Fishing Buddies

I was seven the first time Dad wrapped his big hands around mine, flipped back the bale of my brand new spinning reel, and helped me cast my line out into the middle of that icy Sierra stream. There had been a layer of frost on the picnic table when we tiptoed out of camp, and it was still so early that the morning sun barely peeked from behind the mountains. A veil of mist hung over the meadow and the stream where we stood. I smelled coffee and bacon from somewhere in the distance. The only sounds that interrupted the morning stillness were a busy woodpecker and the snowmelt rushing over the rocks at our feet.

My stomach jerked when those first infinitesimal tugs vibrated up the line and down my lightweight pole. With raised eyebrows and eyes that must have shone the excitement I felt, I looked at Dad for guidance. He shook his head, put his finger to his lips and whispered, “Wait. Let him eat the whole salmon egg, then give a little tug back. Right now he’s just nibbling.”

I bit my lip in concentration, but I followed his advice. Minutes later, I landed my first, and undoubtedly the world’s most beautiful, brown trout. To me, he was huge—all seven inches of him. When Dad said, “He’s a keeper,” I could not have been more proud. He helped me cut a branched willow twig with my pocket knife and showed me how to slip one side of the branch up through the fish’s gills. I carried it back to camp that way—for all the rest of the fish-envying world to see. I was hooked.

Our mutual love of fishing formed a bond between my dad and me.Years of stalking trout in the mountains were followed by deep-sea fishing trips off the coast of Southern California for barracuda, cod and albacore. It was a shared passion. There was something very special about spending a day together, working our way up opposite sides of a willowy mountain creek or standing next to one another on the pier in Oceanside, both of us reeking of anchovies and mussels. To us, even the days we went home with an empty bucket or gunny sack were days well spent.

Dad read the hatchery reports in the newspaper every week and would call me at breakfast time. “They stocked Deep Creek yesterday. What are you doing today?” It was always too much of a temptation for me, and I’d hope my sales manager wouldn’t call while I was gone. But I’d get my daughter off to school, then I’d grab my pole and tackle box (I was the only woman I knew who had one) from the garage, and be at his house in thirty minutes. Mom, somewhat jealous of our time together, still would pack us a lunch, almost always the same one—crackers and cheese, fruit, a couple cold drinks and Fig Newtons. Those damned Fig Newtons—Dad never went anywhere without them.

There were also those long conversations during the early morning drives to the beach to go deep-sea fishing on one of the party boats. I’ve often said the only reason I’d ever get up at four in the morning was to go fishing with Dad. The first time he took me, I was the only female on board, if you didn’t count the hard-faced, crabby, peroxided woman in the galley. I found a spot by myself in the bow, where no self-respecting fisherman would ever choose to fish. But it was the only place “the girl” was really allowed. The serious fishermen had staked out the stern before the boat had even left the harbor and had been hard at work on the “steak and eggs’ they drank from their hip flasks. I’m sure they wondered at the wisdom of the guy with his daughter. This was “man’s work.”

Well, I showed them all. I caught a yellowtail that day and fought it for what seemed like hours. When it wrapped my line around the anchor chain, some of the old salts said I should just cut the line—or the fish would do it for me. But Dad explained to the skipper that this was my first deep-sea trip, and that man raised the anchor so a deckhand could gaff my fish and haul it aboard. When my yellowtail won the day’s jackpot, the delight on Dad’s face mirrored mine. I knew once again I was hooked.

Fast forward forty years. Mom had passed away unexpectedly after a brief illness. Dad was lonely and at loose ends. One day he said, wistfully, that he could die a happy man if he could ever catch a salmon. That was the day I began planning our trip to Alaska. It was my birthday gift to him the summer he turned eighty-two. We went to a fancy fishing camp out on the Kenai Peninsula—all gourmet meals and fishing guides. An eighty-something father and his fifty-something daughter were a curiosity at the camp, filled mostly with plaid flannel-shirted fishing buddies and a few Land’s End married couples.

We soon realized that what we’d signed on for was no vacation. It was more like salmon boot camp. Up at 4:30, breakfast at 5:30, on the river at 6:30. We fished all day, every day, for a week. Cast, strike, reel in, haul aboard—over and over. We couldn’t miss. Most days, by mid-afternoon, we’d begin to pray that we wouldn’t get another strike, and we for sure didn’t want to snag the dorsal fin of some tired Sockeye. We learned the hard way that reeling in a fish cross-wise was really hard work. Every night by nine o'clock, even though it was not yet dark, we fell into our beds in exhaustion. But what sweet pain that week was. It was Nirvana for both of us.

At the end of the week, we dragged ourselves back through the airport and loaded the car up with sixty pounds of smoked and flash-frozen salmon fillets. Dad proceeded to dole out his share of fish to friends over the following months. I discovered that I could tell how much a person meant to him by how much salmon he shared. I’m sure his companions at the Senior Center got tired of hearing his fish-by-fish rehash of the “Great Alaska Salmon Fishing Trip.” They probably got tired of the salmon, too.

