|02-17-2001 02:27 PM|
At 53 rapidly approaching middle age. Engineer, married, two kids, one daughter who recently received her BSME, thus is, happily, off the books and a son, still in school and on the books and thus bleeding my fishing budget. Live in Raynham.
Grew up spending my summers on a pond in Plymouth. Started chunking with Wonderbread for sunfish at six. Tried fishing with flies at seven. Swatted my own. Started chucking River runts, Jitterbugs and Hula poppers for Largemouth a couple of years later. Hence the seeds of a long dormant addiction/obsession were sown.
From my teens until about two years ago I would periodically go into brief fishing frenzies. During the late sixties/early seventies I’d go to the Cape seeking cows of another species, usually taking the skunk. Conclave headquarters would be one of those “animal house type” summer rentals. Towards the end of this period I did manage to catch a keeper, my wife, whom I met at (in keeping with the fishing metaphor) a quaint barn called On The Rocks at the Mashpee rotary.
I rediscovered my affection for the beach about 6 years ago. Started toting a spinning rod with me to Cold Storage beach in Dennis. I’d go out on the jetty, mid day, and chuck Kastmasters, never expecting to catch anything. It was just great to be out there, shooting the breeze with passer bys (invariably the conversation would start with “you should’ve been here last week”). I soon became the butt end of my wife’s humor at parties, “Let me tell you about my husband, the village idiot, who fishes where there are no fish”.
My wife’s humor backfired a few years ago when we were at a company function and she started the “my husband the fishing fool“ routine. One of the people at our table happened to be fanatical hardcore who had been saltwater fly-fishing for about 35 years. A gifted engineer/inventor, with a slew of patents he was so bad his wife forced a move to a waterfront home and a long commute so she’d see him once in awhile. Anyhow, I’d always wanted to take up fly-fishing but never considered the possibilities in the salt. The ensuing conversation peeked my interest and started my slide to depravity and obsession.
So that’s where I am today, obsessed and depraved. My sibling’s treat me with the combined empathy – disdain typically accorded a brother with a gambling or drug problem. I’ve sunk even further than I thought I would, actually tying flies and thinking about building a rod. I’m even going to quit smoking so I can support my new habit via the savings.