My First Fishing Trip

I have been, over the last year or so, slowly cataloging stories, memories, and anecdotes about my father. I am doing this for him, you see. My father is not gone…not in the physical sense. He has Alzheimers. I’m creating a “memory book” for him, because I want him to be able to touch his memories, and maybe hold onto them a little longer.

Probably my best memory of my father, and what used to be his favorite, was my first fishing trip.

I was seven years old, and to say that I was excited was a HUGE understatement. I was going to go fishing! For nearly as long as I could remember I had been fascinated by the mystery of fishing, and all the things associated with it. The smells, the strange and unfathomable equipment that was used, the preparation involved. I had many memories of my father coming home in the early afternoon on a weekend, smelling like a woodsy kind of mystery, looking pleased with himself and the world in general. He would be carrying all his mysterious “fishing gear”, and of course…the fish. The fish that my mother would lovingly prepare for him and for me, but would never eat herself. It wasn’t until much later that I realized she never ate fish because she did not like fish, yet she would take his catch, clean it, and cook it for him. I thought that was funny, until I recognized it for what it was…just another expression of her love for him.

 The night before the big day felt like christmas for me. I watched in awe as my father presented me with my very own fishing pole, with my very own “Creel” (the mysterious bag of the fisherman), and the crowning wonder…my very own thermos – a slighty smaller carbon copy of my fathers hallowed thermos. It was a heady brew for a seven year old. Almost more than I could bear. Not only was I going to be initiated into the mysterious rites of fishing, but I was also going to be able to not only drink coffee, but carry my own supply! Where before I was only allowed a small sip from time to time of the bitter brew, I would now carry my own supply, and drink whenever I wanted!

I went to bed that night, wondering how on earth I could be expected to sleep, only to be awakened what seemed like moments later, by my father. He touseled my sleep hair, and told me to get dressed, because breakfast was ready. I dutifully did as I was told, and stumbled into the kitchen, to find my mother fully dressed…with makeup on…cooking us a hot breakfast. I could see that it was still dark outside, and was stunned to learn that it was 4:30 in the morning! Having  just recently mastered the art of telling time, I was wearing my very first watch, and had determined the time on my own. Years later I would look back on this morning, and realize that my wonderful mother had had to get up at least an hour prior to me, in order to be fully dressed…with make-up on, and cooking.

 The drive to my fathers “favorite spot” seemed to take hours, but was actually forty minutes. After we parked the car, we hiked along the river bank for a few hundred feet, and…we were there. As dawn broke, my father was setting up my pole, and explaining to me each step of the process. He left the last magical step to me…putting the worm on the hook. I was proud of myself as I put the earthy smelling squirming night crawler on the hook on my first attempt. I beamed as dad called me a “natural”. Then he taught me how to cast. It was a fairly challenging operation, because the river (the Mckenzie, at Vida) flows pretty fast, so the trick is to cast up river, and then reel in as your line follows the current of the river down. I got the hang of it after a few attempts, and we settled in to a morning of fishing.

To this day I do not know how it happened, but I fell into the river. One minute I’m standing on the bank, and the next I’m struggling to keep mu head above water as the river begins to carry me away. I will never forget the look on my dad’s face as he realized that I was in the water, or what he did next. The thought flashed through my mind that my dad wasn’t jumping in to save me, only to be replaced by a sense of awe as I watched him sprint down the river bank, jumping over rocks and downed logs, ducking under low branches. The river was running very fast, but my dad was faster! He got ahead of me, and thred himself against a sapling at the river’s edge, knocking it down. “Grab the branches, boy!” he yelled. It wasn’t so much that I grabbed the branches, as it was that the current simply pushed me into the branches of the downed tree. I felt my fathers strong hand grab my jacket collar, and just as suddenly as I was in the water, I was out of it, wrapped in my fathers arms. I was scared and crying, and when my father held me at arms length to look at me to see if I was hurt, I realized that he was crying too. I had never seen my father cry until that day, and only on very rare occasions since. He hugged me tightly again, and then swept me up into his arms, and carried me away from that place.

I remember protesting as I watched my father carry me past the place where his fishing gear lay discarded. He carried me past without a second look. “hush, boy” he said, “I’ve got whats important”. he carried me straight to the car, and drove me straight home. I remember the look on my mothers face when we came through the door. My father told her the story. She cried, he cried, I cried. She yelled at him like I had never heard her yell at anyone, and he took it…without a word.

Being very practical, my mother sent me to the YMCA for swimming lessons a few months later, and I recall being the proudest newly minted eight year old there, because as I graduated from swim class, my father was next to me, graduating with me. You see, after serving 14 years in the Navy, my father had never learned to swim.

Looking back on that day, and the days that followed, I realized that I had been given a very precious gift. See, I learned, at a much younger age than most men learn, that my father isn’t superman. That fact didn’t dissapoint me, rather, it brought us closer, and helped me to realize that I could really be anything that I wanted to be. I had a lot to live up to, and did, but nothing like the expectations that most men place upon themselves.

My father is not superman, but no less a hero.

Smitty