Anyone who fishes often has a secret spot in which they like to go to catch some fish. When I was younger, there was a spot that fit this description. Of course, this was a secret spot that everyone in the family knew about. I wanted to catch that big fish. I didn't care if it was a bottom-feeder or any other fish that other people try to avoid. No. I wanted just to get that one fish that was bigger than the rest.
My father, my cousin, and I would often jump in my father's 1948 red jeep that had been restored, and sneak through the woods down a bumpy trail. Branches would often come out of nowhere and smack you in the face. It was worth it when you got to the end of the trail. The trail led to something magnificent and beautiful. At the end, it was a junkyard. There was an old rusty grill that was half destroyed. I guessed that someone didn't want it and decided just to dump it here because there was no way that anything that the grill would produce would be edible.
The water didn't look to much better now that I think about it. The algae covered the water in a thin layer. It was enough to cover a lot of the water. It was a thriving place for living fish though. I would cast my baited rod out as far as I could, as that was my objective as a child. It was not strategic placing; I had the thought that all the bigger fish would just be out farther. When the bobber hit the water, the green water would ripple. It looked somewhat like jello when you flick it due to the abundant supply of algae. The rippling would then stop and then the waiting came.
It was not as quick as catching fish in the small pond, but it was still fun for me. The best part was what came next. My water around my bobber started to ripple slightly. I let the fish nibble on the bait. Finally, the bobber went under, and I yanked on my rod. My father jumped up and came over to me to assist me in landing the fish. I would reel the fish in as quickly as I could. I knew my line wouldn't break. As the fish got closer, I could see the ripples get bigger. When I actually saw the fish, I lifted my rod up high, letting my dad take the fish off.
The fish I caught on this day was not the big fish I was hoping for. It was a yellow perch and hardly over six inches. For some reason I could not put my mind to then, I was happy for some reason. Not just the happiness you get when you catch a fish, a better kind of happiness. I cannot explain it, but it was a happiness that people only experience a couple times within their lives. I know now what caused the happiness. My father worked throughout most of the week. Even on weekends, he always seemed busy. But on this day, he was with me and we were fishing. I had what you may call some father-son bonding time.
That Perch was thrown back. I did not get the biggest fish in the area. What I got was something beautiful in a junkyard. My father and I had a great time just throwing our lines out there and pulling in Perch. It wasn't just that for me. The bonding between my father and I was great. I never really spent that much time with him, and that day, we paid the most attention to each other than we had in a long time. That big fish was never in that small body of water. Even if it was, it is probably dead now. Those memories, those moments, that my father and I spent together still live on. To this day, I am glad I didn't catch that big fish. We probably would've rode home then. I would've been happy for a moment, but by the time we got home, there is no possibility that I could have been occupied and happy. Thanks to that vision of that big fish still being out there, we stayed and bonded. Maybe fishing isn't always about catching the fish. Maybe it's sometimes about the bonding between two people. I cannot refute the fact that fishing alone is enjoyable, but I can assure anyone that fishing with another person is always better.
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