fishing and fishers i have known

There isn't a lot of time to just sit and think anymore.
There was a time a bit more than seven months ago when the days were longer than I could fill with the tedious little projects in the garage, the paddling out on the river, the puttering around the yard, the poring over magazines only feared to someone, such as me, who lives within that niche.
That lost time in a day coincided with the birth of my first child, Kostyn Orrie — named after my Polish grandfather whom I never met but, according to my mother, was one of the strongest, proudest and true family men who ever walked the earth — and the middle name comes from my father, the most sincere, gentle, nurturing and genuine person I’ve ever known or even heard of. Kostyn, as an infant, is a very special little boy because I don't miss all that extra time that’s been sucked into the vortex known as parenthood: I long for his interruptions, I rush to get home from the office, I give up planning big fishing trips to faraway places and Saturday jaunts in the kayak amid a South Carolina summer sky that reflects in the braids of marsh rivers bigger than all of Montana, Texas and maybe even the Canadian plains.
Someday soon Kostyn will accompany me down to Harbor River or Johnson Creek for a few minutes of fishing the spartina for a wandering trout or brave redfish.I might fasten him to my chest or maybe onto my back with one of those baby-carrying devices that seem to be all the rage. The “father” on the box is some 21-year-old Swedish guy with a ripped six-pack and a full mop of hair, plying the French Riviera or some peaceful boardwalk a million miles away. My middle-age sprawl would probably put my boy in a somewhat-less-than-vertical position on my belly, but he might grab the fly rod should I strap him to my back.
It used to be a thing: Saturday mornings were for fishing. I'd set my Timex wristwatch, and, miraculously, a moment before it would chime the softest of chimes, I'd be awake, roll quietly out of bed as to not stir my bride, grab my gear without stirring the dog (too much) and jump in the truck before the sun slit the horizon out on the great Sea Islands.
And, inevitably, I'd forget something. Usually something in the way of a breakfast sandwich or bait, either of which I'd stop for with little hesitation or self-deprecation.
There was a blues program on the college radio station that probably started sometime after midnight for those Friday night partygoers and blue-collared crowd who had a few too many or planned on having a few more. The music accompanied me to the fishing holes. And it was appropriate, because it was natural — a one-off from bluegrass, in many respects.
I kept a journal for awhile, too. I lost it during a windy morning on the fishing pier.
But I've fished just a handful of times since June 2, 2007. And that's OK; there will be a lot more fishing in my, our, future. The cold Northern streams' water runs through my memory, although I haven't fished the Northeast but maybe once or twice a year since my 20s. But I've not lost the zeal for it, and I can spin the yarn with the best of them about the fishing holes found and the fish lost on the AuSable, Bouquet, Saranac or Mohawk rivers.
But times come when I run into old friends or acquaintances — or even family. I notice that we don't talk about fishing much anymore. At least not the way we used to. And that's a shame. See, they've also put their fishing on hold or just stopped doing it. I have a good friend here who only wants to fish for the big ones. That means a boat or a trip to a big-fish area. A full day and a lot of money. He's full of zeal, but there's not a lot of motion. In short, one foot on the bumper in the parking lot, he spins and re-spins the tales of when he used to fish more regularly.
Other friends used to be more religious about their fishing. They've lost the faith, and it shows. We talk about old times out on the islands or rivers, or we just avoid the subject altogether, like a particularly hard death of a close friend. I also know folks who talk about fishing or spent time darning their flies or polishing their reels, but the last time they fished was with me, way back, and I can't remember when...
What fishing does is remove one's soul from this grind of overworked and overindulged artificial life and brings us to the very natural and basic means of survival, where the simplicity is deafening and the reward astounding.
Even if there are no fish today. Or tomorrow.
The quiet time, that time to think or not think at all, to feel nothing but natural elements — cold, smooth stones underfoot, cold water compressing around my bare legs, veiled breeze only felt inches from the water's surface, the smell of salt, sand, dendrites on the banks, marsh air, pure air, fish oil, insect, animal, cork, steel, bamboo, wood. None of this exists in the manmade world in which we spend most of our lives.
Sometimes, it's hard to put my finger on it; but out on the water, I strip down to my shorts nonetheless just to fully feel those elements. I might not realize why, and the sunburn is a tattoo from that day.
There are promises of fishing. Maybe this Saturday; it’s supposed to reach 70 degrees. Or there’s the overnighter in the mountains once the snow melts. Or maybe it will be a short walk down to the end of the road while I’m visiting my mom, the place where I grew up. It might even be just down at the fishing pier for an hour and a half at lunch.
But it’s promise, and it’s hope. And it lives in me, and it will live on.