First written and published in 1996, a previous version of this article won the “best story about fishing with Dad” award from the Northwoods Sporting Journal in 2007. It’s also a chapter to Small People — Big Brains by Mr. Boomsma. I remember this day often and especially on Father’s Day.  This year I thought I’d share it. 

“This shouldn’t be happening…” according to Ivan – my friend, father-in-law and erstwhile guide to Maine water. He wasn’t complaining though. I was otherwise occupied with my third bass in less than thirty minutes.

Ivan was my father-in-law by marriage. He was my friend by choice. We shared an understanding of the difference between “going fishing” and “catching fish.” We agreed that “going fishing” is as enjoyable as “catching fish.”

We had spent the morning fishing—working the edges of the pond with very little action. We were ready for some catching, so we dropped anchor, switched to ultra-lights, and started soaking night crawlers in anticipation of a few yellow perch.

This was proving mildly successful when the bass we had been after all morning started interfering with our perch fishing. No doubt a more technically oriented fisherman could explain what happened. We were satisfied with simply enjoying it until a fall storm forced us off the lake.

Later as we sat by the fire with our post-trip libations I found my mind wandering back to another time when something happened that shouldn’t have while fishing. It was a lesson that I never forgot.

My father was hooked on fishing. I think he waited until I was walking before he bought me my first pole. It was an unbreakable steel rod (not much action). The little stream that ran through our yard was never more than ankle deep. My ankles weren’t very far from terra firma at that age, so I was allowed to “go fishing” on my own. I lost a lot of hooks in that little brook. If Dad wasn’t around, I’d switch to a safety pin when my hooks were gone. I had to keep fishing. I had to be just like him.

I figured the reason he went across the road to the big river was to leave all the fish in the little brook for me. The fact that I never caught anything did nothing to dissuade me from the idea that Dad was the most unselfish person I knew. The reason he nearly always came home with trout was simply that he was bigger than I and had more experience. I didn’t truly appreciate his patience then as he tried to teach a bumbling, excited five-year-old the fine points of casting and bait placement.

Finally, he and Mom decided I was “big enough” to go with him across the road. My patience was strained to the maximum while we sat through Mom’s lecture about “keeping an eye on me.” My safety pin was removed and replaced with a real hook and off we went on my very first guided trip.

The river was overwhelming but not intimidating. I knew about currents from sailing my boats in the brook. Dad positioned me near a pool my five-year-old arms could reach. He reviewed casting techniques and suggested I just let my worm follow the current. I was warned not to tell Mom about it later, but he was going downstream where he knew there was a big one.

I could see that the techniques I’d been using weren’t going to work. On the little brook, I could always wade in and put my worm exactly where I wanted it. Now I was forced to cast a whole three feet and use nearly all my line. It took what seemed like an eternity to get the wrist action necessary.

On my fifteenth cast, I had that old familiar feeling that meant another lost hook. It wouldn’t do to lose it on my first trip to the big river. So I crossed my fingers (making it hard to hold the pole) and pulled hard. The worm and hook went flying over my shoulder. A little scared now; I realized I had to keep trying even though danger lurked below.

By the time I was reaching the current after only three false casts (false in this context meaning wrong), I was convinced that the bump I was feeling was a bite. Dad had described the feeling in intimate detail and even though I had never experienced it before, I was firmly convinced this was it.

Meanwhile Dad—either out of a desire to try different water or the memory of Mom’s lecture—was coming close. I wanted to watch how he got his line out so far, but I was too busty trying to nab my very first trout. Soon he was standing at my side. “Catching anything?”

I replied that I hadn’t yet, but was about to. He asked for my pole so he could see what was going on. His cast was flawless but his drift didn’t last any longer than mine. How long does it take for five feet of line to play out? He reeled in, handed me back the pole and announced, “Try the next pool. What you’re feeling is the bottom as your worm bumps along.” Then he moved upstream.

What a dilemma! Dad was always right and he always has my best interest at heart. But I was sure he was wrong this time. Or was he? Either way, would continuing to fish this pool be disobedient? If he saw me would he be hurt because I hadn’t listened? And why had he smiled if there was no fish there?

After this great inner battle, I invoked the standard just-a-little-longer logic of all fishermen. I concentrated so hard my head hurt. Cast. Bump. Nothing. Cast. Bump. Yank. Nothing. Cast Bump. Yank…
Something flew over my head that was bigger than my worm. I spun around and saw the trout flapping on the bank. It freed itself from my hook and was working its way back to the river! I pounced on it with a tackle that would make a football coach proud. As I wrestled with my monster I looked up and saw Dad watching. His grin went from ear-to-ear and maybe even around the back of his head. “Got one, did you? Well, I’m surprised! I haven’t caught a thing. Let’s take all eight inches of it home and show Mom.”

She never let on if she tired of hearing all the details of that fine catch. And she seemed genuinely amazed when Dad told her that I had showed him up because he was convinced there should not have been a fish where I caught mine.

Age has not diminished my love of fishing. I still get excited. I still make false (defined as wrong) casts. And I still use the just-a-little-longer theory. I’ve given up on safety pins though. And I wonder about my first trout.

I have a theory about that first trout. For years I was proud that I had figured out something Dad hadn’t and I told everyone who would listen. (And sometimes people who wouldn’t.) Like all fishing trips, my first trip to the big river has improved with time and my fish has gotten bigger. But I no longer think I outsmarted Dad.

I think he knew that trout was there.

And I think he knew what would happen when I caught it. For one, he knew that hooking that trout would hook me on fishing. More importantly,  he knew I’d learn by experience what independence and self reliance truly are. In fishing and in life there are always “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts.” There will always be “reliable sources” and truths. But the greatest resource each of us has is inside us.

My resource was tested several years after catching my first trout when my Dad died. But then and through the many years since that resource has been there and, in a very real sense so has Dad. He guided me to my first trout and led me to believe in myself.

Thanks, Dad.

In memory of Walter Boomsma, Sr.
1926–1954