A comedy of errors
It seems to me uncoincidental, that many of my most jarring ‘fits’ of laughter have been provoked by the jokes told—and perhaps more commonly, the mistakes made—by the ‘wack pack’ of individuals who I’ve had the pleasure to fish with over the years. Despite my deep appreciation for jokes of a cerebral and timely nature, no conscious attempts at humour can rival the comedic effect of watching your buddy spill-out while navigating some mossy rocks on a trout stream.
Just as life’s other intrinsic pleasures require some give and take, good humour and laughter can only be shared in groups of people who can both ‘dish out’ and absorb a reasonable amount of abuse.
Over approximately one decade, August night fishing for Lake Ontario chinook salmon has evolved into a sort of ritualistic event on my angling calendar, which marks the beginning of a long-anticipated fall fishing season. By now, I’ve landed literally hundreds of chinook salmon on light spinning tackle, and my yearly pier casting forays now revolve around a prototypical crew of ‘regulars’ who are always willing and ready to trade verbal jabs at our annual convention. Sleep deprivation, combined with the anticipation of a drag-screaming fish, and the giddiness that comes from reconnecting with several old friends all at once, often results in a near-constant laughing frenzy which rivals the excitement and positivity that come from landing a nice fish.
At the risk of sounding criminally melodramatic and clichéd, I’d argue that the bonds between fishing buddies are sacred things. Shared frustrations over a lack of fish, attacks on a peer’s lure selection, and collective ridicule of a friend’s tendency to set his drag too tightly, have all helped to strengthen the links between those in my inner circle of angling friends. Perhaps even more effective, are the involuntary and irreplicable blunders that force us to connect intimately with relative strangers, and serve perpetually as icebreakers between anglers that would otherwise tend towards antisociality.
Admittedly, I still struggle to maintain my composure and public image when certain memories infiltrate my consciousness on random occasions. I distinctly remember watching my 7-foot, approximately 300-pound university housemate and now close friend, plunge face-first into a hole that I had just pulled three brook trout from, presumably spooking every trout within several kilometers of ground zero. That memory resides in a mental folder that I open occasionally, when I’m in need of perspective and a palate-cleansing laugh.
As I mentioned before, I’m very aware that it’s necessary to balance laughing at others with laughter at one’s own expense, and so goes the following story: after a busy and relatively fishless August, I was eager and ready to ring in the month of September with a day of muskie fishing at a spot where I have yet to ‘crack the code.’ Although active weather correlates closely with good muskie fishing, winds of a sufficient speed can wreak havoc on fly casting and gear. After some minimallyeffective drifts across a promising weed flat, and despite the valiant efforts of my two drift socks, I found myself at the desperate mercy of winds that were gusting to roughly 60km/h. In a distracted effort to reel in my now impossibly tangled fly line, I shattered my rod tip. Frustrating as this accident was, my exasperation reached new heights only minutes later, when one of my oar locks broke in a burst of frustrated rowing. In the absence of all other forms of consolation, I find myself resorting to proverbial explanations: as the fish gods giveth, the fish gods too taketh away. Unfortunately, such rationalizations usually fail to stem the tide of frustrated emotion that emanates from me after losing or breaking a piece of fishing gear. What has taken me weeks to get over, was probably quite comical for the waterfront cottagers and residents who witnessed my peculiar meltdown.
Needless to say, my tale of woe will elicit little in the way of sympathy, and far more in terms of ridicule, when the time comes to share it with each of my fishing buddies. And so, I continue to exercise my self-depreciation, as I replay the scenario over in my mind, and wonder what kind of idiot breaks his rod, and an oar lock, in the span of just 5 minutes.
HODGE - In loving memory of our dear grandparents, Richard George Lodge who passed away on November 28, 1973 and Frances Ella Brown who passed away on August 8, 1980, on this the day of their 92nd Wedding Anniversary, September 22, 2020.
For those we have loved and lost along the way,
A flame to remember them burns here today.
For laughter, smiles, and memories remain, Together today their presence sustains. Never forgotten and loved forever more, Today their blessings flicker and soar.