Fish for...?

      In lieu of making an apology over the extended absence of new material on this webpage, (an apology that would most likely be directed at those three persons who consistently read whatever nonsense i spit forth, that is) I would instead like to simply eschew all surplusage and hasten to reveal the next grandiose and mind-tantalizing brain candy for all readers to gum on:

People are like fishermen.

        Now I can understand the quiet second you may have taken inside the workings of your already over-taxed mind as you quietly ponder this ball bearing of truth upon which the slow but ever quickening wheel of cultural revolution and enlightenment will turn, but before you all hand out the obligatory pitchforks and pitch-torches, let me go ahead and ask the question that, at one point, one of the less mob-frenzied members of our newly hatched academic coup will bring up. And that question is this:

So what? And as a rebuttal, most fisherman are already people.

       A very valid question. I'm glad you had me ask it. And now here is the part where I break the deal down in straight terms so y'all can feel what I'm dishing out, so to speak. I would like to reaffirm that, yes, fishermen and fisher women are already people and have been for most of their lives, but the more pointed point that I would like to point all readers towards is this: all of humanity can be broken down into the types of anglers that one could observe at their craft. Despite the probability that this may fail to affect any meaningful portion of the life of the reader, or change the perspective upon it, I will do my best to categorize the phenomenon of human life into three overarching and semi-pathetic archetypes: Those who wake up inhumanly early, those who wake at a reasonable time, and those who sleep in.

      Lets start first with those who start first. There are many subcategories that fall within the early risers, but I have neither the time nor the attention span to venture through the thickets that are composed of the myriad of personality types that are contained in this, the smallest category of all who fish, but let me paint a quick and boorish portrait for you. These are the people who truly love the idea of yanking slimy pieces of uncooked and uncooperative food out of streams and ocean coves that are remote enough to have been declined invitation to even the most detailed of maps.


   These folk are the ones behind the wheels of commercial fishing vessels, storming above and through the one place on earth that God did not design man to be, and pulling from its forbidden depths their livelihood and joy. This is no diversion for them, no escape from the tediums of daily living. This IS their daily living. And whether on rolling on boat or wading deep into the forgotten kingdom of an ancient stream, they know what it is they must do to succeed. And they do it deftly.


      The second group to arrive to the scene are those who had a long shift at work the day before and decided that they could catch a few more minutes of sleep before sliding on their fresh-smelling waders and tossing a line or two into the water. They know the knots and the baits, and they have a few favorite fishing holes that they can sneak a few friends to for a few iced drinks and some good sized trout. They don't have the nicest equipment, and they probably aren't using it all to its potential, but they are having the time of their lives for that one glorious weekend of friends, packaged food, and fishing.

       The lucky ones of this category know a friend to has a boat off the coast of Argentina, and they squirm out of the pressed-in walls of their grey colored cubicle like the alleged world record fish out of the hands of any given fisherman/bard. The sun reflecting off of the brine-burnished scales of a leaping sailfish will forever be engrained in their mind as a singular moment of truly living. And will soon become a fuzzy and half-focused picture on the screensaver of their office computer.

      And then we come to those who have waited until the sun is at its zenith to emerge from the tent. They didn't plan this trip. They're not even sure why they agreed to it. They slosh from campsite to creek bed in borrowed everything: mismatched muck boots, a friend-loaned fish pole with two eyelets missing, long john underwear which, at this point, are more nuisance than insulation. The loaner has been up since day break, and is most likely from the category directly above. They will attempt to jest mildly at the loanee's sleep lines which crisscross their cheek, but eventually these jokes cease as the unamused face of the newcomer fails to show mirth.


   And the attitude will usually maintain its course like a ship caught in whirlpool, the mind returning time after contemptuously contemplative time to the awkward feeling of the rod, the series of failed casts that end in trees or the near bank, the mute chuckles of the more experienced friend, and finally the utter futility of dangling a hook in the water in search of something they never really wanted in the first place. They pass the remainder of the experience sulking in the tent or complaining to the friend, who now has their trips intended magic taken rudely from them, much like the last bag of Cheetos   and the extra blanket.

     I had intended to delve more deeply into an explanation of each category, but as I put words to page, I found that even I with my wildly unfocused imagination and less than satisfactory marks in junior high study skills class could understand the kind of people that fall into file in the above paragraphs. So I will be brief in my summation.

    The first group has found what they want in life, and they have given all they have to net it and haul it into their arms. They risk greatly, but the sheer determination and the skill they learned from those like them turn the risks into fish, and fish abundantly.

   The second group has tasted the glory that can be found by sacrificing for something higher, but they are either tied down by outside forces or those from within. They find escape in the thing that they truly want in life, but they cannot bring themselves to abandon the familiar things and risk it all to pursue the truly big fish.

   The third group wants no part in any of the experience. They blame others when they try and fail. Or they decide that the entire endeavor is pointless as a balm to soothe the sting of disappointment. They don't wish to risk anything, and the comfort of home and headset (hearth isn't as applicable these days) outweigh any possibility of making anything happen on their own.


    Now as always, there are variations and exceptions to this scale. I've seen the dabbler decide he no longer desires safety of a desk job and hurl self headlong into an ambition repressed for a lifetime. I've seen an unbreakable sea captain get his nets shredded by a passing log and fall victim to the risk of his passion. I've seen a malcontent sit up from his preferred place in the sand and take pole in one hand and dedication in the other and break free from the melancholy of passionless passivity. And I've seen the over ambitious angler lose his fishing license from cheating.

   I urge the reader to find the rod and reel and cast the hook into the depths of the unknown. Opportunity may bite, or calamity may break your rod. Success come thrashing into your net, or misfortune puncture a hole in your waders. All I can say is that nothing bites the hook buried in the sand, and even if nothing bites, the sunrise is worth the waking. So wake up early, hang your nets, tie a fresh fly on your leader, and let it all down into the great unknown.

   Or maybe I'm telling you to just buy canned fish. I'm not quite sure.