Gone fishing…in December

The day started with a chilly, dense fog.

I looked outside and thought, “This would be a great day to make a cup of tea, crawl back into bed, and watch an episode of The Crown.”

But I had promised my sons a fishing trip, and we were determined to go. Our attempt earlier in the week had been a failure, thanks to a dead car battery. This morning, however, we had a new battery and our plans firmly in place. We were on our way for a fishing adventure at North Point State Park.

“Do you know what to do when you catch a fish?” my husband asked me. He started describing what I would need to do, and it sounded like something I wasn’t likely to excel at. In fact, it sounded like something I just wouldn’t do. But I wasn’t worried. I was fairly sure we wouldn’t catch a fish. If we did, my sons would need to handle things. I had already explained that, and they seemed unconcerned.

“I wonder who the patron saint of fishing is,” I said to the boys as we drove. “Maybe it’s St. Peter.”

I learned later that it’s not Peter, but actually his brother, St. Andrew. But St. Peter seemed like the right sort of patron for me on this trip—someone who had his questions and doubts and may not have felt fully up to the role Jesus handed him. That sounded like me on a fishing trip. But I have faith in my children’s abilities, and I was fairly sure we would be fine. I really didn’t think the fish would be biting.

I was mostly excited that we were finally going to make this happen. Going fishing in December might not sound like the best idea, but sometimes you need to make a child’s wish come true. We were on our way.

We found the park and made our way along the pier. We had it to all ourselves! Imagine! The boys set right to work with their rods, putting pieces of hot dogs on their hooks and casting their lines. Eleven and 13 are magical ages where children are capable of handling so much for themselves.

That left me with time to take a few photos, admire the view, pray they wouldn’t fall in the water, and shiver. I did plenty of that. It was cold on the Chesapeake Bay.

Very quickly, I realized what I have discovered before but always try to forget. When you say, “We’re going fishing,” you really mean, “We’re going line untangling, waiting, untangling, watching, casting, more line untangling, recasting, watching, waiting, and enjoying the scenery.”

It was cold on the pier, but I appreciated that we had the space to ourselves. I was also grateful for the warmth our face masks offered, for the beautiful sunshine that had emerged as we were driving around the beltway to the park, and for the time together.

We didn’t catch any fish, and that wasn’t a surprise to anyone on the trip—and probably not to you either. After I felt everyone was cold enough and had had enough fishing time, we packed up and headed home. The trip may not have been a huge success from a fishing perspective, but we were all glad we had gone.

“Maybe we should wait and go fishing again when it gets warmer,” my younger son said as we drove home.

Yes, maybe we should. And I’m sure we will.

Copyright © 2020 Catholic Review Media

 Print