My youngest cousin was born when I was about nine years old. Until then, I’d never been around children much, and by children I mean little ones who were younger than, say, five. What I remember most is all the crying, and that little newborn cousin of mine cried a lot. I guess it’s one of four things babies do: eat, sleep, cry and…at that time, I didn’t stick around long enough to bear witness to the fourth thing. I only heard about it. Sometimes with greater detail than I needed.
As I got older, my frame of reference changed with me. I knew plenty of aunts, uncles and other adults, but the kids I knew were all about my age. Even as a young adult myself just staring a career after college, everybody I knew was within a few years of me, or much older. Until I met Stacy and Tina.
They were the daughters of a couple my wife and I had grown close to after we had moved in conjunction with my job. Far from home and lost in the northeastern states, that couple made our lives in a foreign land more bearable, and we were all the richer for it. We liked their daughters and they liked us. Stacy and Tina enjoyed staying at our house, shopping with us, and they thought the little silver Mazda we drove was a dapper sports car.
My wife knew her way around children and could read them well. Our own children had not yet been born, but I felt like I did an admirable job despite my lack of experience. My confidence did nothing but grow. So much so that I decided we should take Stacy and Tina on a fishing trip to a nearby pond. A can of worms and some bobbered fishing poles was all we needed for an enjoyable outing.
After a brief lesson in patience and how to hook bluegill, I had Stacy and Tina baited up and lines cast into potential fish hangouts. With two bobbers plopped atop the water, I cast my own line. Before I could hear the satisfying kerplunk of that red and white plastic strike indicator, Stacy called out.
“My line’s stuck, can you help me?”
“How did you get stuck?” I asked, trying to free a lodged hook.
“I was reeling it back in.”
“But, why? Remember, you’re supposed to wait for a fish to b…”
“Darn it,” Tina cried. “Look!” She pointed to a limb above her now wrapped in a monofilament web.
“You were supposed to…”
“Look,” Stacy said. “A fish just jumped. I could have catched him if my line wasn’t still caught.”
“Can you help me now?” Tina called.
“Soon as I get Stacy’s line freed up,” I said. I glanced toward the spot I had last seen my bobber, but it was gone, held deep below the surface. As I reached for my pole, the bobber popped back to the surface, then went motionless. Fish on, then fish gone. I tugged Stacy’s line hard enough to break it and tied on a new hook, added a fresh sinker and worm, then tossed it back out. “OK, now leave it be, all right? See if a fish grabs your bait.”
Stacy flashed me a thumbs up and a big smile. I snapped Tina’s line, too, and rigged her pole for the second time, then cast it right toward a sunken log. “It’s a good spot, Tina. You might catch a big one there.”
Meanwhile, Stacy reeled her line with great speed. “Catch one?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then what…”
“My bobber’s gone,” Tina yelled.
I turned to see the bobber resurface, then drop back down. “You got one,” I said.
Tina reared back on the pole but missed the fish and reeled back in. “He got my worm,” she declared.
“I’m stuck again,” Stacy hollered.
And so went the afternoon. My rod and reel spent the day at rest on the shore, an aimless bobber floating nearby while I ran back and forth between those two adorable kids.
My plan all along was to teach those two young girls all about fishing. Instead, Stacy and Tina had just taught me the most valuable lesson I had ever learned about outdoor recreation.
If you take a child fishing, leave your own gear dry in the garage.