I like to fish when I can. Mostly at the cottage. Mostly alone. Especially these days, though it 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, my 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 creaky oars, and a seat that groaned every time someone shifted their weight. 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 sound of the oars, and the way time slows down without realizing.
Now it’s more of a ritual than a hobby. A reason to leave my phone on silent and sit somewhere with no expectation. If I’m lucky, I get a bite. If I’m really lucky, nothing bites.
That’s what I love about fishing. It doesn’t care if I’m good at it, and I don’t either. The lake doesn’t care what kind of day I’ve had. It’s just there, wide and quiet, 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 might be my favorite park. That flick of the wrist and satisfying plop when the lure hits the water. I can cast for hours, change lures for no reason, let the bobber drift like I’ve got all the time in the world. Because for a while, I do.
Some people meditate or 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 too many times. 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 only to find an enthusiastic stick on the other end.
I like being a little sunburnt, a little bug-bitten, and a little ridiculous for staying out this long. I like when then bobber rocks gently, trying to convince me to stay for one more hour.
I like it even when I catch nothing. Especially then.
Sometimes I think about the people I used to fish with. With not grief, but just with a smile. They come back in small ways: in the splash of a fish I never see, in the way the boat sways when no one’s moving, in the quiet that used to be filled with their voices.
Fishing reminds me I don’t always have to be useful. I don’t always have to do things that make sense to anyone else. Sometimes it’s enough just to show up, cast a line, and sit still for a while.
I don’t go fishing to catch anything.
I go fishing to fish.
And to drift for a bit.
