The Art of Angling

The pond here has three sides that are accessable. The fourth side is dense marsh and forest. Dense and unyielding. I find it strange that there is no current. I am used to the tides. I'm soothed by the water keeping time. Specific conditions become commodities: it's not a given that you'll have low tides as the sun rises. The time the river keeps is all it's own.

This water's power is in its weight. The conditions are constant. It's easier. There is a power within both waters though. The fish. They're strong and willing. There is an economy of movement in their bodies that is subtle but recognizable. Each twist, stretch, or flutter produces an effect that they engineer.
They intent every movement. It's precise. They're in control all the way.

Last night I fished a purple plastic worm. This worm is the worm I grew up fishing; my grandfather told me there was nothing like it. The kind and type are more specific than I'll describe to you here, but I can tell you that it has three hooks. One is at the tail. One is in the middle. And one rest about an inch from the front. All told it measures six inches. I reel slowly and randomly. The worm turns over itself as a load of laundry does in the dryer. I can feel the worm's enticing turn.

I know why we fish. It's not to catch the fish alone. It's not to be outside. When you're playing a luer through a cast you are simply aware. You can feel the sun's position.

Your ears are your eyes. They see the wind.
Your eyes are your hands. They feel the waters surface and help traverse the terrain below.
Your hands are your ears. They listen for movement in the line.

I suppose if you are taught to fish when you're young, you learn this sensitivity. You learn that you don't have to think. Atleast not about the things that you'd normally think about. While fishing, a fisherman doesn't think about bills, love, food, toys, life, or whatever he/she may think about on the way home. There is no internal dialogue; there's only a concentrated dance with the water.

Maybe that's why it's not so common to become a fisherman later in life. And maybe that's why some kids don't take to fishing. They're simply unable to put down their life and pick up the pole.

Anyways, I got off the point there. Feel the fish's hit on the luer. They've approached and sunk into their movement of attack. This attack is simple but different by species. A bass hits the worm in an envelopment. It trails, veers off and attacks from the front/side. It always gets hooked on the first of three hooks. Bluegill, on the other hand, chase the worm. They attack in-chase, simply over-running the worm, as if content to take the mere rear portion of it. I reel them up on the last hook each time. Always. They're programmed that way.

Fish are amazing creatures. As is every small habitat in which they dwell. The most amazing part is the delicate balance of life. Disruptions in their habitat are temporary. Disruptions are like kicking rocks down a never-ending staircase. Each rock always finds a new step to balance on. Each tiny habitat is it's own staircase with its own balance. A fishermen understands this balance as it pertains to the fish. He/she understands their preferred terrain, their methods of attack, and their location in respect to weather, light, and water temperature.

I am not a good fisherman. But I love to fish. I love thinking about them and finding myself hearing with my hands. It must take a lifetime to understand everything that there is to know about finding them underneath the water. I only understand the feeling of it.