As we bump, bumped along the winding dirt road I felt memories of years past curve in on me. They swept down gently, trying to passionately tickle my cheeks in a similar fashion to the overgrown pines that hung over the winding, rutted path I now drove across.
How long had it been since I transversed this track of gravel and red mud to the welcoming waters at the bottom of the last hill? A decade, maybe two? It hadn’t changed a bit, and as I drove slowly to the end I looked tentatively left, then right, taking in the surrounding landscape and letting its peace creep in through the cracked window.
I pulled slowly to a stop and put the van in park. I almost hated to crush the captivating carpet with my tires. It was the perfect spring green, so vibrant and looked freshly mown. I grabbed the tackle box and our fishing poles from the back of the vehicle. I smiled then at my young daughter’s new rod. Pink. Did I think she would have picked any other color?
It was cool out, more than I had anticipated. We all wore pants and sleeves to ward off the chill, but something about our location on the lake, it seemed to attract the wind and channel it. It had no choice but to blow briskly on our unsuspecting faces.
I paused for a moment, testing the temperature there on the water, and briefly considered calling it a day before it even began. Maybe another day, I thought to myself.
“I’m so excited!” My daughters words broke the silence of our afternoon fishing trip, and I smiled back at her expectant face, eyes all aglow with dreams of big catches to be had.
We grabbed our gear and headed for the pier. My long fingers curled around her tiny hand as we walked together and I let her pick the spot. It was her first time fishing and she walked across the wooden planks with purpose, a bounce in her little step, pink pole bobbing up and down over her shoulder as she went.
After we had cast into the murky water we simply sat cross-legged, side by side. I watched my red and white bobber as it rode the ripples of dark water, an endless melody it played over the riveting waves the breeze blew to shore.
I could remember as a child going to a commercial catfish pond with a friend’s family. I had reeled in fish, after fish, after fish. No sooner would you throw out your bait that you’d hook a sizable catch and be able to bring it in. It was fine, but not the pace I preferred.
I had enjoyed nothing better as a kid than sitting on the rocks, warm sun on my shoulders, as I cast my line and waited for a bite. Sometimes I had brought a book and would lose myself in a story with the fishing line threaded through my bare toes so I would feel a nibble should it come.
Other times I would simply sit and watch the bobber as it curtsied with the current, much as I was doing now. So hypnotic in its dance, I would often reach a point where I didn’t care if a fish took my offer or not. So many times I would reel in my line and realize my worm had become a sneaky fish’s dinner while I was unaware.
I was a terrible fisherwoman, and seldom got a catch. Nonetheless, it was something I enjoyed, and I sat quite peacefully as I gently moved my line in an attempt to attract a nibble of my dangling line.
“I’m never gonna catch a fish,” she said, in a tone most decidedly pitiful and forlorn.
My young daughter had just sat back down beside me not long ago after having retreated further down the pier where her uncle allowed her to reel in brim, catfish, and other aquatic unaware. He was a fisherman like our grandfather, having acquired the genes necessary to make one a master of fishing. My grandfather had only to whistle and they jumped into his boat. His skill had been passed down it seemed, but certainly not to me.
And that was fine with me it seemed. I would end up leaving the dock without a single fish caught and only glimpses of a few nibbles from the big one that got away.
I grabbed my little girl, pulling her from her disappointment, and brought her into my lap. I hugged her to my face, smelling her hair, placing a kiss on her cool forehead. I whispered to her, “Fishing is about patience, learning to enjoy the wait until you forget you’re waiting.”
In dreams I had, personal prayers I prayed, desires of my heart I waited. In my time of waiting I had decided that if not even one prayer was answered, or not even one dream came true, I would be just fine. I would be at peace because the waiting was so much fun. Everything around me, the beauty, the blessings, the experience would all be enough in itself.
If I sat there and didn’t catch one single fish I would still leave smiling, with a full heart. Sometimes it’s not about what you reel in, how many, how big. It’s all about the joy of casting, the peace in watching and waiting.