Randy Kadish's Blog - Posts Tagged "recreation"
A Reason To Fish
The city workers never stopped me from going onto the old, broken-down pier, though one had said, “There aren’t much fish here since we dredged last year.”
I often sought comfort in those words. They told me not to blame myself for catching only one striped bass after so many months of trying.
So with little expectations, I again walked towards the end of the seagull-inhabited pier. One by one the beautiful birds spread their long, gray wings and soared away. I was sorry I had frightened them from their home.
I continued on.
On the other side of the wide, fast-moving river, the fluttering American flag told me the wind blew from the north, but not strongly. Since strong winds were the only thing I didn’t like about fishing, I was thankful, and wondered if I should go with a floating or sinking line.
I checked the sky. The cloud cover was breaking up; so I chose a sinking line, knowing it probably wouldn’t matter. I set up my nine-weight rod, looked through my fly box and wondered, What should I try? A Clouser? A Deceiver?
I tied on a White Deceiver, then watched in awe as the seagulls gracefully glided down on the other end of the pier. Glad they had returned, I thought, If only I could get my fly to land as gently.
I cast up river, about seventy feet. Not bad. I stripped slowly, pausing every four or five seconds.
Suddenly, as if a light switch was turned on, the sun illuminated the gold and raspberry-red leaves of trees on the far bank. Yes, I remembered, autumn is always the prettiest time to fish. But soon those trees will look like eerie, mushroom-shaped spider webs. Soon it will be winter and too cold to fish. So why on this mild day, am I the only one here? Is it because, unlike most anglers, I’m not so obsessed with catching fish? If so, is there something wrong with me?
A small motor boat approached. A middle-aged couple was aboard. They held hands. I waved. They smiled and waved back.
“Any luck?” the man yelled out.
I shook my head no, and thought of how I never felt alone on the pier.
I again cast. My tight loop cut through the breeze. My Deceiver turned over and fluttered to the water. I was proud.
Eighty feet, I thought. Yes, maybe basking in the satisfaction of making a good cast is what brought me to the pier. But is there something more?
I lowered my rod, pulled all the slack out of my line and tried to repeat my beautiful cast. My back loop was tight. When it almost unrolled I slowly began my forward cast. Perfect. I accelerated into my power snap. But I hauled late. My front loop opened into a wide circle. My line and fly died short, and piled on the water. Disappointed, I quickly pulled the slack out of my line. I resumed my regular retrieve. Maybe bad casts really aren’t so bad. Maybe a fish will still strike. Besides, my next cast will be better, I hope. Yes, to make better: how good it always feels, and how easy to do when fishing. If only fixing my business had been so easy, but by the time I realized that the market had changed it was too late. And wasn’t it also too late by the time mother realized that her cough might be a sign of something really serious? By then the latest medical breakthroughs couldn’t stop her cancer from eating away at her, from leaving her a living, breathing skeleton, and leaving me feeling helpless, and furious at a God who seemed so brutal, so cruel. Why did he cause so much pain? So much suffering!?
I couldn’t answer the answer question - not now, not then; so after mother passed away grief weighed me down like lead. I couldn’t find the energy to fish. Then the grief got even worse and seemed to turn into a dull knife slowly cutting and twisting through me. Afraid I was losing my mind, and that the walls of my apartment were closing in on me like a vise, I told myself I had to go outside. But where? A voice told me to take my fly rod and reel. Should I listen? I took my fly rod out of its case. It seemed to shine like gold. I held the rod handle. The cork felt like silk, in some way comforting. I put on my fly-fishing vest and looked in the mirror. Yes I was once an angler, once loved being in the outdoors, especially in a gurgling river or a gently crashing surf.
I took my fly rod and reel and walked to the old pier. Again I became an angler. Surprisingly, my grief numbed, maybe even lifted; so the next day I went again, and then for the next few years fishing was all I really cared about.
