Patriot Realm

In the golden olden days, I remember when I went fishing with my Mum and Dad. It was one of the most miserable experiences of my young life. Apparently, it was to make me a better person. 

You know the thing: " you will enjoy it if you just allow yourself to! " 

" It's not cold. It's just that you need another pair of socks! " 

It was either trout fishing in Rotorua ( New Zealand ) in the middle of winter, when my brother and I used to bemoan having to get up at sparrows fart to accompany " they who must be obeyed " to head out on one of the many lakes my parents used to go fishing. Or in the Hauraki Gulf where we would spend the day with heads bowed over the bow worshipping the sea gods that made you give back to the sea. 

Fishing, to me, is a tribute to the gods of perpetual non succor because I never got assistance or relief. In fact, my memories of fishing are of perpetual chillblains, sea sickness, misery and non succor. 

And no, I am not a Catholic. 

I had cousins who were. 

I had distress; was not assisted and delivered from suffering. In fact, fishing was the pits. 

Oh, how I yearned for some succor.

And my cosy bed. 

No matter what, my brother and I were slaves to going fishing and the sea  and our parents were relentless in their lack of mercy. There were times when we sat with buckets on our heads to stop the rain and we were told to stop moaning and enjoy the day! 

But those days in winter, in the cold and chilling dawn hours, we yearned to be defiant and say a resounding " No! " 

But we never did. After all, they were our parents and parents know best.  

How I hated those frosty mornings. But we got up out of our snuggly beds, got dressed and headed off for hours of torment to have a dose of " fresh air " and " nature. "

My older brother seemed to escape these horrific morning tortures: he always had an urgent homework assignment or an upset stomach: my other brother and I were not so clever.  So we had to go fishing. 

I have often reflected on why it was that my parents never seemed to feel the chill or the misery of those early morning risings. Why they sauntered off with lures, rods, and tackle and actually seemed to be happy.

I now realise it was because they were having fun. They actually enjoyed what they were doing.

Meanwhile, my brother and I did not.

Fishing is a pursuit that I have never really gotten the hang of. It is synonymous with cold, seasickness and a bucket over my head. 

Fast forward about 45 years. 

One day, I went down to the beach with my late Dad. It was a beautiful afternoon. He stood there, surf casting. As he threw his cast into the rolling waves, I asked him " why do you like fishing so much? "

He replied " Fishing makes me feel good. I can stand here and do something useful and still have time to breathe. "

Suddenly, it all made sense. 

Dad went fishing to have some space. He did it to bring home some food for our family. He did it to have time to contemplate and wonder at the joy that is our world.  

My parents got up in the morning to go fishing, yes. But they also did it to have time to sit, quietly, in the dawn's early hour and hear the chug of the boat's engine as they marveled at the nature before them.

I enjoyed the smoked trout that my parents caught and Dad dutifully presented from his smokehouse.

I ate with great relish the snapper he or Mum caught in the days when my brother and I were leaning over the side of the boat to feed burley to the fish.

I am coming up 70 now. Those days of chill blains and cold mornings are long gone. I now have the luxury of sleeping in and Redhead can no longer tell me what to do. 

 Bugger. 

OK, OK, OK, I will always listen to Redhead, (Mum) , and will always acknowledge that she knows best. Otherwise, she might make me go fishing again. 

And I can tell you right now, I will NOT, I tell you, NOT, go fishing again. 

Sorry, Redhead? You have your rod? Great. Let's go.