There are two kinds of fishing stories. The first kind begins with, “You should’ve seen the size of that bass,” and the second kind begins, “Well, we didn’t catch anything, but…”
A few nights ago, it was the second kind.
My son-in-law, my 13-year-old grandson and I launched my trusty 17-foot Triumph bass boat onto a nearby Kansas lake with visions of lunkers dancing in our heads and livewell. We carried enough rods, tackle, electronics and fishing wisdom to make us feel like we were hosting a Saturday morning fishing show. We felt prepared and confident but soon learned we were completely outmatched.
Only a few feet from the dock, the fish finder gave us reason for optimism. It lit up with tiny black dots in the shape of fish and practically screamed, “We’re right here!”
Those dots were actually screaming, “Good luck, boys.”
For four hours, we pursued fish with the determination of treasure hunters following a map. Every time we spotted a promising school, we’d cast our crankbaits with renewed enthusiasm. Every time we changed locations, we’d tell ourselves, “This is the spot.”
Meanwhile, the fish were observing an aquatic intermittent fasting, because they showed absolutely no interest in participating in our recreational plans for filling our freezers.
What they lacked in appetite, however, they made up for in cunning.
Several of our lures disappeared during the outing. Some were claimed by submerged branches that reached upward like underwater pickpockets. Others vanished under circumstances still under investigation.
A few losses occurred immediately after what felt suspiciously like a bite. One second, we’d be retrieving a lure, and the next, we’d stare at limp fishing line, wondering whether we’d just been robbed by a bass named Moriarty.
By the end of the evening, we wondered if fish had trophy cases for lures, like we have for displaying prize catches.
Yet despite the fish non-cooperation, the trip never felt like a failure.
That’s the funny thing about fishing. If catching fish were the only objective, many of us would have quit years ago and started buying our fillets from the grocery store.
Instead, it was four hours spent with my son-in-law and grandson under one of those picture-perfect Kansas skies that make you glad you live where the horizon seems to stretch forever. We laughed at our bad luck. We shared theories about why the fish weren’t biting. We solved no world problems but created a few memories that will likely last much longer than any fish would have, anyway.
My grandson is at that wonderful age when he’s becoming a young man but still enjoys spending time with his grandfather. That’s a gift that can’t be measured in pounds or inches.
And the older I get, the more I realize that some of life’s best moments don’t involve keeping score, unless you count conversation or laughter. Or watching three generations share an adventure together, even if the fish wanted no part of it.
