When I think of my father I think of fishing.
As a child growing up in Ontario we were constantly surrounded by some of the most beautiful lakes and rivers, and in them, fish for the catching.
Of course in my younger years even touching a fish made me cringe, but as I steadily grew I learned a thing or two about my slippery friend.
There are a few times that truly stick out for me when it comes to memories.
It was a beautiful cool morning, and we were trolling along the Saugeen River, my rod bobbing ever so slightly as we chugged along.
My dad was kind enough to let me use his favourite lure, a bright little thing that glimmered in the water, and for some unforeseeable reason it snagged. After minutes of tugging and pulling it eventually pulled free and of course we rejoiced in our success, but that is not how this story ends.
After freeing my lure and bringing it safely back into the canoe I was excited to once again cast my line, only there was something missing. I didn’t here a plop.
Looking up I could see my father’s favourite lure dangling in the morning light, taunting me, and after tugging, and pulling my father reluctantly pulled out his pocketknife and cut the line.
Of course not all memories end on such a sad note.
I was in my mid teens when my dad and I went out for an early morning trip on a pontoon boat we like to call “cirrhosis of the river” or “the bug” for short. It was around noon that day when we were on our way back and we called the house to check in.
My step-mom answered, and asked why we were headed home so soon. We had decided prior to making the call, that we would play a little joke.
I told her in an exasperated tone that I, while casting, had hooked myself a true winner, a pontoon. The hook on the lure had pierced a hole, and we went under. I told her that if it weren’t for our life jackets we might not have made it.
It wasn’t until we pulled into the driveway, both pontoons resting on the roof of the van, that she realized we had gotten her. Of course she didn’t find it as funny as we did.
All fishermen have their secret spots, and I remember when my dad found a keeper. It was a secret we refused to share, and I cannot wait to sneak a small trip in when I visit home come summer.
