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Fishing: The cure for what hurts
Like it was for other Indians fans, my Thursday morning was not a good one.
The World Series bug had bit me hard, and the 3-1 advantage had fanned my fever. From the highest of highs, I crashed and burned in the wee hours of Thursday.
Thursdays are usually when I start looking ahead to a fun weekend. Mine are always epic. But even after a few hours at the office and several cups of coffee, it was tough to twist up a smile and look ahead.
Finally, around midafternoon, I got a text message from a friend who was planning a fishing trip for this morning.
“I’m in,” I replied and the healing began.
At that moment, fishing took on another new dimension for me. I’ve long realized that I have fished for far more than the sensory experiences. The meat is not important. I always enjoy the slow days as much as those when the catching is outstanding.
Thursday afternoon I was reminded that during some of my darkest moments, it was a fishing trip that helped me gain perspective.
In 2011, my first fishing trip after my heart attack was better than any medicine prescribed by doctors. Way better.
In 2013, I stood alone on my boat in the misty stillness of dawn the day after my mother passed away. I smiled, at peace.
More Saturdays than I care to count have taken me to lakes where it simply did not matter what had occurred at home or at work the previous week.
Fender bender? No worries. Problems with a project? No problem on the lake. Indians fall short? Well, that will take some time, but fishing today is easing the sting.
For me and for many, fishing is what we do for whatever reason we want.
“Many men go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after,” said Henry David Thoreau, American philosopher and commentator.
In his observation more than 150 years ago, Thoreau meant the human instinct to seek happiness, truth and freedom is manifested in a multitude of ways. Fishing is a metaphor as much as a reality.
So as Kipnis, Kluber, Lindor and their pals pack up and head out for winter vacations, I fish today to find satisfaction that will elbow out pain to let happiness happen.
I’m also fishing with the season’s end in sight.
The seeming infinity of spring and the basking of summer have trod their relentless march across my calendar. It’s a transition through which I suffer annually, especially as I count the days until the boat goes into winter storage.
“The season is ended. There was not enough of it; there never is,” wrote Nick Lyons, English professor and writer of beloved fishing tales.
And so it is with so much in life.
Never enough time for family, for fun or even for fishing.
But then again, that’s probably good. Familiarity breeds contempt, some say, so if I ever grow to dislike fishing, my prescription for healing much that ails me will expire.
Today on the lake will say, with a contented smile on my face, the line that has buoyed Indians fans for generations:
“Wait ’til next year.”