Life in Maine (Part IX: Fishing)

Can you still call it fishing if you never, ever catch anything remotely fish-like?

Am I watering? Or whipping? What can I possibly call what I am doing?

I headed out again today after lunch. I picked up the rusty cement-filled coffee can from the dock and placed it in the rowboat. I carefully placed my rod in the boat, stepped onto the bench seat, and pushed away from the dock.

After fitting the long and heavy oars into their oarlocks, I turned the craft and began to move. Like most rowboats, this one is loud--the right oar squeaks like an devilish mouse with every movement I make, and the screeching noises reverberated off the surrounding mountains. I imagined that all the fish were warning each other of my imminent arrival, aware that a veritable master of the hunt was in their midst.

And then I "fished". And "fished". And "fished".

I caught absolutely nothing, and ended up losing the fly. This, thankfully, is apparently quite common.

Nonetheless, while I continue to hope to catch something soon, I also continued to take the whole thing in stride. It is fun, being out there, standing up in my rowboat, casting the line far out into the waters, trying to figure out where the fish might be hiding from me. I feel like I'm doing something that I should have always been doing, like I'm somehow pre-programmed to stand shirtless in rowboats, smoke cigars, and flyfish.

Not to mention, for the first time in my life, I can talk to other people about fishing. I've always been jealous of fishermen and their conversations, and now I too can finally say things like:

"Catch anything today?"

or

"They we really jumpin' last night."

And now, when people ask me, "Do you fish?", I can finally at least say, "I think so", and probably get away with saying "Yes. Yes I do."

More soon from Maine, where the fish are.