Fishing is Good Therapy
I’m frequently stressed and exhausted. My middle-aged body and mind can only take so much. Between work, family and the possibility of an underactive thyroid, it’s a miracle I can stand upright at the end of the day.
To top it off, I'm naturally introverted. As much as I like people, doses of interaction must remain small. My already depleted energy is diminished even further when the day's demands include being sociable.
Sounds miserable, doesn't it? It's not really that bad. Some days, though.
Luckily, I’ve discovered a source of renewal that’s been in my life for decades. One that I’ve learned to appreciate in a new way in this season of life. A source of escape. Rejuvenation. My therapy.
I’m talking about fishing. Not some weekend excursion with "the boys" in an overpriced bass boat chasing slabs. I’m talking about fishing at its simplest. Just me, a rod and reel, a few lures and hours of quiet focus. It’s a chance for me to be alone surrounded by nothing but natural beauty on the bank of some small lake, pond or creek.
No conversation. Not even in my head. My focus is only on the next cast. Then the next. I visualize what’s happening under the water’s surface, certain the next twitch of the rod will be irresistible to whatever fish has its eye on it. I reel it in, not even a little disappointed that there was no bite, and I cast again.
When the bite does come, it’s a thrill regardless of what emerges from the depth. I’m satisfied whether it’s a dinky bluegill or a hard-fighting smallmouth. When I do land it, the thrill intensifies. The world’s greatest angler did it again.
I unhook the fish and take a moment to admire it. Sometimes I wish I had a scale nearby, but mostly I don't care. I don't need to report measurements to anyone, and no pictures will be posted.
After I’ve looked the fish over, I carefully release it, then check my line, adjust my lure and cast again. And again. Until I’ve reached the never-ending last catch that takes an eternity to complete. But when I do, I’m satisfied regardless of the evening’s catch.
When I pack up my gear and head back home, I feel a sense of relief. There’s nothing like it. I get home, and my wife and sons ask me if I caught anything. I say, "A few." The boys will ask when I can take them fishing. I say next time. And I mean it.
But today was mine.
