Summer burns on. Mining clients are demanding. Meetings are planned and we must prepare for them. Reports are requested and we must write them.
Yet the temptation to go fishing is great. Yesterday I took three of the grandkids to Rice Lake in North Vancouver to fish. I grew up in the desert; there was no water within 200 miles and no fish in water within 400 miles. The first time I tried fishing as a new father, all I hooked was the family poodle who grab the bait and got the hook stuck in her flesh to the consternation of all.
I have never fished for pleasure in all my life. It has always been a paternal duty. Hence I cannot wax eloquent about the glories of quiet days on a river or stream away from it all. As yesterday, fishing for me has always been a never-ending struggle to attach hooks, unravel twine, keep bait on, and prevent the casting geniuses from hooking other people along the dock.
Yesterday we managed to break and sink bobs or floaters as the kids called them. We manage to get sun-burnt. We ate the snacks and drank the soda before an hour had passed. We gave up on the cheap fishing rod and its tacky plastic.
We gazed with envy at the old couple who caught a tiny fish. “We are new at this,” she said. “We are practicing for when we buy our 44-ft boat and sail away into retirement.” He husband sighed and look wan.
Immigrant mothers and grandmothers from far countries came to admire their offspring do the right Canadian thing, namely fish. These proud mothers and grandmothers were overdressed in lace and silk, designer clothing all. Their patient husbands sported expensive sporting-store fishing jackets and a face of fear as their young daughters cast expensive lines with aplomb far into the lake. Times change.
Maybe next Sunday we will try again.