Finally, slowly, my other interests - football, music, history - returned, but none rivaled fishing on the pier, even if I had on the wrong fly.
I wondered if I should change flies, then decided that with all I was going through, and with nature’s beauty seeming to embrace me in a way that - yes - my mother never did, the fly I fished shouldn’t matter. I’ll stay with the White Deceiver, I decided. I caught my breath, then reminded myself to break my wrist and drift my fly rod downward at the end of my back cast.
It worked! My fly shot almost ninety feet, then gently touched down on the surface. I smiled. Above the middle of the river a flock of seagulls circled. Their sharp chirps somehow sounded amplified by the peaceful vision of the orange sun setting and beaming down hundreds and hundreds of diamonds bobbing and reflecting off the gently flowing river.
The seagulls didn’t dive. Bait fish probably weren’t around; so neither were the striped bass.
I wasn’t discouraged. So for the next few hours, as the sky ripened into dusk pink, I cast again and again and retrieved faster and faster, afraid that the sun would soon sink behind the trees and roll up its flickering path that crossed the grayish water and seemed to stop at my pier.
Slow down, I told myself. Don’t worry about the sun going down. It will be here tomorrow, and so will I. And don’t worry about winter. Before long it will retreat and the bare trees will again bloom with life, and then maybe the stripers will return to the pier, but if they don’t, will it really matter?
No, because out here nothing is broken, except fixable casts.
The Way of the River My Journey of Fishing, Forgiveness and Spiritual Recovery
I often sought comfort in those words. They told me not to blame myself for catching only one striped bass after so many months of trying.
So with little expectations, I again walked towards the end of the seagull-inhabited pier. One by one the beautiful birds spread their long, gray wings and soared away. I was sorry I had frightened them from their home.
I continued on.
On the other side of the wide, fast-moving river, the fluttering American flag told me the wind blew from the north, but not strongly. Since strong winds were the only thing I didn’t like about fishing, I was thankful, and wondered if I should go with a floating or sinking line.
I checked the sky. The cloud cover was breaking up; so I chose a sinking line, knowing it probably wouldn’t matter. I set up my nine-weight rod, looked through my fly box and wondered, What should I try? A Clouser? A Deceiver?
I tied on a White Deceiver, then watched in awe as the seagulls gracefully glided down on the other end of the pier. Glad they had returned, I thought, If only I could get my fly to land as gently.
I cast up river, about seventy feet. Not bad. I stripped slowly, pausing every four or five seconds.
Suddenly, as if a light switch was turned on, the sun illuminated the gold and raspberry-red leaves of trees on the far bank. Yes, I remembered, autumn is always the prettiest time to fish. But soon those trees will look like eerie, mushroom-shaped spider webs. Soon it will be winter and too cold to fish. So why on this mild day, am I the only one here? Is it because, unlike most anglers, I’m not so obsessed with catching fish? If so, is there something wrong with me?
A small motor boat approached. A middle-aged couple was aboard. They held hands. I waved. They smiled and waved back.
“Any luck?” the man yelled out.
I shook my head no, and thought of how I never felt alone on the pier.
I again cast. My tight loop cut through the breeze. My Deceiver turned over and fluttered to the water. I was proud.
Eighty feet, I thought. Yes, maybe basking in the satisfaction of making a good cast is what brought me to the pier. But is there something more?
I lowered my rod, pulled all the slack out of my line and tried to repeat my beautiful cast. My back loop was tight. When it almost unrolled I slowly began my forward cast. Perfect. I accelerated into my power snap. But I hauled late. My front loop opened into a wide circle. My line and fly died short, and piled on the water. Disappointed, I quickly pulled the slack out of my line. I resumed my regular retrieve. Maybe bad casts really aren’t so bad. Maybe a fish will still strike. Besides, my next cast will be better, I hope. Yes, to make better: how good it always feels, and how easy to do when fishing. If only fixing my business had been so easy, but by the time I realized that the market had changed it was too late. And wasn’t it also too late by the time mother realized that her cough might be a sign of something really serious? By then the latest medical breakthroughs couldn’t stop her cancer from eating away at her, from leaving her a living, breathing skeleton, and leaving me feeling helpless, and furious at a God who seemed so brutal, so cruel. Why did he cause so much pain? So much suffering!?
