Fishing

The third or fourth time I went fishing I was about 5 years old. I only went fishing off the dock into the sound, none of that serious business middle-of-the-ocean stuff. I had my own pole and tackle box. The pole was bright green and the tackle box was purple. I had artfully personalized the tackle box with paint pens. 

My dad spent all morning sitting with me on the dock teaching me about fishing… even though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t really know about fishing. But that was okay because I probably wasn’t listening anyway.

He mercilessly skewered worms so I could dangle my bait in the water and say I was ‘fishing.’ I didn’t have the heart to kill an innocent worm but I was willing to watch someone else do it for me.

I had just gotten the knack of casting out the line when my dad needed to take a bathroom break. He left me sitting on the dock with my fishing pole and assumed I would be fine while he took a few seconds to use the facilities.

If you think you know what is going to happen, you are wrong.

I wasn’t getting any fishie bites. I reeled in my line, absentmindedly turning to face the side of the dock. The bait was still there so I didn’t have to wait for my worm-murdering father to return to continue fishing! This would have been perfect if I had been paying more attention to my change of direction.

My hook ended up on a neighboring dock. That would be okay if a seagull was not also on that neighboring dock.

I caught a seagull. My wimpy arms had quite a bit of trouble keeping the fishing pole in my grasp when an enraged seagull was attached to the other end.

My dad cut the line. I was done fishing for the day.