Gone Fishin'

Right about the time the pandemic hit full force and schools closed early, my six-year-old son Connor said five fearful words.

“I want to go fishing.”

Growing up on the mean streets of Bowie, Maryland, fishing was the farthest thing from my mind. Outdoor activities during the summer included spending all day at the local pool, riding the water slide one town over and playing hoops in our front yard.

But I guess growing up Georgia, there must be something in the water.

So, going from a knowledge deficit, we proceeded cautiously, after all this might be a passing fancy. My wife brought Walmart’s finest starter pole, the Star Wars version, and we hit the local ponds. For a boy with little patience for many things, his dedication to the sport is impressive. To my chagrin, he would spend all day casting and reeling in if he could. At least that is my takeaway from his meltdowns at the six-hour mark, at which point I’ve had more than enough.

This past weekend he had his best day yet, hauling in four fish before snaring a 10-pound catfish. This started a call for a “real” fishing pole, which will have to come sooner than later, now that we know he’s going to stick with it.

Heaven help me if he wants to start hunting.