I couldn’t answer the answer question - not now, not then; so after mother passed away grief weighed me down like lead. I couldn’t find the energy to fish. Then the grief got even worse and seemed to turn into a dull knife slowly cutting and twisting through me. Afraid I was losing my mind, and that the walls of my apartment were closing in on me like a vise, I told myself I had to go outside. But where? A voice told me to take my fly rod and reel. Should I listen? I took my fly rod out of its case. It seemed to shine like gold. I held the rod handle. The cork felt like silk, in some way comforting. I put on my fly-fishing vest and looked in the mirror. Yes I was once an angler, once loved being in the outdoors, especially in a gurgling river or a gently crashing surf.
I took my fly rod and reel and walked to the old pier. Again I became an angler. Surprisingly, my grief numbed, maybe even lifted; so the next day I went again, and then for the next few years fishing was all I really cared about.
Finally, slowly, my other interests - football, music, history - returned, but none rivaled fishing on the pier, even if I had on the wrong fly.
I wondered if I should change flies, then decided that with all I was going through, and with nature’s beauty seeming to embrace me in a way that - yes - my mother never did, the fly I fished shouldn’t matter. I’ll stay with the White Deceiver, I decided. I caught my breath, then reminded myself to break my wrist and drift my fly rod downward at the end of my back cast.
It worked! My fly shot almost ninety feet, then gently touched down on the surface. I smiled. Above the middle of the river a flock of seagulls circled. Their sharp chirps somehow sounded amplified by the peaceful vision of the orange sun setting and beaming down hundreds and hundreds of diamonds bobbing and reflecting off the gently flowing river.
The seagulls didn’t dive. Bait fish probably weren’t around; so neither were the striped bass.
I wasn’t discouraged. So for the next few hours, as the sky ripened into dusk pink, I cast again and again and retrieved faster and faster, afraid that the sun would soon sink behind the trees and roll up its flickering path that crossed the grayish water and seemed to stop at my pier.
Slow down, I told myself. Don’t worry about the sun going down. It will be here tomorrow, and so will I. And don’t worry about winter. Before long it will retreat and the bare trees will again bloom with life, and then maybe the stripers will return to the pier, but if they don’t, will it really matter?
No, because out here nothing is broken, except fixable casts.
The Way of the River My Journey of Fishing, Forgiveness and Spiritual Recovery
excerpt: George La branche, an Immigrant and the Fly Casting Tournament of 1911
... The man wearing a derby held up the megaphone. His derby looked too small for his long, potato-shaped face. His eyebrows were so bushy they looked like little canopies. “Ladies and gentleman, I’m Howard Tucker. Welcome to the Angler’s Club annual, long-distance, fly-casting tournament. Here are the rules. Each caster will use the same kind of reel, line and fly, and will get three casts. Only the longest cast will count, but only if the fly lands between the long ropes. George M. L. La Branche, last year’s runner-up, is first up.”
The spectators clapped. I wondered why Mr. La Branche had not one but two middle initials, and why he wanted both announced at a fly-casting tournament. He was on the small side. He had a black mustache and a cleft chin. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, a black tie held in place by a small, ivory brooch, and a shirt with a standup collar that looked so stiff I wondered if it would cut into his neck and draw blood. Mr. La Branche looked like a dandy.
I decided to root against him.
He walked to the table and put one of the reels onto his fiery-orange rod. He pulled white line from the reel and fed it through the rod’s silver guides.
