The middle of another busy week, with no immediate signs of slowing down. Sunday, of course, was Mother's Day. It passed without much fanfare this year. My mother was missed at the table as she always is. This was my third Mother's Day without her, and I still feel sort of lost. I guess it's like becoming an orphan suddenly. Having lost my father before I was old enough to understand what had happened, I always secretly worried something would happen to my mom as a child, and I would be left to fend for myself. That would not have been the case, of course, but a child's mind is ripe with possibilities, and for me that was one of them. Thankfully, we spent many years together and that was not to be how it was written.
Sunday put to bed, Monday, Richard took me fishing. Let me make it clear, I am by no stretch of the imagination a seasoned angler. My fishing history began when I was married to my ex husband, and was limited to being handed a pole and instructed to drop the line attached to it into the water and wait to see if a fish shows up. Had I been starving and left alone with the pole and all the peripheral equipment and tasked with putting it together and use it, most likely I would have been found dead from hunger on the shore still holding it in my cramped hands. It's not really the inability to learn how to do it that hampers me, for I am usually a fairly quick study by nature. It is rather, I don't have a keen interest in doing it to begin with. If I become proficient at it, my fear is I might be asked more often to participate. If I decide to go and share a day of fishing, I do ask some rules apply. First, I do not put the bait on the hook (if it's live), nor do I take the fish off the hook, should I by some miracle catch one. Second, I will fish no longer than five hours in one given day. Richard and his pals will spend 8-10 hours trolling back and forth from one fishing spot to another with nary a bite and be happier than a pig in slop. For me, this is nearly on a par with Chinese water torture. Now, I've never actually been subjected to water torture, but you get the idea of what I'm saying.
My people were not outdoors people. Mother used to describe herself as a "hothouse flower". I was trying to imagine my mother sitting in a boat watching someone spill fish guts in a bucket, and just found myself giggling. Not to mention, as I've written before, pale of complexion as she was, we always believed if left in the full sun for more than an hour she might actually ignite. As a child growing up in Nova Scotia, outdoor activities consisted of boating, swimming, picnics (when weather permitted), and walks in the park. Fishing and hunting were huge in the province, don't misunderstand me, as there was game aplenty and we were surrounded on three sides by the Atlantic. However, my family simply didn't participate in those activities. At least, I wasn't exposed to it.
At any rate, I signed up for a fishing trip Monday on a local lake to catch some rainbow trout. We arrived at the lake bright and early, launched the boat, and headed out onto the water. Our gear included two very wide brimmed straw hats and bottles of sunscreen, because the weatherman was predicting temperatures in the low nineties. The sky was a brilliant blue overhead with little to break it up but an occasional heron flying along hoping to spot a morning meal. There was almost no wind, so the water lay before us only slightly rippled from the current. A helluva day at sea, Sir. Once we arrived in the first desired location, Richard idled the boat and put bait on both our hooks. I was given the Readers Digest fishing course on how to manage the line, and he tossed it into the water. The bright "lures" jangled and sparkled in the morning sun as they sank below the water line, looking like dew shimmering on a flower petal. Once the line was in the water, I realized I was supposed to be doing something. Richard was asking how much line was out while I was busy trying to remember what he said about releasing the line.
"Oh boy, let's see. Was it you push the brown button, then put the line in the slot, or the other way around? Do I release the lever first or after I've trolled? After, yes that's it. Opps, first obviously, sorry. Richard, why is my line rapped around the oar? Mama." After about an hour Richard was not wearing his happy face, and mine was sliding off my chin and dribbling on my shirt at a rapid pace. So, I stuck my pole in the designated holder, faced into the wind, and simply relaxed. The only effort I made for the next four hours was when I opened the cooler to retrieve our lunch. Now that is what I call fishing. Richard caught four fish in the time we were on the lake. During that time I was told many a fish story about he and his best friend out on one lake or another catching their limits of HUGE fish and having to throw all the extras back. "The fish were literally flying into the back of the boat". Right. Insert eye roll here. Whatever, Mr. Richard.
I don't like the part after a fish is caught when it is flopping around the bottom of the boat gasping for air with the hook tucked inside it somewhere. Richard, having fished since he was a boy, expertly sticks a tool down their craw and snip snap removes the hook, then tosses the fish in the cooler on a bed of ice. I understand this is nature's way of culling the herd and providing for those of us on earth. A lion will fell a gazelle to feed it's family, in spite of how graceful and beautiful a creature is to be sacrificed. It's the way of things. Personally, I think food should have been able to be produced in wonderful ways, not involving carnage and mayhem, but then, nobody asked my opinion when this whole thing was being brainstormed, so it is what it is.
Finally back at the dock late afternoon, I was glad to see the boat back on the trailer and being pulled up the ramp. For one thing, I needed to use the facilities. Men carry with them, or this one does, a "male urinal". This looks like the urinals men are given in hospitals to relieve themselves when unable to get out of bed. As male creatures are constructed in a way to use such a device if they have to urinate as to not cause a public scene, this is a very handy tool. Next to the box he retrieved his urinal from was another box labeled "Female Urinal". He pointed to it. "Uh, uh. No way. Nope. Not happening." So, realizing that was my option, I didn't drink my water and tried not to think about things until we got back to shore. It reminded me of one fishing trip I went on with my ex in Arkansas. We didn't have a boat at the time, so fished off the shore. Often, we walked down the bank of the river a ways from where we came in to enjoy the quiet and sometimes for better fishing. Unfortunately, most of the facilities were located at the park entrances, so if the need arose you either walked a mile back down the river or availed yourself of whatever cover was available, a small shovel, if required, and a handy dandy roll of TP. On this day, we hadn't seen another human being for hours. When the time came, I found a spot behind a huge weeping willow by the bank to relieve myself of the large bottle of water I'd consumed to keep me hydrated. Checking for poison oak before dropping trou, I squatted down in the grass. The moment I knelt down, a metal boat rounded the bend with three men seated inside. Seeing me, or at least the rear version of me, the shouting began. Done or not done, I grabbed my shorts and covered ground. Ruined a perfectly good pair of sandals that day, I guarantee. My ex used to say my life reminded him of "The Perils of Pauline". Probably some truth buried in that somewhere.
So enough potty talk. Happy Wednesday. Enjoy the day, breathe deeply the fragrance of spring, and live every moment.
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