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Fishing Through Grief
By: Randy Kadish
The city workers never stopped me from going onto the
old, broken-down pier, though one had said, There aren't
much fish here since we dredged last year.
I often sought comfort in those words. They told me not
to blame myself for catching only one striped bass after
so many months of trying.
So with little expectations, I again walked towards the
end of the seagull-inhabited pier. One by one the
beautiful birds spread their long, gray wings and soared
away. I was sorry I had frightened them from their home.
I continued on.
On the other side of the wide, fast-moving river, the
fluttering American flag told me the wind blew from the
north, but not strongly. Since strong winds were the
only thing I didn't like about fishing, I was thankful,
and wondered if
I should go with a floating or sinking line.
I checked the sky. The cloud cover was breaking up; so I
chose a sinking line, knowing it probably wouldn't
matter. I set up my nine-weight rod, looked through my
fly box and wondered, What should I try? A Clouser? A
Deceiver?
I tied on a White Deceiver, then watched in awe as the
seagulls gracefully glided down on the other end of the
pier. Glad they had returned, I thought, If only I could
get my fly to land as gently. I cast up river, about
seventy feet. Not bad. I stripped slowly, pausing every
four or five seconds.
Suddenly, as if a light switch was turned on, the sun
illuminated the gold and raspberry-red leaves of trees
on the far bank. Yes, autumn is always the prettiest
time to fish. But soon those trees will look like eerie,
mushroom-shaped spider webs. Soon it will be winter and
too cold to fish. So why on this mild day, am I the only
one here? Is it because, unlike most anglers, I'm not so
obsessed with catching fish? If so, is there something
wrong with me?
A small motor boat approached. A middle-aged couple was
aboard. They held hands. I waved. They smiled and waved
back.
Any luck? the man yelled out.
I shook my head no, and thought of how I never felt
alone on the pier.
I again cast. My tight loop cut through the breeze. My
Deceiver turned over and fluttered to the water. I was
proud. Eighty feet. Yes, maybe basking in the
satisfaction of making a good cast is what brought me to
the pier. But is there something more?
I lowered my rod, pulled all the slack out of my line
and tried to repeat my beautiful cast. My back loop was
tight. When it almost unrolled I slowly began my forward
cast. Perfect. I accelerated into my power snap. But I
hauled late. My front loop opened into a wide circle. My
line and fly died short, and piled on the water.
Disappointed, I quickly pulled the slack out of my line.
I resumed my regular retrieve. Maybe bad casts really
aren't so bad, I told myself. Maybe a fish will still
strike. Besides, my next cast will be better, I hope.
Yes, to make better: how good it always feels, and how
easy to do when fishing. If only fixing my business had
been so easy, but by the time I realized that the market
had changed it was too late. And wasn't it also too late
by the time mother realized that her cough might be a
sign of something really serious? By then the latest
medical breakthroughs couldn't stop her cancer from
eating away at her, from leaving her a living, breathing
skeleton, and leaving me feeling helpless, and furious
at a God who seemed so brutal, so cruel. Why did he
cause so much pain? So much suffering!?
I couldn't answer the answer question - not now, not
then; so after mother passed away grief weighed me down
like lead. I couldn't find the energy to fish. Then the
grief got even worse and seemed to turn into a dull
knife slowly cutting and twisting through me. Afraid I
was losing my mind, and that the walls of my apartment
were closing in on me like a vise, I told myself I had
to go outside. But where? A voice told me to take my fly
rod and reel. Should I listen? I took my fly rod out of
its case. It seemed to shine like gold. I held the rod
handle. The cork felt like silk, in some way comforting.
I put on my fly-fishing vest and looked in the mirror.
Yes I was once an angler, once loved being in the
outdoors, especially in a gurgling river or a gently
crashing surf.
I took my fly rod and reel and walked to the old pier.
Again I became an angler. Surprisingly, my grief numbed,
maybe even lifted; so the next day I went again, and
then for the next few years fishing was all I really
cared about.
Finally, slowly, my other interests - football, music,
history - returned, but none rivaled fishing on the
pier, even if I had on the wrong fly.
I wondered if I should change flies, then decided that
with all I was going through, and with natures beauty
seeming to embrace me in a way that - yes - my mother
never did, the fly I fished shouldn't matter. Ill stay
with the White Deceiver. I caught my breath, then
reminded myself to break my wrist and drift my fly rod
downward at the end of my back cast.
It worked! My fly shot almost ninety feet, then gently
touched down on the surface. I smiled. Above the middle
of the river a flock of seagulls circled.
Their sharp chirps somehow sounded amplified by the
peaceful vision of the orange sun setting and beaming
down hundreds and hundreds of diamonds bobbing and
reflecting off the gently flowing river.
The seagulls didn't dive. Bait fish probably weren't
around; so neither were the striped bass.
I wasn't discouraged. So for the next few hours, as the
sky ripened into dusk pink, I cast again and again and
retrieved faster and faster, afraid that the sun would
soon sink behind the trees and roll up its flickering
path that crossed the grayish water and seemed to stop
at my pier.
Slow down. I reminded myself. Don't worry about the sun
going down. It will be here tomorrow, and so will I. And
don't worry about winter. Before long it will retreat and
the bare trees will again bloom with life, and then
maybe the stripers will return to the pier, but if they
don't, will it really matter?
No, because out here nothing is broken, except fixable
casts.
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