Moby Dude

One of the longstanding jokes in my family is that my dad liked the “idea” of a dog as a pet, but was unwilling to let us have a real dog. He liked the metaphorical dog, man’s best friend who’d fetch your slippers or sit at your feet idly napping while you read Proust in your easy chair. But acquiring an actual dog and all the barking and shedding and eating and pooping and smelling it entailed was always a non-starter.

In much the same way my dad liked the “idea” of being a dog owner, I have always liked the “idea” of fishing, and could fancy myself a fisherman under the right set of circumstances.

I love the epic man versus nature elements found in Melville, Hemmingway, and even the salty dog Bering Sea crab fisherman in the “The Deadliest Catch”. And equally attractive is the family-bonding element of “A River Runs Through It”. I even love fishing shows on TV with their professional master bassers decked out in enough advertising to make a NASCAR driver blush. Remember Jimmy Houston and his dark black sunglasses and that shock white mop of hair and his cool drawl?

Father’s and sons at war with nature and with each other, casting off their differences and dipping their lines in the water hoping to catch a “metaphorical” fish while becoming at one with nature and themselves. I can imagine putting on our waders and flinging our fly fishing lines in slow motion through the crisp Michigan air or manning a skiff in the Florida Keys on the hunt for the elusive bone fish or even just idly floating along in a rowboat on a Wisconsin lake.

The dude and I, waking up at dawn, at our secret fishin’ hole, grunting, casting lines, wearing those fun-looking bucket hats, baiting hooks, drinking bitter coffee (me) and Yoo-hoo (him) from tin thermoses, gutting our catch, and frying it up for lunch. I can imagine it all…

But in reality, I don’t like waking up early. I’m afraid of tipping over the boat and falling in and getting eaten by a shark or a largemouth bass (are their mouths large enough to fit a human head in?). Go to a sporting good store and there’s like four zillion types of rods and lures to choose from. It’s worse than golf equipment. This isn’t the low-pressure sport alternative to my score-obsessed golf game that I’m looking for. People take this seriously. And all those mosquitoes!

My earliest fishing memory is as a West Hills day camper using little pieces of mealy corn from a big chum bucket as lures and attaching them to a hook that resembled a bent paperclip. I distinctly remember catching a boot, but that could just be something that I imagined to be true.

I have been taken fishing a handful of times by neighbors and friends in the past and have enjoyed it. Once I caught two fish, but I secretly think I caught the same dumb-ass fish twice.  And after, I always think that it was fun and should do this again sometime, but that feeling wears off pretty quickly. I have the same reaction after going bowling. This is fun, why don’t I bowl more often? I asked myself.  I should wear bowling shirts and recruit a bunch of friends and join a league. Then a few years pass…

I don’t know if the Dude will get into fishing and want his fishing naïve dad to take him out on the water somewhere. What about the retention pond behind my house? But if he does, there’s always people like Papa Bill and Great Uncle Danny who are ready teach him how to properly bait a hook and cast a line without catching the back of your shirt.