The Birth of an Obsession - (LONG)

The birth of an obsession can be a difficult thing to pinpoint.  For most people, I imagine the evolution of an interest, like fishing in my case, is a gradual, slippery slope of immersion, with few, if any, notable ratchets in emotional, intellectual, or financial commitment.  You look down one day and you’re holding $300+ worth of rod and reel and you can’t remember how you got here, or when it became not only acceptable, but also necessary to invest in such luxuries.  Hours of research and preparation somehow manifest themselves where a minute to spare once seemed impossible to come by. Sleep, or sometimes more important priorities like family or work, is repositioned or ignored to make room for precious time on the water.  Specifics aside, I think these journeys of ours all have common triggers – triggers we may not remember or recognize – but triggers that I like to imagine often share common origins, whether forgotten or mundane.

My trigger is neither forgotten nor mundane.

I think I can safely trace my fishing obsession and personal trigger back to the summer of 1984. I turned 12 years old, and shortly after, while vacationing at Clearlake, I watched Carl Lewis win 4 gold medals in Los Angeles at his first Olympics.  I remember Madonna, I remember Ghostbusters, but perhaps more importantly, I remember seeing the much-discussed Vanessa Williams Penthouse spread.  The photos, which ultimately cost her the Ms. America title, proved an insurmountable distraction for an awkward boy, not yet a man, but all too willing to spend countless hours reconstructing that stolen glimpse of something never intended for him.

I grew up fishing.  My dad, born and raised on the delta, taught me to bait and set a hook before he taught me just about anything else of note and although countless more important lessons would follow, few would reverberate like the tap, tap, stick of a delta striper on a fiberglass rod.   My step-dad was a rock-hopping stream whisperer, who showed me the patience and delicacy that likens this sport to an art.  He would tie perfect knots on tiny hooks that single weightless eggs could hide from even the most skeptical trout and on many a cold and dark morning would remind me that this was an endeavor for the serious, the thinking man’s sport of the prepared.  Because of this, you may think as I did, that I was simply born to fish, or at least destined to marinate in it irrespective of my own passions or experiences.  But as is often the case with things like this, exposure eventually manufactured experience and while others had seemingly set my course, my own unique journey awaited me still.  Until then, my predisposition to fish is probably why it is unremarkable that I found myself, that summer of '84, Vanessa Williams on my mind and Van Halen’s Jump blaring on my birthday present boom box, setting out with my baby blue, surprisingly well-stocked tackle box, toward that rocky point near the house on the beach at Clearlake. That same rocky point where I would spend sweat-drenched hours in the California sun, soaking clams for catfish, like I had done so many times before while my friends and developmental equals busied themselves with games, with water sports, and with follies that brought me little joy when opposed by the opportunity to catch a fish.

I don’t remember what made me tie on my dad’s 1/16th oz. crappie killer that day.  Maybe it was the rubber yellow skirt that faded almost to pearl, maybe it was the black eye that looked like a sharpie dot on its dull, lead head.  Whatever it was, I don’t remember catching a single crappie or any of the other nondescript sunfish that schooled up near that point.  What I remember perfectly, is retrieving that jig and seeing her... cruising along the rocky shore behind that little yellow dot like a black submarine tracking a target and alas, peeling off at the last moment.  I remember my adrenaline soaked second cast in the general direction of her murky descent, my hands trembling with excitement, my breath altogether abandoned in anticipation, and then my knees buckling under the weight of her strike – not the physical force of it, but the weakness of exhilaration that makes one – especially one of limited experience – go all gooey in situations like these.

The rocks were not a great place to land a big fish.  They were fine for hoisting up surrendering catfish not prone to violent head-shaking leaps of anger, or tiny panfish that dropped bobbers with enough regularity to stave off boredom, but they were irregular and steep, and until that very moment, a landing net was an implement that had not occurred to me to be a necessity.  Still, somehow in spite of the odds, my lack of experience, and the tiny golden hook barely in her lip, a few, brief and terrifying moments later, I had my trusty red and white rope stringer through her gills and was double-timing it back to the house – a proud hunter returning to his clan.

I don’t remember her name, but I can still hear her voice, standing at the kitchen sink, her gaze out the window suddenly fixed on my approach, her 5 or 6 distracted houseguests unaware of my arrival or my conquest:

“Oh my god, he’s got a giant black bass,” she would shriek.

I remember being impressed with her excitement.  I remember being more impressed she could identify this fish, its species a mystery to me until that very moment.  Backslapping, high-fives and photo shoots all ensued with the coordinated blur of a red carpet event.  It was everything I wanted it to be and had the adrenaline rush not sufficed (it had), the adoration that followed would have surely cemented my path – this was a feeling I could, I would, eventually come to get used to.

She wasn’t a giant black bass.  She wasn’t even noteworthy by the standards of people I call my peers today, but to a boy of 12 who had now seen exactly as many black bass as he had seen Penthouse magazines, this 4 lb. beast was exactly that – a beast.  What I didn’t know then, but is crystal clear to me now, is that she was the one… my aforementioned trigger, the fish that hooked me.

