Fishing with Dad
To start, he positioned two folding beach chairs at the reach of the gentle waves. Minutes later, he returned with fishing gear, followed by fishing rods and a cooler. It was a perfect day at the Florida beach, a soft breeze giving respite from the radiant sun. From my chair a few yards back, I watched a beautiful story of life and love play out in front of me.
The fisherman was tanned, gray-haired, with more than a few extra pounds draped over his swim trunks. I would guess him to be about 65 and escaping midwestern winter with his family, who had set up a semi-circle of chairs and beach gear behind the fishing chairs. The women chatted while a teenager escaped behind earbuds and a screen.
After everything was set up, one last participant arrived — a wobbly old man, clearly the fisherman’s father and patriarch to the gathered family. His son eased him into a chair and began preparations for fishing. The old man had the deep tan of a full-time Floridian, and you could see the anatomy of his knees, the sharp outline of his shoulder blades. His legs bowed and his back crooked and his hands trembled, but he seemed joyful to be there with his family.
His son handed him a fishing rod, baited and ready to cast. I don’t doubt that this man had cast many thousands of times throughout his life, but he could no longer do the job. His first few attempts were awkward and a bit scary, and more than once, his son had to untangle the line for him. Eventually, he managed to fling the bait a few yards into the water. It wasn’t deep enough to catch anything, but it didn’t matter — he was fishing.
For a couple of hours, the two of them sat there, more attentive to their conversation than to the fishing. The son laughed, probably at a joke he’d heard a dozen times before. The father beamed, perhaps delighted to hear stories of his family’s activities. Occasionally, they recast their lines only to ignore them again. I imagine this scene repeated back through time, when the son was 48, or 28, or 8, back to when the father first rigged a rod for his son.
The son stepped away, leaving his father alone with his neglected fishing rod. The sun spotlighted his bronzed face, the breeze tousled his wispy silver hair, and he looked out at the ocean sparkling out to the horizon. His expression conveyed peace, perhaps satisfaction, as if reminiscing the decades of a fulfilling life. His son returned with a couple of beers, and they toasted the fine day.
As the afternoon baked along, the conversation slowed and they just watched the waves, fishing, together. After a time, the father tired, and his son helped him out of the chair and ushered him back across the sand to their condo. They had caught no fish, but neither of them seemed to mind.
I remember the last time I went fishing with my dad. It was a struggle to get him safely into the boat (and more so to get him back out). I brought all the gear, and rigged the poles, and even baited his hook, Parkinson’s having robbed him of the dexterity to do it himself. We went to the middle of the small lake we have fished since I was a child, and we flung our lines into the water. We were fishing. But like the father and son on the Florida beach, our fishing trip was more about being together than about fishing.
Dad caught a few panfish, and we celebrated his enduring fishing skill (though I had to help him take the fish off the hook). We talked about fishing and reminisced about decades of life and fun at our beautiful lake in the woods. Dad’s face conveyed peace, satisfaction, joy. When his balky back and bony butt could no longer tolerate the boat, we headed back to the dock and unloaded. I think we both knew that this might be his last fishing trip, but we assured each other that we would go out again soon.
I would love one more chance to go fishing with my dad.
