Learning to Fish

Despite my father’s passion for the art, and my accessible location, I never fished much growing up– even now, I’m not much of an angler. Perhaps I didn’t appreciate the subtleties or intrinsic values of it, or maybe I just preferred the hollow satisfaction of more “engaging” activities. Nonetheless, I didn’t relish the metaphorical fisherman– rugged, patient, independent, and self-reliant– instead I mulled over the brackish sting of salt-water in my eyes and throat, the nauseating scent of ocean life, and the oppressive sun that burned my pale skin.

I still despise those aspects of fishing, but I now, even in my marginal wisdom, harbor a profound
respect for the quiet fisherman and his values; “Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day, but
teach a man to fish and he’ll never go hungry again.” The quaint little aphorism, certainly cliche’ now, but nonetheless poignant: the phrase never really resonated with any deep personal truth... at least not until I learned to fish myself. Ironically, it took a fisherman’s
perspective to realize that aphorism’s crucial impact on my life, and life in general.

Now my father didn’t teach me how to fish; in fact, I never used a rod or reel, or a spool or bait even. I never even caught any fish per say, or anything edible for that matter. No, I preferred the delicate contours of a pen to the rod; my ocean: the English language and an
inviting sheet of cream-white paper; instead of fish, I angled for wisdom– knowledge of the
world, of myself, of society, and essential truths in life. Initially, I failed miserably, but as any
fisherman must, I said “Patience! Patience!” It took time and perseverance to develop the
intangibles and subtleties necessary to catch my first fish– but that moment, that cathartic act,
that first trophy– illuminated that trite old aphorism...

After that first fish, I was hooked. I felt ready to become the subject of Hemingway. Much like my father, everyday I took quiet satisfaction in my art. It took time and patience, yet I managed to find my own secret spots , where only I knew the directions. The confident comfort of knowing no fish, no matter how large or small, could escape once I determined myself to catch it, filled me with a sense of accomplishment and life I had never experienced or managed to match. No one held my hand or told me how to cast– I owned my style, and I served my fish as I pleased. Of course, I lost a catch from time to time, I snagged my line in the rocks, and suffered lacerations from spines, knives, and fins, but as any fisherman must, I persevered, I inspected, I analyzed, and finally I redressed my errors.

When I learned to fish, I learned to live, and only when I learned to fish could I resonate with that discarded old aphorism– I know now that I’m a fisherman, I’ll never go hungry again.