My father passed away in the early morning hours today. I missed the call, but there isn’t much I would have been able to do anyway. The call was that he had passed, not that he would. I had been with him for six hours the day before and read to him from John Gierach’s All Fisherman Are Liars and my brother and I remembered family trips and family stories. My brother’s partner read to him about the 49ers. My wife came and brought me lunch and saw my dad as well.
It was my brother who got there at one in the morning and took care of what needed taking care of. He’s the best son, I’m just the better looking one (and funnier).
My dad caught a lot of fish in his life. This one (pictured above) was special.
We were in the Bahamas (Grand Bahama on the East End, to be specific), our first time there, and we had each just caught our first bonefish with a guide who was very good at guiding and very bad at being a decent person (that’s a different story).
Dad was not a graceful caster of an 8 weight (and that rod is probably a 7 anyway). He never got the hang of a double-haul and it was kind of a forced, muscled cast to get the line out 40-50 feet. His casting rocked the boat in a literal way. It was more of a baseball swing-meets-wood-cutting motion. It was sometimes-servicable.
As dad was up on the bow of this flats skiff, looking out over a shallow, mottled flat, he pointed out a ray moving across the sand maybe 50-60 feet away.
The guide lost his mind.
“Cast on dat ray!” “Cast on dat ray!” the guide shouted.
I didn’t see the transaction, but I can only assume my dad was temporarily whisked away to make some sort of demonic deal which would grant him supernatural (for him) abilities. He made the cast, a cast he had not shown signs, indications or hints that he would be capable of making. He summoned the best single-handed cast I’ve ever seen him make. He landed that cast right on the back of the ray at about 60′ where it was immediately eaten by the pictured mutton snapper.
Maybe it is 12 pounds, maybe 15. I’m not a great judge of the weight of mutton snappers. What I do know is that all hell broke loose. The snapper exploded and rampaged across the shallow flat. The line raced after the fish, throwing a roostertail of water, occassionally bending down young, pliable mangrove shoots.
My dad’s reel sang as line was ripped off and his smile was wide and plastered on his face. He loved that “zzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZzzzzzzz” sound as much as anyone and this fish provided a concert just for us.
Somehow (probably owing to that deal he made), he landed the fish.
The guide, of course, took the fish home.
Fishing is about stories and living those stories with people you choose to be on the water with. I chose to be on the water with my dad whenever the opportunity arose.
Now, go make some stories with people you love.
