I like to fish when I can.
I mostly fish at the cottage. Alone, these days.
Though I didn’t start that way.
When I was younger, it was with my great grandfather. My grandfather. My nana. My uncle. My dad. My mom. Friends. Some of them didn’t love fishing, but came because they loved me. We’d fish off the dock or out in the aluminum boat that leaked, with oars that creaked (yes I said it, and enjoyed it). Some of my best memories live there, so far back I don’t remember them clearly, just the feeling of them. They come back in the muscle memory of tying a line. The groan of the seat and the way time slows down without asking.
Now it’s a ritual and a reset. A reason to leave my phone aside.
If I’m lucky, I get a bite.
If I’m really lucky, nothing bites.
Here’s what I love about fishing.
It doesn’t care if I’m good at it. And I don’t either.
No evaluations, no checklists, no need to justify why I spent six hours catching nothing but a lily pad.
It’s one of the few things in my life that doesn’t want anything from me.
The lake doesn’t care what kind of day I’ve had.
It’s just there. Wide open. Happy to ignore me (and i’m happy to be ignored).
It just asks that I sit still for a bit, and maybe stop trying so hard.
The cast is my favorite part. That flick of the wrist with that satisfying plop as the lure lands. I can cast for hours. Change lures just because. Let the bobber drift like I’ve got all the time in the world.
Because for a while, I do.
Some people meditate.
Others run.
I throw shiny things into the water and hope for the best.
I like the little things, too. The tackle box I’ve reorganized all too often. The old lure that’s probably cursed but still comes with me just in case. The moment I think I’ve got something huge on the line and it turns out to be an enthusiastic stick.
I like being a little bit sunburnt, a little bit bug-bitten, and a little bit ridiculous for staying out this long.
I like when my bobber rocks gently like it’s trying to hypnotize me into staying another hour.
I like it even when I catch nothing.
Especially then.
Sometimes, I think about the people I used to fish with.
Not with grief, just with a smile.
They float in the ripples of the water.
Their stories come back with the splash of a fish I’ll never see, or the way the boat sways when no one’s moving.
I don’t need to remember everything.
These days, I fish solo.
Not out of sadness or preference.
Just because it’s easy. And quiet. And good.
Nobody’s asking questions.
Nothing needs explaining.
I cast. I wait. I drift.
And if something happens, thats great.
If not that’s even better.
Fishing reminds me I don’t always have to be useful.
Or do things that make sense to anyone else.
Sometimes it just feels good to cast and not catch a thing.
I enjoy showing up.
Not to catch anything.
Just to fish.
And to drift away.
Ghosts of the Navigator 