I have never been one to go fishing, but I do understand its appeal. Casting into the water, the peaceful surroundings and the quiet meditative patience it requires, sounds wonderful. If it were not for the slimy worms and the necessary unhooking of a smelly fish that goes along with the hobby, I might be apt to go. I love those movies that show a couple in a little fishing boat together. The man is usually fishing happily and his wife is at the other end of the boat, reading a book. As long as you convince me that there are no mosquitos or black flies chewing them, I think that’s a perfect romantic movie scene.
But since I don’t go fishing (or reading at the other end of the boat), I fall into the role of being the photographer every so often, when my husband and son choose to go fishing close by. I enjoy sneaking down to the back dock an hour or so after they’ve been out, to snap a couple of pictures. I always start from afar, but once I’ve been detected, I get some posed shots too.
Last night my husband went fishing on his own. My son, uncharacteristically opting to stay to play board games with me and his sisters, stayed behind, but when his Dad returned with a 16 inch salmon, he regretted his choice. I hear they are heading out again tonight. My own Dad is joining them. I’m tempted to tag along, if only to take in the scene. It won’t quite be that romantic movie scene, but if I have the proper equipment, some bug spray, a flashlight, and a book, it’ll be nearly perfect I suspect.
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