It’s too early for the evening hatch, but we see the river’s trout feeding on mayfly nymphs just below the surface. The season is slipping away, and its loss becomes an unwelcome reality. The end of this season is foretold by the close of the day as surely as the diminishing bird sounds acknowledge the arrival of dusk.
I want him to catch a fish, so I say, “Try a Sulfur Emerger and fish it straight downstream.” My son, Matthew, reels in and changes flies without acknowledging I might be right. He also changes his casting style to better mimic the mayfly’s helpless drift that comes just before it escapes as a flying adult.
There was a time I couldn’t tell him anything. Maybe he was striving for adulthood in the face of my desire for his success. If truth be told, he probably had enough of being told how to do everything with insufficient praise for things done well.
Sometimes things get mixed up and seem to take on a life of their own, and like a tangled line, the more we pull, the tighter the mess.
It’s only recently that there’s been a little more match than clash between us. It seems to me he’s matured, developed a good sense of humor, and evolved into his own person. I prefer to believe he thinks I’ve mellowed. Of course, we’ve never talked about it. It’s just another one of those things that passes, unspoken, between fathers and sons.
The emerging mayfly’s transformation is all too brief. Living out the year in the safety of the submerged rocks, it gives up security and risks passage to the surface. Without regard for the odds against it, the emerger gambles its life for winged adulthood and freedom.
Matt’s drop-back cast ends with the nine-foot rod pointed straight up as if to emphasize his height. I’m struck by how tall he is. But at six foot six, he is tall. When did he get to be so big? Even with his long legs hidden by the river, he still looks tall.
It was easy to track him in the crowd at his high school graduation. In a few weeks he’ll be off to college, and his height won’t help keep us connected. I think I’ve convinced myself the connection can’t be forced. It will evolve into its new form, shaped by time as surely as the fly’s path is shaped by the river’s current.
With Matt’s next cast comes a new drift, more natural and less at odds with the conflicting currents, going with the flow. That’s a good metaphor for our more recent relationship. Who’s the fly and who’s the current? It doesn’t matter – probably a little of both in each of us. Things between us are better than when he was an adolescent. Not so long ago he would have chosen not to fish with me.
At least I had the good sense not to force him into fly fishing. Had I done so, even our few trips each year would have been unlikely. He learned to cast with little instruction, and that pleases him as much as it does me. His style is one of accuracy and presentation rather than power and distance. I like to think he learned from watching me. I really don’t know if he’s learned much else from me. He seems to share my preference for twenty-gauge shotguns, pheasants, and gangly six-week-old Labrador Retrievers that think they’re King of the Hill. There are other shared preferences like Chicago blues, low-class humor, and talking back to the TV. But, on a night like this, as the river sounds quiet and anticipation increases, the fishing is enough.
He’s not a great caster, and neither am I. In a way, it’s surprising he’s as good as he is, given the other things that filled his high school years – friends, activities, soccer, and his art studies. I think we share the feeling that catching fish on a fly is great fun, but we understand there are other more important things in life. We don’t serve ourselves well when we let things get out of balance.
I’ve seen enough fishing fanatics to know it is addiction, not enjoyment, that drives them. Acknowledging the necessity of balance is as important as its achievement. It’s just that attaining balance is often difficult. It seldom comes easily, and when it competes with the issues of adolescence, it often takes a back seat. Even during adulthood, balance is difficult to find. It seems we learn this only through experience, if we learn it at all.
We usually fish in silence, a small distance apart, each giving the other room to feel temporary stewardship of a small stretch of river. Tonight, in recognition of the season’s end and other beginnings, we fish side by side comfortably. Instead of silence, there is the sometimes-awkward conversation about college, making good choices, and finding new friends – conversation about using good judgment and giving best efforts. So many things to say, but my need to speak is tempered by the knowledge that many of life’s important lessons must be discovered on our own.
The evening light is leaving too quickly. The bittersweet twilight brings the best fishing but marks the end of it as well. It doesn’t matter that I want more time. The night crowds in without regard for the needs of fathers and sons.
Written by Tony Lolli.