May - Scottish Rite

In Praise of Fishing:
A Reflection on Quiet Pastime
BY ALLAN J. FERGUSON, 32°
Once upon a time I thought the idea of
standing on a pier or the bank of a pond with a
fishing rod, some bait and a few hooks was a waste of
time.
My opinion changed during a cub scout outing at
Herb Gulliver’s pond. I was as old as the parents of
the boys at this outing. The cub scout pack, like the
boy scout troop, met in the church which I served as
pastor. I showed up at Gulliver’s Pond to support the
boys in their activity and do my duty as a responsible
scout committee member.
One of the boys dared me to “wet a line” and one of
the dads put a fishing rod in my hand. The first tug of
a sunfish on the line hooked me. More than 20 years
later (and after much money spent on rods, bait and
gear), I look forward to getting down to a body of
water and trying my luck. On very quiet days I hear
the fish laughing at my attempts to draw their
attention.
But this is not a fish story. Do not look for pictures
of the biggest fish landed or stories about the one that
got away. This reflection is about an activity
that considers life and human activity much
more than the trophy fish some people prize.
It struck me one day as I shared a fishing
pier with two boys — the age of the cub
scouts who hooked me on fishing — that age
means nothing.
I am in my mid-fifties. I have several rods
and reels, a couple of tackle boxes full of
artificial bait, flies, hooks and the other
equipment a fisherman can own.
They brought a container of crayfish, their
rods and a small kit of extra bobbers, hooks
and gewgaws. They described their catch of
the day. It was greater than mine. Such is the
luck of one day’s fishing. That did not matter
though.
They followed the same outlook on the hobby as I
do — catch and release. Try to catch a fish. Reel it in.
Look at it, maybe take a picture or two, then release it
for someone else to enjoy.
Ten years old or 54, we sought the same prize. We
all had to look at the water and guess where a bass,
pike or perch hid in the underwater weeds. The only
difference, as they say, is the cost of the toys (I mean
“gear”) we use.
There was more to that day’s fishing, though. The
boys went back to their families and their camps
in the state park. I stood alone on the pier, casting my
line and hoping for the next bass-zilla to think my
plastic bait looked like dinner.
Along came two boys speaking an unfamiliar
language. Both wore head coverings and locks of hair
that identified them as Orthodox Jews. Eventually
The Northern Light / May 2010 15