My husband with a good catch
In 1979 my husband headed up a church retreat in the Boundary Waters of Minnesota. My husband had been to the area several times and we’d honeymooned there in October years before. At the time of the retreat, both of us still entertained delusions that I’d become a fisherwoman. We canoed out on a pristine lake and began casting for small mouth bass. The idea was that with a deep bottom, far from shore, I would not be able to hang up anything non-fish. It seemed to be working. My husband even entrusted his special broken back blue rapala lure to me. I was developing a nice wrist action and were doing pretty well. We moved to a new spot. After fifteen minutes, I was reeling my line in when the water swirled about the lure showing a huge northern pike. My husband yelled, “Get it out of there!” I tried, but the pike swirled again and swallowed the lure. Test line we were using was not meant to hold such a big fish. The line snapped. The pole tip flipped skyward. The fish took home my husband’s lure as a trophy of the humans he’d escaped.
Two years later, on a very cold spring day, our family of four hiked the block from Grandma’s house to the spot my husband used to fish when he was growing up. We followed in single file along the concrete seawall to the spot he chose. He handed me a pole and set to prepping our five-year-old daughter’s pole. Meanwhile our son had found a short piece of fishing line with a hook lying in the grass. He squatted on the seawall and dunked it in the water. When he brought it up there was a tiny fish barely bigger than the hook. That’s all it took. To an excited three-year-old on his first expedition, that fish must have seemed like a whale. Instantly a fisherman was born. Eager now, my daughter forgot how cold she was and cast her line. After a few throws she caught a fish big enough to eat. My bobber dipped and I brought up my catch. My husband finally got his line in the water and was answered by an immediate catch. Marveling at our success we headed up to Grandma’s to brag. Total fishing time: about fifteen minutes. That’s my kind of fishing trip.
The summer of 1986 my husband was working twelve – sixteen hour days so I took it upon myself to answer my son’s begging to fish. My hope was for some good mother/son bonding time. We carried our four poles and gear the two blocks to the beach where we swam every day. The first cast I tangled in an overhanging branch and broke the line getting it free. The second cast I caught on a submerged log and broke the line. I handed my son the third pole and told him he’d probably due better on his own. He cast successfully. I picked up the fourth pole and cast out some distance from my son. A breeze gusted up and tangled our lines. Trying to free them, I only made it worse. The tangled line ended up inside the casting mechanism. I spent the next thirty minutes unsuccessfully trying to fix the poles. I finally d to my son and said, “I’m sorry. This is something you’ll have to do with your Dad.” We packed up the gear and trod home. After that, I only picked up a fishing pole to carry it for someone else like my son’s children who like to fish. Perhaps, if I ever was able to fish for longer than fifteen minutes—nah. Loch Ness himself would probably rise up and take me and the pole. It’s not worth the risk.
Hoping you land some oversized fun experiences this summer!