of the water occasionally sploshing against our little boat.  I could hear birds singing and insets whirring.  I hate flying insects and did my best to convince myself that dragonflies weren't dangerous.

Just as I was about zoned into a zen, something tugged at my pole.  I had caught a fish!  For the first time, I had caught something! I excitedly reeled it in, and looked at my incredible, fishy prize.  It was not very big at all, a sunfish of some kind.  But it was a fish!  And I had caught it!  I turned to my Dad, glowing, so proud of my achievement!


"Throw it back," my Dad said.  "We can't keep it.  It's under the size limit."

I was disappointed.  My big fishing victory was for naught.

So I threw it back,

And it laid there.  In the water.  Whatever I had done, I had apparently killed it.

For no reason.  I had killed a fish for no reason.

I couldn't that image out of mind, of that fish floating there.  Something that I had killed.

And that image has stuck with me.  And I have never been fishing since.