Just moments ago, I realized what I have missed by not buying a fishing license. Or maybe it's what I have missed by being stingy. It's not, of course, the fish itself, although landing a live, vibrant fish, whether it be a trout, as iridescent as summer itself; or a bass, green big-mouthed aggression glowing like flint behind seemingly dead eyes; or even a carp, jaundiced yellow mealy mouth not giving a true impression of sullen power running down it scaly flank.
No, it's not the fish, which I always release anyway; it's the experience. Because I have balked at the $15 or $20 for a license, I have missed present tense moments of life, akin to those Anne Dilliard writes about. Those moments of one-ness when, like for Nick Adams in a Hemingway story, the river, the line, the fly, and I become one in an instant of the right now. In my mind, I can see the fly disappearing as do my thoughts of tomorrow, or of life insurance, or the price of gas. In a moment of illumination, I grieve for time lost, sitting at home simply because I have been too tight fisted to buy a permit. I will rummage through my stuff and get out my rod and reel and buy a license a go fishing. I will wade knee deep in cold water, feel the slick rocks under my feet, and wait for that first moment when the line becomes tight, and I enter finally into the present.
* * *
I caught a catfish one day from the pond by the golf course. I have fished there a few times because it is on private property, and I don't need a permit. I had hooked the fish before, by one particular rock where I presume she, (or is it the he who tends the nest), was guarding the horde of eggs, keeping other fish, crawdads, turtles, away from the eggs. It broke off quickly that first time. I'm not used to big fish; I usually catch pugnacious sunfish less than a pound. This fish was large, about 12 pounds as it turned out. I came back the next day, armed with fresh line and sure of my knot.
Sure enough, the plastic bait stopped short just as it splashed by the rock. I played the fish for 15 minutes, enjoying the power at the end of the line and the small fear I might break the line again if I got too aggressive. I finally slid the fish, not even sure my monster was a catfish until I saw its gray flat head glide into the mud at the the bank.
I hoisted my prize and immediately thought of Elizabeth Bishop's great fish in her poem. My hook from yesterday was still there. She (he) was scarred, tail raw, and right between the blank eyes a dented scar, almost as if someone had taken a hammer to the head. I quickly weighed her, bragged to nearby golfers about the size of the fish lurking around our golf balls, and put her back into the water. She just lay there a while, too tired to move. I grabbed the tail an pushed back and forth to run fresh water over those 'terrible' gills, and she slowly disappeared, exactly on a course for the rock. I didn't try to catch her again though I knew she was there. I had abused her once; I would not do it again.
No, it's not the fish, which I always release anyway; it's the experience. Because I have balked at the $15 or $20 for a license, I have missed present tense moments of life, akin to those Anne Dilliard writes about. Those moments of one-ness when, like for Nick Adams in a Hemingway story, the river, the line, the fly, and I become one in an instant of the right now. In my mind, I can see the fly disappearing as do my thoughts of tomorrow, or of life insurance, or the price of gas. In a moment of illumination, I grieve for time lost, sitting at home simply because I have been too tight fisted to buy a permit. I will rummage through my stuff and get out my rod and reel and buy a license a go fishing. I will wade knee deep in cold water, feel the slick rocks under my feet, and wait for that first moment when the line becomes tight, and I enter finally into the present.
* * *
I caught a catfish one day from the pond by the golf course. I have fished there a few times because it is on private property, and I don't need a permit. I had hooked the fish before, by one particular rock where I presume she, (or is it the he who tends the nest), was guarding the horde of eggs, keeping other fish, crawdads, turtles, away from the eggs. It broke off quickly that first time. I'm not used to big fish; I usually catch pugnacious sunfish less than a pound. This fish was large, about 12 pounds as it turned out. I came back the next day, armed with fresh line and sure of my knot.
Sure enough, the plastic bait stopped short just as it splashed by the rock. I played the fish for 15 minutes, enjoying the power at the end of the line and the small fear I might break the line again if I got too aggressive. I finally slid the fish, not even sure my monster was a catfish until I saw its gray flat head glide into the mud at the the bank.
I hoisted my prize and immediately thought of Elizabeth Bishop's great fish in her poem. My hook from yesterday was still there. She (he) was scarred, tail raw, and right between the blank eyes a dented scar, almost as if someone had taken a hammer to the head. I quickly weighed her, bragged to nearby golfers about the size of the fish lurking around our golf balls, and put her back into the water. She just lay there a while, too tired to move. I grabbed the tail an pushed back and forth to run fresh water over those 'terrible' gills, and she slowly disappeared, exactly on a course for the rock. I didn't try to catch her again though I knew she was there. I had abused her once; I would not do it again.
