NATURE OR NURTURE?
Casting is a lifetime learning activity for me.
It’s not as much about catching more fish; rather it’s pursuit of an art form. Not that I’m an expert on the world stage, or anything like that. I’m just trying to be the best that I can be, and it’s lots of fun.
I’m getting a profoundly powerful urge to go trouting. The feel and smell of spring was strong in the air today.
It was quite cold this morning, about -6 Celsius, but almost no wind. I awoke around seven and looked out my window, directly into bright March sunshine and uncommonly clear blue sky.
The trees were still asleep, not stirring even a whisper.
And what did I do? I’m not altogether mainstream, don’t you know.
I postponed my coffee by a half hour or so and went out in the garden for some pre-wind fly-casting practice.
I know, I am totally obsessed.
But the ice cover is receding and I feel the pull, like gravity, I’m attracted to open water. I need to be ready.
It isn’t quite that urgent that I grease my casting elbow before the South River sea trout swim out from under Motion Pond ice. I’ve fished sporadically for most of the winter, and today was not my first practice session.
I don’t corrode enough to handicap my trouting prowess that much.
Hopefully after a lifetime of swinging the long rod, I might not touch a cork handle in two years, and still throw a well-enough presented nymph to at least a half smart trout. Muscle memory is quite resilient. A little rust accumulates with inactivity but co-ordination returns quickly.
The truth of missing coffee is that I’m reading a new Scandinavian fly-casting book. Last night I devoured a particularly interesting chapter on double-haul timing.
I wanted to test out a few ideas this morning before the wind came up too much for fine-tuning such details.
Casting is a lifetime learning activity for me.
It’s not as much about catching more fish; rather it’s pursuit of an art form. Not that I’m an expert on the world stage, or anything like that. I’m just trying to be the best that I can be, and it’s lots of fun. I’ve watched great casters up close. It is an amazing and beautiful thing.
This time of year I think often about my father.
Dad liked trout fishing as much as anybody I know. My cousin Gordon Smith, who passed away a few years ago, comes in at a very close second.
Gordon grew up in Bishops Cove, in the same house with my father. So I suppose we can easily decipher that mystery.
Or maybe not: is true love for fishing brought on by nurture or nature. I do not have the answer, no proof one way or the other. I do know that both Gordon, and Max, my father, would be getting their rods and lines ready this time of year.
I think Dad liked spring fishing most of all. He worked in construction, as a superintendent. He would be home in the evening at five sharp, and Mom would have supper waiting on the table. There could be no delay. This rigid schedule would start as soon as there was open water, typically in April. We would be in the car and off to a pond by six. Mom would be with us, and her knitting bag.
She never fished much but loved to knit in the car while Dad and I drowned worms or dangled flies. That was our springtime ritual, not once or twice a week, but each and every day. We might stay home if the weather was not fit for the cat to go outside.
On Saturdays and Sundays we would fish just about all day.
Dad’s job took him all over our province, building hospitals, shopping malls, and the like. So we never really got too familiar with any one region’s ponds and streams.
We’d go exploring on the weekends, checking out all the bodies of water within driving range of that old Pontiac. These were great times.
Mom would still be knitting, except when we’d boil up at noon. Coming on dark, or after, we’d usually end up in a restaurant, God only knows where, for supper.
Here’s a fishing memory that’s dear to my heart.
It was 1971 and the Montreal Canadiens were playing the Boston Bruins in the NHL quarterfinals.
At that time the Habs were the underdogs. But that was the year Ken Dryden debuted for the Canadians between the posts.
I was a huge Montreal fan. But I could not miss fishing with my father. It was a weekend game played in the afternoon. Mom was knitting as usual and listening to the game. Dad and I were trouting in a small gulley somewhere along an unpaved Gander Bay Road. Mom was yelling out game highlights through the open window of the car.
It started to rain, soon it was pouring. We were catching nice fat trout, and I’m not sure to this day if I’m thankful to the gods or not.
They were spirited hungry feisty fish I left. But I did not miss Bob Cole (I think Bob Cole, maybe Dick Irvin) describe how Dryden robbed Espo of a sure goal, and in frustration he broke his stick across the steel crossbar.
I bounced up and down with absolute joy as rain beat on the windshield. The sky cleared and we went fishing again. My Montreal Canadiens went on to win the Stanley Cup. It was a great year. All was well in my world.
I love fishing and I have no idea if it’s nature or nurture.
I got it both ways. I have two daughters, one loves to fish, the other, not so much.
What do you think?