Howard Tucker gave him a small fly. He tied it on, walked to the end of the long dock and pulled more line from the reel. The reel spun and clicked loudly. The man in the back of the rowboat grabbed the line. The other man in the boat rowed away from the dock. The reel clicked louder and faster and seemed to neigh like a wild horse. When the boat was about a hundred feet from the dock, the man holding the line dropped it between the long ropes.
Hand over hand, Mr. La Branche retrieved about fifty feet of the line and piled it on the dock. He breathed deeply and crossed his heart. He moved his right foot behind his left, as if he was going to throw a ball, then bent his knees, leaned forward and pointed his fly rod toward the water. He cast the rod back, moving it somewhere between perpendicular and parallel to the water. The water, however, didn’t seem to want to let go of the line. As if in a tug-of-war, the water pulled back and bent the top half of the rod into a half-circle, so that the whole rod took on the shape of a giant question mark. Mr. La Branche stopped the rod suddenly. His casting arm was behind his body and, along with the rod, pointed to about 2 o’clock. The line sprayed water as it flew off the surface like a bird. The rod snapped straight. The front of the line formed a narrow loop. The top of the loop was much longer than the bottom. The loop rolled backward like a wheel, the top getting shorter and shorter, the bottom getting longer and longer, until the top and bottom were the same length—but only for a split second. Soon the rolling loop resembled a sideways candy cane.
Mr. La Branche cast the rod forward, then stopped it when it pointed to about 10:30. The front of the line formed another loop. The top of this rolling loop also got shorter as the bottom got longer. Mr. La Branche let go of the line and stabbed the rod forward. The loop streaked like an arrow, then unrolled. The straight line splashed down on the water, right in the middle of the long ropes.
The man in the back of the boat counted the crisscrossing lines. He put a long ruler on one of the long ropes. “Ninety-eight feet!”
We all clapped. Mr. La Branche didn’t move. He glared straight ahead like a zombie cut off from the rest of the world. He retrieved his line, finally.
His next cast was 96 feet, his last 94. He shook his head disgustedly and reeled in his line. Looking down as if he were disappointed, he walked back to the table. Though I didn’t know anything about fly-casting, 98 feet seemed like a heck of a long cast to me.
The next caster stood up, and one by one the fly casters, including the one with the handlebar mustache, used the same casting stance as Mr. La Branche and tried to cast farther than 98 feet.
None did.
The last caster stood up, finally. Tall and thin, his arms were as long as a gorilla’s. He was clean-shaven. His skin was almost as white as a cloud. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. To me he looked like a Sunday-school teacher. I wanted him to beat Mr. George M. L. La Branche.
Mr. Tucker held up the megaphone. “Ladies and Gentlemen! Our next and last caster has won this tournament five years in a row. He is probably the greatest long-distance fly caster on the planet, B. L. Richards.”
Again we clapped.
B. L. Richards put a reel onto his fly rod, tied on a fly, and marched down the dock like a soldier. When he was ready, he bent his knees but didn’t cross his heart. He cast back and forth, back and forth. He stopped the rod and let go of the line. The rolling loop tightened and turned into a pointy wedge. The wedge, however, still rolled like a wheel, until the top got real short and then flipped over. The straight line floated down.
The fly landed outside the long lines.
“Damn!” B. L. Richards yelled.
“No cursing!” one of the spectators insisted.
B. L. Richards didn’t apologize, as I thought he should. He retrieved some line and cast again.
The fly landed between the lines.
“One hundred four feet!” the man in the rowboat yelled.
Wildly, we clapped.
B. L. Richards, however, didn’t smile or nod. He cast again.
“One hundred two feet!”
B. L. Richards stomped his foot.
Mr. Tucker held up the megaphone. “For the sixth year in a row, our champion is B. L. Richards.”
“Maybe!” someone shouted. A young man carrying a fly rod stood on the top of the stone hill. He wore a long white shirt and faded, baggy pants. His hair was brown and wavy and combed straight back.
