Any free afternoon, and I'm off to the river with one or two friends who fish as well.
A sun umbrella propped open is already half the pleasure. Sitting beneath it, waiting for a bite, whatever noise or irritation the week has left in me dissolves quietly into the water. What remains is lightness and quiet. That's the whole appeal.
Looking back at my earliest trips, I still laugh. The mishaps came one after another, and they feel as close as yesterday.
I would watch the float bob and dip, nerves pulled tight, picturing the lively crucian carp I was about to swing out of the water, quietly pleased with myself before anything had happened. Then the float would plunge under and, thrilled, I'd strike with far too much force. The result: no fish, and the hook flung up into the branches. Sometimes it caught a leaf and a gentle tug brought it back. Other times it lodged in a branch, and then it was a matter of choosing — pull hard and risk snapping the line and losing the hook, or climb. I always climbed first. I couldn't bear to see hook and line ruined in one careless moment.
The tree-climbing I learned as a boy finally came in useful. Even with decent technique, though, my ungainly body had me sweating, and when I got back down I let out a long breath. My friend needled me: "You went fishing and ended up hooking yourself up a tree." I told him that's exactly how the old saying about climbing a tree to look for fish came into being.
Fishing and climbing trees are not things anyone would connect. Yet I managed to link them. And who would have guessed that fishing would also mean getting into the water?
That day the fish were biting eagerly, and within a short while I had landed several crucian carp — enough to put anyone in good spirits. Then the float vanished in a flash and, flustered, I struck hard. It felt heavy, the rod bending into a bow. It could have been a fish; it could just as easily have been a clump of weed. A few tugs changed nothing. I called over a friend with more experience, and after several attempts he came away empty-handed too. Clearly, forcing it would cost me hook and line. The weather was kind, so I decided to wade in after the hook. My friend held the rod while I followed the line down with my hands — and to my surprise, came up with a big crucian carp.
I carried it ashore and the others all marvelled, joking that the soaking had been worth it.
My first seasons of fishing produced no end of unexpected amusement. Even the sheepish laughter, in hindsight, has a sweetness to it.