“Flashback post” refers to something that was meant to be posted on an earlier date. It could have been started earlier and had a delayed finish. It might be something I feel would have meant more if linked to a certain date. It could also mean the author, yours truly, was feeling antsy about having two lengthy posts on the same day and kicked it back. It is similar to a “future post,” a rant left in advance of a conscious absence, though I typically lack the prognostication and time to schedule such pre-planed posts.
And without further ado, here’s something I meant to write about on Saturday.
Fishy musings
My church had a fishing expedition plotted for Saturday morning. Despite the fretful downpour the night before, and some drizzling around dawn, things dried up for the early morning departure time (which wasn’t a big deal since we were 45 minutes off leaving on time anyway).
We had six leaders show up and only two boys, meaning turn-out was great for the eight-and-under crowd.
As it worked out, the two little kids had on average two or three adults working hard to hook a fish on the line in time to pass over to the boys to reel them in. That left room for one or two people to be re-baiting back at the enclave of parked trucks (after worms [both plastic and the more squishy sort] escaped or bobbers needed replacing or there was a simple desire to swap rods). For those of you keeping count at home, you know that leaves one to two others on the far side of the pond having limited luck luring anything (besides sweat bees).
I belonged to the final category. It’s been a while since I was on a fishing trip and I’d have to stretch farther than that to think of a trip where I actually got to fish. In the past, I’d often spend more time trying to help people fish – by baiting hooks, untangling lines, wading out to get a floating lure that had come loose, etc – than fishing myself. Adding to my rustiness was the fact I typically fished by trolling, which is riding in a boat and letting a line drag behind you. There was less repetitive casting required on the short waves of Lake Taneycomo than the banks of the unnamed (and frankly, not worthy of a name) pond we were stationed it.
“Fishing is one of those things like riding a bike,” was a saying that drifted through my head. “You never totally forget how to do it.”
That thought was followed by various fishing memories, including, but not limited to: getting a hook caught in my face, getting a hook caught in my dad’s co-worker, being in a canoe that flipped (not my fault), being in a canoe that flipped (my fault), feeling the muddy ground beneath me give way on a field trip where I slowly – but irreversibly – slid into the lake, having the fish I hooked half swallowed by a snapping turtle and the difficulty associated with pulling them both in, being fretful after being warned about catfish barbs, being scared stiff after hearing a snake was in the water (never saw it), freaked out and refusing to move in the water due to a snake (saw it), and being paranoid about losing my glasses in the lake after countless repetitions of a story that happened to my uncle.
Fishing is like riding a bike, huh, I pondered. Maybe this was a bike I shouldn’t be riding, I briefly thought as I made a second half-lap (I went half way around and re-traced my original route back) around the lake after I’d swapped poles after a reel bust mid-cast (it was fixed later, but not by me despite no lack of trying).
But I returned to the far side of the lake and rediscovered my own drive for fishing. I don’t always fish to catch fish – though there is a thrill when they are striking and you never know what will come with the next cast. I also like to stretch out and meditate.
I kept casting away with a plastic worm even as it became obvious the majority of the fishers were using bobbers and real worms (especially those who kept catching the fish on behalf of the little kids). I like to think and cast – and I thought it wouldn’t be bad to seize an opportunity to practice casting for a while.
I didn’t matter if I had difficulties like when I’d have a doozy of a knot – and it’s always more challenging to deal with the tiny knots of a microfilament line than your average corded ropes – or I’d have to re-bait my hook with another plastic worm from the bed in my pocket (“Bed” is one of the group nouns for a bunch of worms. Don’t believe me? Look it up).
I have a lot of weird things on my mind lately – in case you hadn’t noticed. I spent a couple hours tugging on the line (typically after hooking a branch and not necessarily one located underwater), fiddling with the fishing line, and trying to untie my own twisted line of thought.
I only made so much progress on all three areas. I’m not even sure if the times I did rear back on my pole (intentionally) it was actually a fish nibbling on the other end. Everything I pulled all the way in was at one point plant-based in life, so I can’t be sure.
I’m positive God is working to untangle my mental line, however. I’m not sure how or when. It can be amazing how impossible a knot appears until you tug at it in the right place and suddenly it all comes together. After crunching down for over 10 minutes, and still having quite a fluffy, loopy bird’s nest in my hand, I was suddenly surprised to find a soft pull caused the straight line to reassert itself.
I didn’t catch a fish, though I reaped a side benefit from the smiles of the two kids when they posed with their haul. I wager our group pulled out the second largest fish in the lake (the biggest, as all fish-talers know, is the one that got away) in addition to over a half dozen of his mouth-sized cousins.
I had good time and didn’t do too much harm – a claim bolstered later when the flimsy reel was finally put back together (using a pocketknife, some strong hands, and some careful applications of pressure on plastic).
All in all, I think fun was had by all – except for the fish.
They should have stayed in school; but then, we can’t all swing on stars.
The more you know…
