It was my father who taught my three boys to fish. From the time they were old enough to hold a rod in their hands, he had them out on the water. He did the same with me, but they took to it better than I did, and as adults they have all taken to the water at different times in their lives.
A few days back, we pack up the dog and a lunch, and head to Whidbey Island to meet up with our son Brandon and his friend Clint. They plan on fishing while we walk the beach. I have been meaning to do this all summer, and somehow here we are, into fall.
The weather is perfect and the beach is almost empty. I am content to walk, taking photos as I go, scanning the beach for rocks and the lonely shell now and then. My husband takes the dog and wanders the shore with him, keeping him from rolling in smelly seaweed and kelp.
We spot a few sea lions, which is a good sign, as they are no doubt fishing too. But the guys are not having much luck, but truly, I don’t think they care. They are happy to be out today, thigh deep in salt water, casting their rods.
For a few hours we all forget the craziness of the news, the upcoming election and the virus that is haunting our world. For a few hours we listen to the waves, sit with the sun in our faces, smell the salt water, and watch our boy fish.
We pack up and leave them to fish, knowing they will stay until the sun starts to go down. Brandon sends me a text when he gets home saying they didn’t catch anything but man, wasn’t it a beautiful day. He thanks us for coming out.
I am forever grateful to my father for teaching my boys the lessons learned from the rivers, lakes and oceans, with or without a fishing rod in their hands.
My mom and dad, fishing somewhere in the state of Washington.