I felt Daddy’s hand shaking my shoulder, and opened one eye in the dark room. “It’s 5:30” he whispered, “time to go.” I snapped awake; we were going fishing; just Daddy and me! We had acquired bamboo poles and worms at the sports shop the day before, and Daddy had his old tackle box full of hooks and lures.
We went to Woodard Lake, a small lake not far from where we live, where Daddy had arranged for a row boat. We anchored not far from shore, and dropped our baited lines in the water. Almost immediately, we started catching fish; small bluegills, all too small to keep.
Across the lake, we could see another fisherman pulling them in and keeping them. “He knows where the fish are, he lives here.” After he left, we rowed to the spot where he had been. Not one bite! The fish had moved on. Later when we were leaving, the man came around and told us he had caught more than the limit, would we like some? Yes! At least we had fish to take home and fresh fish for dinner.
Daddy and I went fishing one more time at Long Lake. Long Lake was much bigger than Woodard, and had more and bigger fish. Daddy rented a rowboat at the pavilion, and we rowed along the shore until we were away from waterfront cottages. Then Daddy stood up in the tippy rowboat to cast for bass. I sat in the rear of the boat frantically trying to balance the rolling boat so we wouldn’t tip over, or Daddy fall overboard. Fishing was supposed to be fun, not frightening, so I never asked to go again. We never caught any fish anyhow.
Fishing did not catch my interest, and Daddy didn’t seem enthused, so our fishing trips turned out to be a passing father-son time together.