The Emperor’s New Fishing Tackle
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson
We had moved into a little three bedroom bungalow of which was located in the heart of suburbia. My first born son was at the ripe age of two and a half, just out of diapers. A crossroad that holds special significance for dads across the globe. It means several things. It’s the third and last step in becoming Dad’s fishing buddy. If you are keeping score, walking and developing some language skills are the first two steps.
Once I was convinced that my offspring could use that degree of self control, I took him to the near by lake for an afternoon of wonder. The excitement and anticipation of the event are far more fun for me as the Dad than the actual act of fishing. Something my wife didn’t understand. As I would purposely tell the boys we were going fishing hours before we left for a number of calculated effects.The kids would go out of their minds with the thought of going. This had the desired effect on my wife’s overall attitude about the things that men do. The boy’s resulting banshee like behavior caused my wife to encourage us to leave and supported future excursions of a similar vain. This delay tactic also insured me a quality nap before hand. The wait was shear torture for the boys and an admittedly crafty self serving behavior on my part. All with a designed outcome. The boys loved to fish and the wife loved to get them out of her hair for a --little girl time. A valued psychologically manipulated learned behavior. Aren’t I special.
On this occasion I skipped the delay and just went fishing. We packed a lunch, filling the cooler with all kinds of goodies, drinks and the like. I left the wife at home with a big hug and kiss. We sang camping songs all the way to the lake. What a blast. Me and my boy. When we got to the lake the expedition began with the search for the perfect place to set up our base of operations. Each space we looked at required considerable discussion with probing questions directed to my son for his valued opinion. It had to be secluded, it had to be fishable, and there needed to be shade. The other feature of the search was the need to be close to a privy. Teaching the boy to free fall after struggling to get him to use the seat was not a risk I was ready to take. I knew a guy once who taught his toddler the trick of shitting in the woods. The lesson had back fired as the child figured if he could do it in the woods, why not on his big sister’s white bedroom carpet. A practice he continued to employ on an as needed basis after his sister’s emotional reaction pleased him, further reinforcing the new learned behavior. The last time it happened, the boy treated his sister to a steamy treat the night of her Junior Prom. The well placed stool was in a pair of shoes she was intending to wear that night.
After a complete search of the lake I left the judgment to my son giving him the decision making power of which toilet he would prefer to use in the event the urge struck. He made his choice and we started the process. Folding chairs were set up, a brand new bright red life jacket was securely placed on my most precious belonging. We ate a bite and the fishing lesson ensued.
I had bought a child’s rod and reel for the boy, a device of which proved to be too complicated. Too ambitious a step. So I strung up a stick with a little bit of line fixed with bobber, weight, and hook. At the time, my boy had a clear understanding that if I told him something was going to “hurt baby,” it was going to hurt. I mentioned this to him about the fish hook and carefully showed him how to care for and handle the hooks without getting stuck. He readily listened and clearly understood. I realized his complete understanding and his beautiful innocence as he cried --oh so hard --when the first worm was threaded on the hook. The surprising behavior dramatically touched my emotional buttons in a way only a father would understand. So much so, that I shed a tear as well, my tears caught my young son‘s attention. The tears streamed down my face causing my son to stop and tell me that “ it would be ok, the worm would be ok, I can fix it! “ We fished with wormless hooks that day.
As the day wore on the bait less hooks caught no fish. I tired of the activity as did my son who was busy throwing things in the water. I gave up on the bobber rig and switched to a favorite top water lure I had in the tackle box. I had a fine collection of tackle. Some of the tackle had been my great uncles and were close to becoming collector items. Now, why a guy packs a tackle box full of all kinds of fishing treasures he never uses can only be explained by the fact that once you’re married it is the only place that a man’s wife is forbidden to enter. I think this is why man invented stink bait. Women hate the smell thus avoid the tackle box ( it sure doesn‘t catch fish.)The small little case carries the only remaining shred-of-a-remnant of man’s prior independence. Its like Superman’s castle of solitude, only smaller and smelly. It was the last remaining collection of toy-like ideology. Anyway, the tackle box is a special thing, very special.
As I fished, repeatedly casting the lure, I kept an eye on the prodigy. He was blissfully tossing rocks and things into the water. I am certain there was some fascination with the observance of the circular ripples of which the objects’ impact created on the surface of the water. My son was busy and content with the task as if he was on a “save the world” mission. After a good hour or so of this activity, my son had an announcement to make.
He approached me from my right side. I looked at my cute-as-a-button son. My heart throb. He stood holding his arms out to his side, palms up with bent elbows, shrugged shoulders and a puzzled tilt to his head with the most serious expression on his face, eyes sparklingly a satisfied innocence, “Daddy, the fish won’t come out,” he said just as resolved as a man could be.
The remark was so emphatic and eloquently stated that I was taken by surprise absorbing the inimitable moment. That’s when I realized the apple of my eye had completely emptied my tackle box---- one lure at a time. Every hook, every weight, every bobber everything had been tossed in to the lake. I mean everything was gone! Three hundred dollars of my man toys, my most valued trinkets, memorable, intelligently engineered pieces of eight, all gone.
The feeling that hit me, I suppose, was close to the emotion of being ship wrecked. I fought back tears and anger as I looked at the now invisible tackle, my amphibious treasures gone. I was filled with anger, disappointment and felt abandoned, which was weird. The reality of the course of events set in as I sat cross legged near the empty treasure trove. He was just doing what I was doing, fishing, with my lures! My son said nothing, as he looked at me clearly scared and confused by my silent reaction. When my tears flowed it was the confirmation that Daddy was sad. “It’s ok, I’ll fix it,” came the most tender of voices. As I started to laugh and hug my boy, my son joined in. We laughed so hard. I laid back on the ground and sat him on my chest. The noise we were making forced us to eventually pick up and leave as we were disturbing the other fisherman on the lake. We laughed all the way home. My wife didn’t get the laughter as she knew the value I placed on the tackle. She could muster no more that a questioning smile as I told her the story. I ‘m certain she thought--I had lost it.
Until I could afford to begin replacing my tackle we fished in our back yard with invisible gear for a few weeks and had just as much fun.
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