Fish and Ships

At one point in our lives we lived on the West Coast of Canada where the mighty Pacific salmon spawn and tickle fishermen’s bait at dawn. And noon and evening if the fisherman is lucky enough to have time to tickle their own fishy addiction. But then, fishing is only an addiction if you are trying to quit. Such was this addiction that when we moved to the prairie, my husband Greg would sniff out any pond that was rumored to have a fish therein. Keen to share his delight with his children, Greg dutifully took them, along with little rods, lines and worms, to the local fishing hole. His love was great for both child and fish, but having six kids getting tangled in hooks lines and mud sometimes put a damper upon the affection. I recall one afternoon when, in response to my question, a frazzled daddy replied “The only bite I got all day was when Sam bit my leg”. Deciding that perhaps having six kids casting at the side of a small pond was not the best way to spend his day off, Greg decided that a boat that could only seat two might be good idea. When Warren, the eldest, reached the ripe old age of 8, father and son rented a boat and set off for the local lake in search of trout. When they arrived home, they had a lovely two pounder in hand. I’ve never seen them so excited. They recounted their story of how they tried and tried to no avail, and how finally as they were coming in, Warren found an old marshmallow in the boat, used it and presto! When his son finally wandered off, Greg, eyes alight, confided, “Hon, Warren was soooooo excited. What a great day.” My husband proceeded to explain how they had smashed into another boat in the great fight with the fish, and how that clever trout had swum under the docks before they finally got it into the boat. Later that evening, Warren, with a confidential gleam in his eye came quietly into the kitchen when I was alone and said, “Mom. Dad was sooooo excited. We had such a great day.” The delight in his eyes as he recounted their adventure was a mirror for the same I’d seen in his father’s. That was many years ago, and Warren is now a dad, taking his daughters fishing. Though there are now GPS and fish locators, like his father that day on the lake, he has them both rolled into that same trusty unit we call Dad.

At one point in our lives we lived on the West Coast of Canada where the mighty Pacific salmon spawn and tickle fishermen’s bait at dawn. And noon and evening if the fisherman is lucky enough to have time to tickle their own fishy addiction. But then, fishing is only an addiction if you are trying to quit. Such was this addiction that when we moved to the prairie, my husband Greg would sniff out any pond that was rumored to have a fish therein.

Keen to share his delight with his children, Greg dutifully took them, along with little rods, lines and worms, to the local fishing hole. His love was great for both child and fish, but having six kids getting tangled in hooks lines and mud sometimes put a damper upon the affection. I recall one afternoon when, in response to my question, a frazzled daddy replied “The only bite I got all day was when Sam bit my leg”.

Deciding that perhaps having six kids casting at the side of a small pond was not the best way to spend his day off, Greg decided that a boat that could only seat two might be good idea. When Warren, the eldest, reached the ripe old age of 8, father and son rented a boat and set off for the local lake in search of trout. When they arrived home, they had a lovely two pounder in hand. I’ve never seen them so excited. They recounted their story of how they tried and tried to no avail, and how finally as they were coming in, Warren found an old marshmallow in the boat, used it and presto!

When his son finally wandered off, Greg, eyes alight, confided, “Hon, Warren was soooooo excited. What a great day.” My husband proceeded to explain how they had smashed into another boat in the great fight with the fish, and how that clever trout had swum under the docks before they finally got it into the boat.

Later that evening, Warren, with a confidential gleam in his eye came quietly into the kitchen when I was alone and said, “Mom. Dad was sooooo excited. We had such a great day.” The delight in his eyes as he recounted their adventure was a mirror for the same I’d seen in his father’s.

That was many years ago, and Warren is now a dad, taking his daughters fishing. Though there are now GPS and fish locators, like his father that day on the lake, he has them both rolled into that same trusty unit we call Dad.

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