When Dad died, two summers later, almost to the week of our trip, he still had some salmon in his freezer. I think it made him feel rich, like money in the bank. It hurt a lot to lose him, but I have found comfort in the fact we shared so many wonderful days fishing together and that I had helped him to die a happy man.

Dad was “a keeper.”

Jelly-side Down

Well, my brave (read "fool-hardy") daughter has been in Italy for twelve days. In that time, she has managed to get locked out of the monastery where she was staying, climb over the fence at said monastery, lose her credit cards, driver's license and 50 euros, end up in the back of a police car with two Italian policemen, and have an encounter with a giant tarantula. Her life seems to be a case of "jelly-side down." She has an unerring knack for getting herself into trouble. However, thus far she always seems to survive and come out of the situation with a great story to tell. But as her mom, my life is often a rollercoaster. She is everything I never was--crazy, spontaneous, danger-seeking, and irreverent. Somehow, I just can't ever see her being a mini-van driving soccer mom! But I take great delight in hearing about her funny escapades, and I don't much mind having to assist with the occassional "bail-out." It keeps my life interesting.

On the other hand, last weekend I attended a wonderful working writer's retreat at a religious conference center in the San Fernando Valley. It was to have been three days of focused writing, critiquing, sharing, thoughtful solitude, and bonding with new writer friends. I spent much of the time preoccupied by worry about the jelly-side down kid. When I finally got an email saying all was well, only then could I really appreciate the retreat. I did enjoy it, but under different circumstances I know I would have gotten more out of it.

I am always a bit humbled by the talents of other writers, and I love hearing about their successes (and wishing I had something to share). Last year one of the attendees made contact with an editor who took her story back to her publishing house and has now given the woman her first book contract. Miracles do happen. I just need to renew my commitment to regularly working at my craft.

I shared three picture book manuscripts and received some good suggestions for strengthening them, but I was most encouraged by the response to my character study from the historical novel I've just begun. It seems the topic is fresh and unfamiliar, and the characters appealed to my critique group members. I've decided to set aside my middle grade mystery and begin work in earnest on what has the working title of Young Crusaders.

My Brave Daughter

Tomorrow my child will go off an adventure alone. She is going to Italy for three months in search of herself and some deeper meaning for her life. I envy her and admire her courage. Few people are comfortable spending time with themselves, and learning how to do that can bring great peace. Her life up to this point has all been in preparation for this moment--she just didn't know it, and now she is ready to go off and learn some important lessons.

In reality, I sowed the seeds of wanderlust before she was even born--studying for a semester in Copenhagen, backpacking through Europe for nine weeks in the early Seventies, and going off to Libya to teach for two years. Only now can I appreciate what a leap of faith it is for a parent to say good-bye to a child at an airport and to have no idea what the future will bring them. I hope that her goodness will bring out the goodness in the strangers she meets. I pray for her safety, that she'll eat properly and not forget to brush her teeth.

Just like her first day of Kindergarten, I am feeling left behind. But I guess that is as it should be. My life up to this point has also been in preparation. We all must send our children off. My parents watched me go. I know she will come home a different person. I did. Travel does that to you, especially if you are brave enough to go alone.

Reflections of the Rockies

I have just returned from five wonderful days visiting my friend Patty in CO. She's the kind of friend who makes you quickly feel as if no time has passed since you last shared a glass of wine and good conversation. We had so many wonderful stories to revisit--Istanbul and our rug purchases, those rare camel bone boxes, Shirley Valentine vacations, Grand Cayman, the Del Mar Fair and the Bing Crosby Building, Redlands and the parties we had there, educational publishing and all the characters who've been part of that world, and so much more.

But we also created some new memories. The Rockies this time of year are spectacular. The aspens hadn't begun to turn, but we could hardly complain about the 70 degree weather, the bright blue skies, and the occasional high white cloud. Steamboat Springs had great shops and a topnotch restaurant, Cafe Diva. Highlights there were the elk medallions and the watermelon and goat cheese salad--unbelievable! We passed, though, on the hotsprings at Strawberry Creek when we learned the place was "clothing optional" after dark. It was also such a remote spot that we thought we had driven onto the set of Deliverance!

One day after lunch, we rocked on the porch of the Stanley Hotel--Stephen King's inspiration for The Shining. It wasn't the least bit scary, but after dark, in the dead of winter, with Jack Nicholson lurking down some hallway, it might be a different matter.

The meandering streams and the fishermen we occasionally saw along the banks made me even more determined to learn how to fly-fish some day soon. Patty, ever the great hostess, also ordered up some herds of elk (the ones that had escaped being made into "medallions," anyway) for our drive through the mountains--several hundred in the meadows near Estes Park. It was an amazing way to end the summer and reconnect with an old friend.