He climbed, then slid down the hill and walked right past me. He was average size. His eyes were small and close together. His nose was long and a little hooked. In his face, therefore, I saw the face of an eagle.
He walked up to the table. “I’d like a chance.” He spoke with a slight Polish accent. I wondered if he came from the Lower East Side.
“The tournament is only open to members of casting clubs,” Mr. Tucker said.
To me the rule didn’t seem fair, the same way it didn’t seem fair that immigrants had to live in tiny apartments that didn’t have bathrooms.
“But I’ve been practicing all year,” the young man said.
Mr. Tucker grinned. “Are you saying you
can beat the greatest fly caster in the world?”
“I’d sure like to try.”
“Have you ever cast in a tournament before?”
“No.”
“Where’d you get your rod?”
“The rod is legal. It’s eleven and a half feet.”
“Let him cast!” a spectator demanded.
“Rules are rules,” B. L. Richards stated.
“What are you scared of?” another spectator shouted.
“Only God,” B. L. Richards insisted. “The young man can join my club, but he’ll have to pay five dollars, like everyone else.”
The young man reached into his pocket and took out money. He uncrumpled two bills. “All I have is two dollars.”
“Sorry,” Mr. Tucker said.
I pulled my father’s arm. “Dad, can I have my next two weeks allowance?”
“He’s a stranger who probably won’t ever pay you back. Are you sure you want to give up your allowance?”
I thought of all the baseball cards I wouldn’t be able to buy; and how I still craved the card of the greatest shortstop of all time, Honus Wagner. “Yes, I’m sure. Please?”
“All right.” He gave me three dollars. ...
The Fly Caster Who Tried to Make Peace with the World
The spectators clapped. I wondered why Mr. La Branche had not one but two middle initials, and why he wanted both announced at a fly-casting tournament. He was on the small side. He had a black mustache and a cleft chin. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, a black tie held in place by a small, ivory brooch, and a shirt with a standup collar that looked so stiff I wondered if it would cut into his neck and draw blood. Mr. La Branche looked like a dandy.
I decided to root against him.
He walked to the table and put one of the reels onto his fiery-orange rod. He pulled white line from the reel and fed it through the rod’s silver guides.
Howard Tucker gave him a small fly. He tied it on, walked to the end of the long dock and pulled more line from the reel. The reel spun and clicked loudly. The man in the back of the rowboat grabbed the line. The other man in the boat rowed away from the dock. The reel clicked louder and faster and seemed to neigh like a wild horse. When the boat was about a hundred feet from the dock, the man holding the line dropped it between the long ropes.
Hand over hand, Mr. La Branche retrieved about fifty feet of the line and piled it on the dock. He breathed deeply and crossed his heart. He moved his right foot behind his left, as if he was going to throw a ball, then bent his knees, leaned forward and pointed his fly rod toward the water. He cast the rod back, moving it somewhere between perpendicular and parallel to the water. The water, however, didn’t seem to want to let go of the line. As if in a tug-of-war, the water pulled back and bent the top half of the rod into a half-circle, so that the whole rod took on the shape of a giant question mark. Mr. La Branche stopped the rod suddenly. His casting arm was behind his body and, along with the rod, pointed to about 2 o’clock. The line sprayed water as it flew off the surface like a bird. The rod snapped straight. The front of the line formed a narrow loop. The top of the loop was much longer than the bottom. The loop rolled backward like a wheel, the top getting shorter and shorter, the bottom getting longer and longer, until the top and bottom were the same length—but only for a split second. Soon the rolling loop resembled a sideways candy cane.
Mr. La Branche cast the rod forward, then stopped it when it pointed to about 10:30. The front of the line formed another loop. The top of this rolling loop also got shorter as the bottom got longer. Mr. La Branche let go of the line and stabbed the rod forward. The loop streaked like an arrow, then unrolled. The straight line splashed down on the water, right in the middle of the long ropes.
