Zen and the Art of Fishing

I've recently picked up fishing more seriously. I've always loved it, and I've had a simple kayak here in Jacksonville for a number of years, but I never had anything fancy or any gear that made fishing from a kayak particularly simple or easy. In April, after I got vaccinated, I started playing in-person poker again, and I was doing fairly well! But then delta hit, and I decided to back out again for a bit. So I spent my poker bankroll on an actual, pedal-driven fishing kayak. Game changer! Fishing and moving at the same time is way better.

And since then, of course, I've had to buy a rod and reel or two. Etc. Etc. (A recent meme I came across put it well: fishing is by far the most expensive way to get a free dinner.) This evening, I was updating my therapist on my hobbies, I realized that fishing has been challenging me in more ways than monetarily.

My old neighbor from Springfield is basically my local fishing guru. Before moving to Jacksonville, I had really only fished freshwater, and I knew next to nothing about the saltwater marshes and tidal creeks that now surround me. So when I decided I needed a new setup, I went to him for advice. (For the uninitiated, a setup is a rod and a reel combined, to which my wife asked, "Why are there two things when it's a fishing pole?") He recommended a few options, but told me that a Shimano Stradic is the best: more expensive, but, with great performance and a top-notch warranty, basically the last reel you'll need to buy. I went for it.

It was my second time out with the new setup. Ira and I had cut out of work and school a little early to fish the evening tide on the St. Johns river. My neighbor came too. The action was mostly slow for me (not for my neighbor!), but I finally hooked something big. Like really big. I'm still pretty new at this, and I'm not used to landing 30 inch redfish. It was taking out line and putting up one hell of a fight. So I tightened my drag. Fought some more. Tightened the drag a bit more. I got the fish close to the kayak, had my net in hand, and was just about to land him when he gave one last big kick, which I now know, they are wont to do. He jerked the entire setup out of my hand. $300 getting dragged to the bottom of the St. Johns. There was a split second when I could have dove in. I should have dove in.

I was thunderstruck. There could not be a universe where that just happened. Heartbroken. My poor son sat there as I beat the water with my net saying I'm sure all kinds of adult words. My neighbor tried dragging a hook across the bottom to see if he could snag it, and my son offered to let me use his (only) pole to keep fishing and even to help me save up some money for a new one. They are both good men. It was strange being faced with something so sudden, so irreversible, so unfixable, from the high of about to land the biggest fish of my life to losing my brand new gear, not to mention the fish! Usually when something goes wrong there are ways to mitigate the damage, you can try and put the pieces back together or go google something, YouTube to the rescue. But this was just...done.

But then again, all of our moments are like this in some way: ever-slipping into the past, our decisions and actions flowing from somewhere in our subconscious and on into our memory with only the thinnest slice of now. Anyone who fishes regularly can tell you about the strange tension between the rush and the calm—cast after cast after cast, often for hours, punctuated by that jab of the bite, the thrill of the fight, the uncertainty of the landing, the whoop! of success, shouted for every critter around, and for yourself. There's nothing quite like it.

The universe has a funny way about it sometimes. My neighbor pointed out a raffle on Instagram for the same reel I had lost. And out of the 30 entries, my number came up. Of course, I still had to order a new rod. The long, solid cardboard tube came a few days later. I opened it and saw what I thought was one rod in two pieces (some of the longer ones come apart for easier storage or transportation). I sighed at the thought of sending it back. But no...actually, they sent me two rods. I double checked my order. I had only paid for one. For the price of a raffle ticket, I had my entire setup back in my hands. It's almost enough to make me believe in God (he cares disproportionately about fishermen, right?).

Fishing forces me to be present and mindful in so many other ways—or, least it tries to, but how often I let it is a trailing indicator of my current state of mind. From getting a five-dollar lure snagged and scaring off the fish, to breaking the line and losing the lure, to trying to tie a knot while the bite is on fire, even to the drive over to the kayak launch—basically the only time I speed—so many aspects of fishing test your ability to be patient, to notice the beauty of the world around you, to appreciate being alone, to appreciate time with your kids, to be thankful for the life we consume at the dinner table, and to just be.

I'm happy to report that I have lost no more setups since this first one. My phone, however, is a different story...