Over the past year, as I’ve plunged head-first into kayak fishing, I’ve become aware that either by neglect, by apathy, or by circumstance, my son Hayden, now 14, has not yet had a similar moment.  There have been plenty of fish, mostly hatchery trout, but certainly none noteworthy enough to be seared into his long-term memory the way this bass was for me.  The increasing frequency of my kayak outings has left me wanting to share this endeavor with him, but lifestyle, custody, and other complications, have made getting on the water with him, well, complicated.  My goal for this season became twofold: 1: to get him fishing from a kayak, 2: to get him hooked into a striped bass.  If those events coincided, all the better, but even from the shore, I just knew the rush of a real fighting fish, even a small one, could radically change his perspective on this sport and perhaps recapture his waning interest from the girls and terrible music that have taken root in his priorities.  And so we began, a quick trip here, a late Sunday afternoon there.  Outing after outing from the shore without a hookup until finally the stars that would get us off land aligned.  We had a free Saturday and a brief, rainless window with which to fish.  We borrowed a second kayak, bought the Yakima bigstack tower required to transport two kayaks to our regular spot, and then suddenly in the total absence of fanfare, there we were, paddling side by side on glassy water in the Port of Sacramento at 8:30 on a crisp March morning.

There were safety lessons, technique discussions, and definitions of important insider terms like “yard sale” and “sleigh ride”.  There seemed to be a million things to teach him, a million tiny nuances that could very well make the difference between a good day and a bad day.  All of these things in my mind, held the power to alter the course of our bonding time for what could be decades to come.  My excitement, now counter-balanced handily by a sense of obligation, was palpable with the urgency to capitalize on this opportunity.  I began to imagine what I might trade, pay or give up to see him catch a fish.  I began to negotiate with all my catch-and-release karma, thinking this would be worth every ounce I had saved up over the years.  Certainly this, would be the best way to exhaust any credit line the fishing gods would be kind enough to extend me.

Unfortunately, it’s late for stripers at the port.  The action is slow and most of the kayakers on the water have wisely moved to targeting the giant slabs of crappie that congregate near the docks.  Despite the odds, I knew today we had to target a striper, no matter how elusive they had come to be over the past few weeks.  We paddled to our first stop, dropped fresh jumbos to the bottom and discussed how to position, drift, and repeat - the "repeat" portion of which I had no way of knowing was about to be delayed.

“Daaaaaad?” he stammered, not sure he had the concentration to spare for speech.

He's staring at me with eyes that look as if they are doing everything they can to escape his recently shaved head.  His rod, clenched in white knuckles, is bent into the most beautiful horseshoe-shaped arc and bobbing fiercely under the weight of his unwilling counterpart in this tug of war.

I begin calmly talking him through it.  He’s fishing in 16 feet of water, and directly below his kayak, so there isn’t a lot of line out.  The circle hook seems to have done its job and he’s remembered to let it load up, and not jerk it empty-handed back into the boat.  As he’s being towed across the channel, I realize the pilings nearby could be a disastrous tangle and turn my satisfied and calm attention away from the camera I’m trying to operate and towards heading over to land what I am anticipating will be a respectable 20+” keeper.

"Did you see it?"  He asks the first time it breaks the water.

"Slow down, slow down, I see it." I say in an almost dismissively nonchalant tone. But I was speaking in generalities, I hadn't really seen it.

When I finally do see it,  there is a noticeable shift in energy and suddenly I’m the one in a panic.  I’m not sure I have the concentration to speak either, but I’m certain I’m not capable of operating a camera anymore.  I nearly drop everything trying to get close enough to help him land what looks to be the biggest striped bass I've seen come out of these waters.  He’s done a perfect job keeping her under control, he’s adjusted his drag, he’s keeping the rod tip up, letting her run a bit, but not too far.  She’s near the surface but has plenty of fight left, so it is with hands of trepidation that I grab the fluorocarbon leader and guide her into the net I have pulled from behind me like an arrow from a quiver.

And just like that, we can both breathe again.  I let out something of a howl before I set upon securing her to the boat and untangling her from the net.

She’s every bit of ten pounds and just over 31” long, a beautiful, big-headed monster of a fish.  I would eventually smile until my cheeks hurt, paddling for hours without so much as a bite like most others on the water that day, but basking in a perfect and quiet contentment.  I don’t know if someday we’ll look back and be able to identify this as a seminal moment for him, or for us, but it has all the makings of a lifelong story and perhaps a lifelong endeavor.  I can’t tell you what current songs or movies I’ll remember a quarter century from now, and I sincerely hope Hayden can’t tell you who is in Penthouse this month, but somehow, I suspect that this March morning, while drifting minnows in the Port of Sacramento, something was seared into both of our minds, the evidence of which will remain for years to come.  It's probably the first of many more moments like it, but perhaps it's the birth of an obsession.  Perhaps it's the moment a 14 year old boy became a lifelong fisherman.

Regular report can be found here:
http://www.norcalkayakanglers.com/index.php/topic,29451.0.html

Great story start to finish. Excellent writing. Just awesome.

That was awesome!

Great write up!

An event that your son would remember the rest of his life and you as well.
Awesome father and son bonding with the catch to boot.

Congrats.

an absolutely great read, thanks for sharing, cameron

Way cool.

Loved your story.  Every word is heartfelt & full of emotion.   

That is a beautiful fish.  Congrats Hayden!  I, too, hope this was his moment.

The report was equally beautiful.  I found myself longing for more upon arriving at the end.  You sure do have a way with words, definitely articulate and poetic!

that is an awesome pic.

"My excitement, now counter-balanced handily by a sense of obligation, was palpable with the urgency to capitalize on this opportunity."

Writing skills are cool to have - yours are top quality.  Nice work.

Loving skills are vital to have - yours are top quality.  Beautiful, Man.   

GREAT report! My nomination for a Pulitzer.

bravo!

Great story, Anthony!!!
What a memorable moment...
Thanks for sharing!

WTG Hayden! & great report too!!