How not to fish with your Son.

Father Knows Best

By

Robert Gass

M

any years ago, on a fishing expedition to a river mouth on the north shore ofLakeOntario. I chanced upon a situation on a cold, blustery, February morning that I shall never forget. Fishing was slow that day because of an east wind. I had managed to hook and land two beautiful Rainbow Trout on floating roe bags, rigged in slip sinker fashion. After hours of sporadic action, my mind understandably began to wander. As I mused on my surroundings, I observed a father and son, some one hundred feet down the beach from me. It appeared they too were enjoying my favorite pastime. On closer inspection I noticed the boy was equipped with a rather cheap and shoddy fishing outfit. The father on the other hand, was decked out in one of the most expensive outfits available. His fishing rod, reel, vest, waders and other related paraphernalia were of the finest quality. That observation in and of it self should have forewarned me of subsequent events.

The young lad, bored with the day’s lack of action, soon wandered up the beach in my direction. Upon seeing the two beautiful “Bows” beached behind me, he was soon by my side shyly asking questions about how I caught them. I gladly showed the young man the especially prepared bait I had made up for the day. I also demonstrated the proper way to rig these “floaters”.

His interest in my technical explanation of how to catch fish soon waned and he started to fidget about, but would not leave. Understanding his motive for “hanging around”, I asked if he wanted to try some of my special bait.

I watched as he skipped down the beach back to his neglected rod on the sand. This whole time his father paid scant attention to him. After a cursory glance, he left the boy to his own devices. The boy rigged up the way I showed him, stepped up to the waters edge and tossed that sucker as far as his two little arms would let him. I swear by all the Gods, in all the heavens, that his bait wasn’t in the water five seconds before a huge fish gobbled it up, hooked itself and started running for the States on the other side of the lake. He screamed for joy as the fish tried to drag him with it.

It was now that his father took interest in his son’s activity and commenced brow-beating him to “play the fish right.” The lad’s inexpensive rod was bent double by the fish’s weight and due to his inexperience; he was having a difficult time playing that monster fish. He was also having the time of his life.

His father, God help him, could restrain himself no longer. He reached over, grabbed the boy’s rod and manhandled the fish to shore. The young man stood quietly aside as other fisherman admired the catch of a lifetime. It wasn’t long after, I heard him ask “Dad can we go home now, please.” Lord, how I wanted to go over there and shake some sense into that man.

They then packed their fishing equipment up and were leaving the beach, when the boy stopped dead in his tracks, turned around, waived goodbye to me and yelled “Thanks Mister.”

I watched as they slowly walked down the beach and disappeared from sight. It was then that I turned back to the lake shaking my head sadly and muttered to myself, “sometimes, Father’s don’t know best.”

The End