In appreciation of fishing widows everywhere, who spend long weekends alone, untangle fishing line from inside the vaccum cleaner hose and navigate the obstacle course of discarded treble hooks, lures and other paraphenelia, this story is for you.
Over the last 25 years or so I have racked my brains trying to comprehend the passion...no... the obsession my husband and his friends have for fishing. It seems completely foreign to me that rather than sleeping in a warm and cozy bed, for just a few precious hours longer on a Saturday morning, someone would subject themselves to a 3 am. wakeup call. Then, proceed to pile layers of zipoff pants, hipwaders, t-shirts, windbreakers, regulation fully loaded fishing vests and, of course, tacky hats...schlep tons of equipement and drive for hours only to the spend the day staring at a fishing line dangling, limp, in the water and wait - Wait for a tug on the line, wait to see a rise in the water, wait to realize the myth of landing the record breaking fish.
In simpler terms... I do not understand the thrill of sleep deprivation, layers of drab-colored khakhi clothing, and the physical difficulty involved in crossing miles of rugged terrain only to spend the day waiting for a fish to show up. However, whether or not I intended to become associated with the sport of fishing is inconsequential. It seems that when you marry an avid fisherman you as well marry fishing - I consider fish as part of the inlaws.
It is almost mind-boggling to imagine that I am considered a lover of everything fishing just by association. What does that mean? Somehow, people assume that I enjoy receiving gifts that are "fishing" themed merely because my husband is so passionate about the sport. And, I am the proud owner of these many "fish themed" items: fishing ovenmits, place mats, plates, sculptures, t-shirts, picture frames, hair clips, clocks, mugs, jewelry boxes, pens, stationnary,towels, lampshades, fashion panty hose and a fish themed thong.
As the role model for the fishing spouse, my duties are not limited to gracefully accepting these cheesy gifts, I have attemped, on many occasions, to share in my husband's fishing pasttime. However, I have never experienced that certain rush of adreniline when hooking into a hard-running fish. My only fishing memories are of getting hooked and tangled into the many trees that line the shores, and yes, I have to confess to snagging my husband's ear on one occasion. Reeling in everything from reeds, to seaweed, to mouldy sandwiches and decaying dead birds. And of course, it would not be part of my memoires of successful fishing adventures without being attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes and squatting in a filthy port-a-potty.
My history of enduring and surviving fishing hell goes back many, many years. One of my earliest experiences was on my honeymoon. As a naive newlywed I wanted to share in my darling love's fishing passion. If you are old enough to remember Gilligan and the crew of the SS Minnow battling the waves of the dreaded storm that lead them to the deserted island - there are similarities between that misadventure and my honeymoon fishing escapade. Only, imagine if you will, a small fishing boat, 16 foot high waves off the coast of Martinique and an innocent, young, newly married and slightyly stupid girl, sea sick and vomiting on the captain. Afterwhich her husband has to give up his prize catch- a barracuda- as compensation for his wife's unfortunate mess. I should have considered that $600.00 mishap as an omen, a sign, a precursor to all future fishing attempts. My future fishing excursions would not prove more successful. So I have long ago made the decision to hang up my rod, bobber and billyboots and have relegated myself to the sidelines, or rather the shorelines...cheering on my husband and faking an interest in his fishing tales....some wive's fake other things!
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