I’m not a fisher.
I don’t have anything against fishing like I do against, oh say, soccer.
I think I’ve fished once in my life before this trip, when a summer fling took me fishing off the pier in Charlevoix and all we caught were some lame croppy.
I have never have been a fisher, despite living and vacationing around water my whole life.
I’ve always thought it would be fun to go ice fishing. I love anything that involves bundling up and surviving together in the cold- is there anything more cozy or quaint than that?
This year while we were at the cottage my brother-in-law motivated us to fish. It wasn’t a particularly warm week that we were up north, so we all donned our sweats, bundled up the kids, and hopped on the pontoon.
It was too cold to swim, but since I have a bladder the size of a pea I was fortunate enough to learn the water’s frigid temp.
I’m sure people who fish have a lot of really profound things to say about it and how it could be a metaphor for life.
Like how you have to have patience.
Like how you have to sacrifice the worm to get the fish.
Like how you sometimes have to say no to a small fish because you believe there is a bigger fish coming.
Like how you can catch a fish alone, but sometimes you may need a friend to help you reel it in.
Like how you have to be silent and still in order to attract the fish.
Like how sometimes you go home with nothing, but you still go out again next time.
Like how we don’t know where all the fish are, or what will happen, but there is Someone who does.
I’m not a fisher, but I can see the beauty in it.
And when Tino caught a big Walleye, we all felt a little bit of pride even though the most we did was keep the little ones from toppling over the side of the boat.
I’m not a fisher, but I sat contentedly as the boat cut through the waves away from the sunset and toward the little cottage in which we fried and ate this creature “we” caught.