Catch and Release

Water cascaded off of the paddle onto cobalt plastic. Each plunge into the river caused sporadic splashes in a futile struggle to match the pace of my mom’s rapidly vanishing kayak. Mottled gray and white clouds billowed across the sky, but only a light breeze whispered across the water’s surface. Tree branches shook amicably. Their bright leaves in a full June flush brushed the top of my baseball cap. Murky shading of the river below was ideal for pickerel to inconspicuously weave their way amidst the shifting weeds.

In the distance, I could see the 45 degree angle of my mom's fishing pole set in a custom stand at the front of her kayak. The thin figurehead was decorated with whichever shimmering lure would best grab the attention of her target species of fish. Sweat beads broke out on my brow and top lip. I hated the flimsy musculature I’d inherited from my dad’s pallid computer scientist genetics.

After a half hour of paddling, the river slowed and doubled in width. My mom directed parallel to the shore and precariously balanced her paddle across her lap. Thin blonde hair haphazardly stuck out at odd angles from under her purple hat, tangled by wind and the vestiges of over-applied hairspray. She turned her head back and motioned for me to pull up behind her.

The unspoken rule of silence on the water was automatically assumed. Verging on superstition, my mom avoided scaring off nearby fish with excess motion or noise. This choice was a foil to her typical personality. With little provocation, she vacillated between infectious joy and scorching rage. Vibrant but mercurial. For such a boisterous woman, she exercised incredible restraint on the water.

After carefully scanning the lake, we eyed each other and pointed to our respective casting turf. My mom shifted further forward into a small cove-like area with tree cover, casting ahead parallel to the shore. I settled for mid-river, casting away from the tree line into deeper water. My paddle laid safely nestled in bungee netting on the front of the kayak.

Bending forward to reach beneath my seat, I pulled a damp plastic container out of a plastic bag full of ice packs. Opening it up released the pleasant, sweet aromaticity of dark loamy soil. Bulging worms dug and flipped their way up from the soil, surfacing and submerging in clammy turmoil. I picked one nightcrawler and reached for my line. Gray innards oozed onto my fingers while I cautiously threaded its body over the hook. Not a glint of metal was visible to the fish, only the promised meal. The worm was just long enough to leave a few centimeters wriggling furiously at the end of the hook.

I quickly rinsed my hand in the water before I picked up the pole, brought back the line, and tossed it forward. A rapid cicada-like churr-click-churr-click followed the flying line. It landed about 30 feet out, a modest throw. I clicked the handle into place and lazily turned the reel. My kayak shifted softly with the wind, and the current was near non-existent. Frogs croaked in the distance as a painted turtle watched me from a neighboring rock. Nothing came up on the first throw. I heard the whirring of my mom casting her second throw, she’d also come up empty.

Ten minutes of casting and reeling passed by without activity. Here, patience wasn’t difficult. Repetitive motion and mindful awareness of the surroundings shrouded me in peace. Serenity within inaction. Only the pointed whine of mosquitoes buzzing around my ears and clinging to my neck broke the calming trance. An angry swat spread blood smears across my skin. The acrid smell of DEET wasn’t enough to stave them all off. I reapplied in a few sprays and choked on the carcinogenic cloud that enveloped my boat. Biting subsided, and I hoped the repellent effects would last longer than thirty minutes.

Again, another cast.

This time, a snag.

Back suddenly straight, I tugged on the line to ensure it wasn’t falsely caught on weeds. The line pulled back, firmly, and in another direction. I pulled, reeled, pulled, reeled, and rhythmically brought the catch toward the kayak. Grabbing the line, I brought the fish up and out of the water. It was only a sunfish, small too. It fought against the line, spraying droplets of water across my lap. Soft reds and yellows blurred along the scales on its stomach, and green spines on the top splayed outwards in hopes of self-defense. Despite its best efforts, I was easily able to smooth down the spines and grab hold of its cold, slimy body.

Noticing the commotion, my mom quickly turned around and paddled toward me. She always wanted a picture of the first catch of the day no matter the size or species.

I inspected it while waiting for my mom and noticed that the hook wasn’t on the outer portion of its mouth. While peering inside, I saw the hook curled and lodged in the gills. This one seemed more hurt than I’d expected. While it wasn’t swallowed, the hook was angled deep into its flesh.

The inspection stopped when my mom pulled up and directed me to pose for a disposable camera shot. She fumbled open a plastic storage bag and clicked a few times, repeating the capture process when she noticed her finger was in the frame. Grinning widely, she gave me a thumbs up to signal that I could let it go.

I turned my attention back to the sunfish. Reaching into its gasping mouth, I grabbed hold onto the end of the hook. I pushed down and angled the hook to take it out with as little damage as possible. This method failed. With increased pressure and jostling, still the hook remained.

Blood ran from its torn open gills. My thumb became sticky as translucent red rivulets filtered under the nail. The fish was getting more difficult to hold as I felt a rising panic about its pain. It was probably suffocating, so I dunked it into the water for a few seconds. My shaking hands tipped off my mom to my worries.

“Hey, it’s ok. I’ve got needle-nose pliers if you can’t get it out on the next go. Fish can’t really feel pain so, anyway, it’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

I glanced up and nodded. Removing it again from the water, it wriggled weakly against my grip. Not like what we feel. Our claim to pain only reached so far as the boundary of our own skin. Anything further is alien. The hook finally popped out, and half of the original worm remained. I gently released the fish back under the water.

It didn’t move. Blood pooled out of its gills and trailed toward the bottom in a diluted plume. My mom shook her head slightly while glancing back toward her original fishing position.

“I feel bad for the poor thing. Geez leaving it like that, but we’re not gonna eat it anyway. Something else will get to it, probably become a bird snack.”

I nodded. There was a pit in my stomach, empty but heavy. Latching the hook back onto the fishing pole, I decided I’d had enough catching for the day. For the next few hours I trailed behind my mom, watching her cast and come up empty.

By evening, we had made our way back to land and packed everything up. I settled down in the passenger seat of our rusted navy-blue pickup truck and polished off a granola bar and juice box. My mom started it up and slowly bumped down the dirt road back home. Static and rock music crackled out of the car stereo.

Glancing at me, my mom cleared her throat and said, “Oh I had a great idea for your birthday present. I know it’s in a few weeks, but I wanted to ask if you’d like your own tackle box! I’d fill it up with goodies like different lures, bobbers, hooks, you name it. Sound up your alley?”

I nodded.