Out of line

When I was a wee lad, my da, probably in pursuit of peace and alone-time, took a big interest in the ancient art of fishing.

By definition, I cannot recall whether he was a man of the river before the memory-making part of my brain kicked into action, but, from about as early as I can remember, I can vividly see the auld boy packing his rod and waders into the boot and heading off to the river. And with two teenagers haunting the house – one, the door-slamming poltergeist variety, the other, a more lachrymose, leaky-eyed apparition type – who could blame him?

Oddly, these memories came back to me the other day as the same man attempted to explain how to set up a rod, just as he had a dozen times when I was a cub.

However, as his latest – and first in at least 15 years – impromptu tutorial unfolded, instead of listening in rapt wonderment as I did when I was wee, I refused to take him on.

Rather than listening and learning, with utterly senseless stubbornness, I drifted away inside myself.

But why did I do this?

Well, therein lies the intrigue.. and the stupidity… and the evidence that I am now significantly more childish than when I was a child!

See, what prompted the whole cascade of father-son advice was a trip I was taking down south. More specifically, this wild man wisdom was elicited by my making mention of the possibility that my peregrinations might be peppered with a few flakes of fishing.

As soon as I said it, I knew I was done for.

His eyes lit up, as he grabbed his imaginary rod and began explaining ‘the first thing a fisherman must do…’

Immediately, I stopped listening and began fantasising about those days when he would whisk me away from our teen-haunted house and take me with him to the river, where, no doubt, I would spend the next hour puking him about how cold, wet and boring the whole expedition was.

Anyway, through the hazy vistas of yesteryear that fell over my mind like fog upon the banks, still the odd statement penetrated.

“Take your rod to a field and let out the whole spool. That’s how a fisherman will start every season, by letting out his line. Get rid of the tangles and knots. But you have to make sure you’ve a good big field. Let her the whole way out…”

At some point during the lecture, he must have realised that his student was elsewhere, and sauntered off dejectedly.

At some point after his departure, I started feeling a bit bad, becoming introspective and wondering why I’d been so apathetic to what was undoubtedly advice that would soon come in handy.

Eventually, after consulting with John Prine, Mark Twain and the fella that hosts Deadliest Catch, I concluded that fishing is all about freedom and masculinity, and having your da explain everything to you from first principles is both emasculating and oppressive.

Happy with my rationalisation, I decided not to say sorry about being such an ignorant and ungrateful son.

Besides, if I opened that can of worms, who knows how long I’d have been there for, or how much money I’d have owed him by the end.

So, flash forward a few days, and, after having incorrectly rigged (is this the right word?) the rod several times, in such a way so as to make casting the line out impossible, I have finally got the thing working right.

I throw the line out once: Nothing.

I reel her back in.

I fire it out for a second time: Useless.

In she comes again.

I wing it out for a third time: Line snaps, weight flies through the sky as a small seabird, and the bait, hook and dignity are all claimed by the Atlantic.

And that was the end of the fishing for the holidays.

As we walked back to the van, I could hear the aul boy in my head… “You’ll lsten to your auld fella yet, son.”