The man in the back of the boat counted the crisscrossing lines. He put a long ruler on one of the long ropes. “Ninety-eight feet!”
We all clapped. Mr. La Branche didn’t move. He glared straight ahead like a zombie cut off from the rest of the world. He retrieved his line, finally.
His next cast was 96 feet, his last 94. He shook his head disgustedly and reeled in his line. Looking down as if he were disappointed, he walked back to the table. Though I didn’t know anything about fly-casting, 98 feet seemed like a heck of a long cast to me.
The next caster stood up, and one by one the fly casters, including the one with the handlebar mustache, used the same casting stance as Mr. La Branche and tried to cast farther than 98 feet.
None did.
The last caster stood up, finally. Tall and thin, his arms were as long as a gorilla’s. He was clean-shaven. His skin was almost as white as a cloud. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. To me he looked like a Sunday-school teacher. I wanted him to beat Mr. George M. L. La Branche.
Mr. Tucker held up the megaphone. “Ladies and Gentlemen! Our next and last caster has won this tournament five years in a row. He is probably the greatest long-distance fly caster on the planet, B. L. Richards.”
Again we clapped.
B. L. Richards put a reel onto his fly rod, tied on a fly, and marched down the dock like a soldier. When he was ready, he bent his knees but didn’t cross his heart. He cast back and forth, back and forth. He stopped the rod and let go of the line. The rolling loop tightened and turned into a pointy wedge. The wedge, however, still rolled like a wheel, until the top got real short and then flipped over. The straight line floated down.
The fly landed outside the long lines.
“Damn!” B. L. Richards yelled.
“No cursing!” one of the spectators insisted.
B. L. Richards didn’t apologize, as I thought he should. He retrieved some line and cast again.
The fly landed between the lines.
“One hundred four feet!” the man in the rowboat yelled.
Wildly, we clapped.
B. L. Richards, however, didn’t smile or nod. He cast again.
“One hundred two feet!”
B. L. Richards stomped his foot.
Mr. Tucker held up the megaphone. “For the sixth year in a row, our champion is B. L. Richards.”
“Maybe!” someone shouted. A young man carrying a fly rod stood on the top of the stone hill. He wore a long white shirt and faded, baggy pants. His hair was brown and wavy and combed straight back.
He climbed, then slid down the hill and walked right past me. He was average size. His eyes were small and close together. His nose was long and a little hooked. In his face, therefore, I saw the face of an eagle.
He walked up to the table. “I’d like a chance.” He spoke with a slight Polish accent. I wondered if he came from the Lower East Side.
“The tournament is only open to members of casting clubs,” Mr. Tucker said.
To me the rule didn’t seem fair, the same way it didn’t seem fair that immigrants had to live in tiny apartments that didn’t have bathrooms.
“But I’ve been practicing all year,” the young man said.
Mr. Tucker grinned. “Are you saying you
can beat the greatest fly caster in the world?”
“I’d sure like to try.”
“Have you ever cast in a tournament before?”
“No.”
“Where’d you get your rod?”
“The rod is legal. It’s eleven and a half feet.”
“Let him cast!” a spectator demanded.
“Rules are rules,” B. L. Richards stated.
“What are you scared of?” another spectator shouted.
“Only God,” B. L. Richards insisted. “The young man can join my club, but he’ll have to pay five dollars, like everyone else.”
The young man reached into his pocket and took out money. He uncrumpled two bills. “All I have is two dollars.”
“Sorry,” Mr. Tucker said.
I pulled my father’s arm. “Dad, can I have my next two weeks allowance?”
“He’s a stranger who probably won’t ever pay you back. Are you sure you want to give up your allowance?”
I thought of all the baseball cards I wouldn’t be able to buy; and how I still craved the card of the greatest shortstop of all time, Honus Wagner. “Yes, I’m sure. Please?”
“All right.” He gave me three dollars. ...
The Fly Caster Who Tried to Make Peace with the World
