Fishing and Father’s Day
The ethical questions of teaching kids to fish
Forty-odd years ago, while aboard a fishing boat with my father on Long Island Sound, I felt a pull on my line like none I’d ever felt before. And then another. And another still. The wild world had hit my line with all its abundance. I reeled hard and with a crazy swing I swept my multi-hooked rig loaded with five big mackerel in a wide arc over the rail until the whole bloody mess landed with a chaotic thud. I had no care about what I would do with all these fish that I had killed in one haul. Whether I would eat them or bury them in the garden or feed them to my mother’s cat. What mattered was that I had caught them and they were all mine. Except for one, which had gone missing.
“Wait,” I said kneeling down and searching the deck. “Where’s the fifth mackerel?”
“It’s right here,” my father replied from a crouching position. “It’s here in my back.”
I followed my line to its end and saw that the fifth mackerel, along with a large silver lure, was indeed impaled in my father’s shoulder. He’d ducked, but I’d nailed him all the same.
“Sorry, Dad.”
“Just tell the mate to come over and take the hook out.”
