by Sara Etgen-Baker
Early one Saturday morning when I was about ten, Father gently nudged me from a deep slumber. “Time to go fishin’, Sweetie.”
Reluctantly I uncovered my face; blinked; closed my eyes, and blinked again. I sat up, stretched my arms above my head; and yawned, remembering how I’d pleaded with him the night before.
“May I go with you, pleeeease Daddy?” I begged.
Taking me wasn’t easy, for I was squeamish around worms and water. But I’d tolerate almost anything just to have some alone time with Father.
“But Daddy, it’s dark outside. Aren’t the fish sleeping?”
“They’ll be awake soon enough. Get a move on!”
He loaded me and his fishing gear into his pickup truck and drove to the nearest lake where at the crack of dawn he launched his flat bottom boat, the Nini-Poo, into the water. It was a sultry, windless August morning; and the lake, flat as any mirror, lay before us without a single ripple as if time itself had been frozen. From the tall pines around the edge came not a sound, no movement of branches and no birds calling.
Father tugged on the choke of his outboard motor and pulled on the starter rope three times before the engine sputtered into action. We skittered across the lake, shattering the lake’s glassy appearance. Once we reached an isolated cove, Father turned off the ignition, letting the boat come to a gentle stop. He reached under his seat; fetched his bucket of worms; nabbed one of the larger ones; and drove the hook into the thicker end. He cast my live worm into the water and handed me my cane pole.
“Watch the bobber,” he said, his finger pointing to the water. “When a fish nibbles, let him have a taste, then pull.”
“Okay, Daddy. I will.”
He baited his own hook and cast his line into the water; we sat and fished for hours. From the pine trees around the lake’s edge came nary a sound, only the sound of my father’s breathing. For a moment I forgot to watch my pole. The end splattered into the water, sending dragonflies off their lily pads. “Whoa, watch your fishing pole!” he said, reaching over to steady the cane pole.
Father sat as still as the pines as if time were suspended and our minutes were as countless as summer strawberries. “Daddy,” I rested my cheek against his arm, “are you SURE there’s fish in this cove?” He chuckled and kissed me on the cheek.
Suddenly, the bobber zinged under the water. “It’s a whopper!” he cried. I leaned back into his arms; we pulled together. Breaking through the water, erupting into the glimmer of the morning light, burst the biggest fish I’d ever seen. Father unhooked the shimmering fish. I held my breath, and Father beamed. Neither of us spoke; we just stared at one another. The gift of that afternoon spent with Father was one of the best presents I ever got.
The Author and her Dad - 1999
A teacher’s unexpected whisper, “You’ve got writing talent,” ignited Sara’s writing desire. Sara ignored that whisper and pursued a different career but eventually, she re-discovered her inner writer and began writing. Her manuscripts have been published in anthologies and magazines including Chicken Soup for the Soul, Guideposts, Times They Were A Changing, and Wisdom Has a Voice.
Such a sweet story. My husband takes our granddaughters fishing – making memories, I call it.
Thanks, V.J., for reading the piece and for commenting. Memories are such important gifts that we give one another.
Your piece elicited so many memories I have had with my father. We had a pond behind our home and fishing was a ritual that every family engaged in when they visited. I also learned how to scale the fish and prepare them for cooking.
Thanks for sharing your comment and your wonderful memory of fishing with your own father.
Later the day after catching “the big one,” my father taught me how to scale that fish. EEEEWW was all I kept saying to him. His comment was, “If you catch ’em, you clean ’em.” Like you I had to cook that fish. And I didn’t even like the smell or taste of fish. But I was with my dad and that’s what I wanted. 🙂
I enjoyed this story and it reminded me of the first time my husband took our youngest daughter fishing when she was only 3 or 4. How she was upset about the warm on the hook. At 28 she is a Maine guide and a devoted fisher-woman. We keep laughing remembering that first warm on the hook that started the journey.
Ariela what a sweet story! Thanks for sharing. And how fascinating that your daughter, once a girl squeamish about worms, is now a devoted fisher-woman. That’s just marvelous. You made my day in sharing your experience.